“Charlie,” Larry said, studying the old woman with concern, “careful here. Her heart’s a lot older than Maggie’s.”
“She’s not safe, Larry. Nobody who lives here is safe without Jeremy. And, Betty, if I have to choose between you and Libby in a dangerous situation, how would you imagine that scene would play?”
“Jeremy’s ghost,” Betty said.
“It wasn’t Jeremy’s ghost, was it, Mrs. Beesom?”
Betty was saved answering that embarrassing question by Maggie Stutzman walking in the back door without waiting for an invitation. “Tell me you haven’t eaten all the cinnamon rolls.”
* * *
Maggie, replete with the rest of the cinnamon rolls, took Charlie over to her house for serious coffee. She didn’t want to go alone. And Dr. Jenkins warned her she was lucky this time but if she didn’t give up cigarettes, caffeine, alcohol, red meat, and dessert, she’d be back again fast. “And don’t think you can blame everything on hormones because you’re female,” he said.
Her gynecologist had arrived to look over the stats, see to her release, and drive her home. “Blood tests aren’t conclusive, but we’re not rushing into surgery here even though I was supposedly at death’s door less than twelve hours ago. Paramedics scared me worse than Jeremy’s ghost.”
Larry had gone off with Edward Esterhazie to investigate the redwood house and its occupants, Betty off to church with Wilma and Art Granger.
Charlie and Maggie snuggled bare feet under the center cushion of the couch and raised their lattes in a toast.
“Cheers. And thanks for being there for me, Greene.”
“Seems to me you were there for me not many days ago, Stutzman. Good friends can be a pain in the butt, but hard to find.”
“Give up caffeine and desserts.” Maggie’s coloring was back to normal and the red on her face was clearly anger this time. “And I maybe smoked two cigarettes in my whole life—well, tobacco ones. Where does that doctor get off anyway?”
“Same as my nonexistent hearing loss, but in reverse. Certain minds get made up before problems occur.” Charlie wiggled her toes under the cushion and sipped the strong, fragrant coffee with pleasure. She’d miss these moments if she went to prison or if Mel moved in here. And for a moment she didn’t want to talk about the harsh reality their lives had become, so she told Maggie about Open and Shut.
“I love Keegan’s stuff—any possibility you could give a poor heart-attack victim a sneak peek? I promise I won’t tell a soul. I want to read it at your house, though.” Maggie looked around at her own house with a shiver.
“See what I can do. I have to go home and call Keegan anyway.”
“Can I shower over there, too?”
“Sure. Let’s enjoy our coffee first.”
When the ritual ended and Maggie took the cups to the sink, Charlie told her friend about the bomb attached to her car.
“I hadn’t even noticed the Toyota wasn’t here. Did it blow up in the hospital parking lot? I saw the local news on TV this morning and that wasn’t mentioned.”
“I figure the bomb had been attached for a day or two and hadn’t gone off. It was a dud.”
“Our bouquet bomber?”
“Probably. So where was this ghost of Jeremy when you walked in unexpectedly last night?”
“I know you don’t believe in ghosts, Charlie, but I saw him. Now I know why Tuxedo and Hairy have been acting so wild. Animals are very sensitive to the supernatural. What do you mean ‘unexpectedly’?”
“Well, you left with your boyfriend, presumably for at least the evening, and then were all of a sudden back again.”
“Ghosts don’t care about that—but then, I suppose you can surprise a ghost. He was just sort of drifting down the stairs when I walked in the door. And he stopped when he saw me and I stopped when I saw him and my heart suddenly went into this wild overdrive.”
“You didn’t tell Dr. Jenkins about this ghost?”
“I’m not that dumb, Greene. What are you holding? Spinach?”
“A hundred-dollar bill after a cat attack. Let’s go upstairs and get you a change of clothes and your shampoo and stuff. Better bring your own towel. Libby goes through ours so fast, I’ve been known to dry off with the shower mat.”
“Why don’t you just buy more towels?”
“You’ve seen Doug Esterhazie eat, and you’ve never said, ‘Why don’t you just buy more food?’”
* * *
Keegan Monroe finally called Charlie at home and was so happy and relieved to hear what his agent thought of his script, he cried. And boy did Charlie feel like a rat. “I thought the story was so awful, you didn’t even write. You had time.”
“Keegan, it’s the best original you’ve ever done.” Then again his greatest hits had been based on the novels of other envied writers lucky enough to get published in New York and worth a fraction of what he was. “It’s the greatest script I have ever read from you or anyone.”
“You’re not going to trivialize it by offering it to cable?”
“Absolutely no way.” Her book writers would have substituted OPB, or original paperback, for cable. OPB was the fate of more and more authors this glorious nut she represented envied. And they were the lucky ones. Other previously published writers were now having to publish their own works and try to sell them on the Internet, where a whole new species of shark lurked to exploit them.
But Keegan’s best news was his lawyer’s certainty that the decision at the parole hearing tomorrow would be positive. Charlie didn’t want to douse his hopefulness with the news that she might well be his replacement. She hung up with the promise that come the morrow she would be leaking the fact that the latest Monroe script would cost the earth and be worth every penny of it.
Charlie also didn’t mention that would be if she still had her hearing, could get to work, etc. This hungry, but rich writer didn’t need to hear her troubles.
Keegan had spent several years in Folsom for manslaughter in the death of a novelist whose book he was turning into a screenplay. They’d been drinking vodka on a beach and he became too drunk to save her when she’d gunned her car into the water instead of backing it up. Keegan left the scene without reporting what happened.
Charlie searched her own house while her best friend showered. She found two regurgitated hairballs, a poor little bird’s wing minus the bird, and another bill with Ben Franklin’s face all tooth-pocked.
Tuxedo napped in the sun, sprawled on the picnic table on the patio, unconcerned that cat burglars and loose dogs could now venture into the compound with ease. She waved the hundred in front of his nose. He opened his eyes to slits and reached out to grab it from her. Still lying on his side, closing his eyes against the sun, he chewed and tore at it.
“What is it you have against money, cat?” Charlie rescued Ben Franklin at great risk to herself. “More importantly, where did you find this?”
Cat yawned, stretched, and sauntered across the compound and through the back gate to the alley.
While her best friend curled up in Charlie’s living room to read Keegan Monroe’s screenplay, Charlie went over to her house and searched it. Then she walked around the outsides of both houses and the wall.
When Charlie went inside, Maggie giggled and sniffed over Open and Shut. Libby was in the shower. She had to be at the diner by eleven.
Larry Mann and Edward returned—deep laughter, camaraderie—just two guys on a mission, Charlie thought when they came in the kitchen. They were of different generations, different preferences, different dress codes—but both tall, well built, lots of hair, and handsome in different ways. The Ferrari was home in the redwood house, as were the couple, but they refused to answer the door. They’d been breakfasting on the deck and left their dishes and the Sunday paper outside, locked the doors, and closed the drapes.
“I think it’s time to tell the police about these folks,” Larry said.
“At least Ernie Seligman,” Edward added. “We
actually came up with a few ideas on how to smoke them out, but figured we’d end up in jail with you, Charlie.”
“Talking about smoke—Mom, can’t you do something with that cat?”
“He’s your cat.”
“Yeah, well, he got soot and stuff all over my sheets. Smells like a wet fireplace.”
Charlie stared at the wake of her departing beauty and again thought, Kachunk.
CHAPTER 35
EDWARD ESTERHAZIE, OUT on the patio, talked on his tiny pocket cellular. Larry and Maggie, in the living room, discussed Keegan’s script in glowing terms. Charlie stood in the middle of the kitchen trying to decide what to do. She had to get to work tomorrow and start the buzz about Open and Shut. But things were moving too fast here. No one in her little community was safe. The dud bomb on the Toyota told her that. And the couple with a Ferrari like Jeremy’s were readying to leave. The guys’ visit this morning would no doubt accelerate that schedule.
Her heart pounded like Maggie’s when it broke rhythm.
“Two messages,” Edward said when he came in the kitchen. He bent to look in her face. “You okay? You are hearing still?”
“Yeah, what’s the two messages?”
“Called Ernie. He’s coming here this afternoon. Mrs. McDougal called me to say she’s cooking up a lavish feast for battalions and will send it over with Doug between three and four. So don’t eat lunch now.” He bent to look in her face again. “So what is it, Charlie?”
“A feeling. A real helpless feeling. I’m scared, Ed—Edward. I just wish Jeremy was here.”
Maggie and Larry and Tuxedo were suddenly in the kitchen with them.
“Who are you scared for?”
“Everybody who lives here or who happens to be visiting. I’m especially worried about Mrs. Beesom. Ed, could she stay at your house tonight, and Libby and Maggie, too? I’ve got this really bad feeling.”
“Why not you?”
“I’m the one suspected of Jeremy’s murder. I need to be here and not in jail, particularly tonight.”
“What’s going to happen tonight?”
“Something’s got to. Time’s running out.”
“For whom?”
“For me and Betty Beesom and whoever knows about Jeremy’s cash stash, but doesn’t know where it is. Betty won’t go to a motel.”
“You expect more bombs?”
“I don’t know what to expect.” But Charlie knew there was no time to wait around and find out. Even a dumb cat could find the stash. This compound was a dangerous place.
By three in the afternoon she got Larry in a private corner and brainstormed the buzz leak for Open and Shut. By four, when the Sunday feast arrived, five casual phone calls had been made. Three people actually picked up when they heard Charlie’s name. The other two returned her calls during dinner.
Charlie and her secretary made several contingency plans to get out of town early the next morning, and by different routes than usual.
They carried Mrs. Beesom’s picnic table over to Charlie’s patio and Betty invited the Grangers from across the alley. Charlie’s lawyer, Ernie Seligman, joined them for roast beef in wine sauce with little red potatoes, a steamed and herbed vegetable medley, a fruit compote of berries and mango, and dinner rolls.
Good thing Doug stayed to eat with them. “Mrs. McDougal said you and Libby would have plenty of leftovers for next week.”
Betty and Wilma Granger talked of Betty’s coming laser surgery and wanted to know if Charlie planned to have her eyes “fixed,” too.
“It’s hard to make any plans right now,” Charlie told them with a purposeful glance at her hotshot lawyer. “My future’s sort of up in the air here.”
And, of course, Mrs. Beesom didn’t think to tumble to what Charlie meant by that until after Detective Amuller arrived.
Ed and Larry had explained the problem of the redwood house to Ernie Seligman. Charlie was having problems with this Edward-and-Ernest thing. She never expected anyone to call her Charlemagne. Just because your name is Ed doesn’t mean you can’t get it up.
Besides the wine sauce it was soused with, the roast beef came with a wondrous creamed horseradish—reminding Charlie of Keegan Monroe’s film script about the couple who made love with food. “I don’t know who you’re dating, Ed, but don’t piss off Mrs. McDougal. Her, you can’t replace.”
“He’s dating Cynthia,” Doug managed to say with more than a hint of scorn and around a mouthful.
Ernie snorted and buttered a dinner roll. A flavored whipped butter, of course. “An irreplaceable treasure—Mrs. McDougal, I mean.”
“Cynthia,” Ed told Charlie, “is thirty years old and has no plans to make me over.”
“Doesn’t mean she doesn’t have plans,” Ernie said. “Be sure you got your kids set up in your will so she can’t share your wealth with her boyfriend when you’re gone or unable to manage your own affairs.” Doug’s sister lived with their mother in Florida.
Charlie had brought her cellular home with her after the last trip to the office and her first call back came just as she was enjoying a little potato in its skin, rich in flavors of olive oil and dill and at least two other things Charlie might have tasted at some world-class restaurant. “Well, you are a special friend, Donnie, and I hated to go public tomorrow without warning you first.… Not a chance, darling. This is not only Monroe but bigger than anything he’s ever done. Ever. And he’s getting out.… All I can say now, sweetie, is sensual beyond belief. Bye.”
Everyone at the table was looking at Charlie except Larry, who gave his approval with a wink before diving back into the best meal served at this house since Jeremy Fiedler was murdered, or maybe ever.
The Toyota came back with the bomb squad’s blessing shortly before Detective Amuller swept in with an unmarked Crown Victoria and without his raincoat. His attitude, however, was familiar, and well in place. He and Charlie’s hard-case lawyer exchanged nods. J. S. made a point of noting the presence of Ed Esterhazie Concrete and luscious Larry Mann. “So where’s Mitch Hilsten?” he asked Charlie. “Run away with your daughter?”
To give the men present their due, they studied their food instead of taking the bait offered for Charlie’s nomination as the catch of the day. Betty Beesom, however, swallowed the sinker.
“Well, I think you should know that neither Charlie or me are going to stand for you holding us up as murderers to everybody in town by that article in the paper about a suspect. Charlie is smart enough to point out to me there was no smell of gun smoke in poor Jeremy’s car when she opened the door, and none on Hairy Granger when he jumped out of the car and into her arms. So we know you lied. Charlie says Jeremy was stabbed and not shot. So there, Mr. Big-Deal Policeman.” Betty took another slice of the roast and nodded her triumph at Charlie and Lawyer Seligman. “Charlie’s a good and smart woman and shame on you for leading her on with your romancing. God will see to you, young man, and Jesus, too.”
Ernest Seligman pushed his plate away so he could bury his head in his arms. His voice came muffled but audible. “With friends like yours, Charlie Greene, you might look into religion yourself. If only for revenge.”
Charlie lost her appetite, too, when Detective Amuller beamed triumph. “Now, what a coincidence. That’s exactly how Mr. Fiedler died, and who could know better than the person who stabbed him?”
“The person who found him first. And Charlie’s been around murder often enough to know there would be the smell of gun smoke if he’d been shot,” Ed said smugly and poured wine all around.
“As Charlie’s attorney, I request that all her well-meaning friends shut up as of now. If you love her, you will speak to me and no one else. Detective Amuller, I think you should know that what may well be Jeremy Fiedler’s red Ferrari now resides at this address, and you might want to question the people who are driving it.”
Amuller took the slip of paper Seligman handed him, looked at it with tired skepticism, and then at Charlie with purpose. “Don’t le
ave town.” And to Seligman, “See you in court, Ernie.”
The homicide detective drove off looking happier than Charlie had ever seen him. Open and shut case—he had her now.
“I can leave town anytime I want to.”
“Cops watch too much TV and they think you do, too,” Ernie agreed. “But as your lawyer I suggest you follow his suggestion.”
Her cellular bleeped again. “Hey, Maury … oh, you’ve heard. Well, I tried to get to you earliest. I know how much you love Keegan’s work—honest—yeah, I’ve never read anything like it and I’ve read everything he’s ever written. And I see it before anybody. This will be the biggest deal I’ve ever handled. Couldn’t leave you out. No, we’re going for up-front and major. Line up your money and get out your checkbook, sweetie. Monroe’s one writer you can’t diddle down—because he’s got a damn good agent. That’s why. Get back to you.”
Maggie and Larry gave her a thumbs-up. Larry said, “Turn it over to voicemail, boss, or they’ll be hounding us all night.”
“You talking about Keegan Monroe, the screenwriter?” Charlie’s lawyer squinted at her like he’d never seen her before. “He’s in Folsom for manslaughter.”
“Lots of time to write there.” Charlie took a sip of wine and dared relax a little. Why did the good times always get mixed up with the bad?
“Oh Jesus, I forgot.” Larry slapped his forehead and the Grangers, who’d been at Jeremy’s memorial and had been watching him with suspicion throughout the meal, straightened their spines to red alert. “Rudy’s people wanted to set up a meet for lunch at the Pit and I forgot to have you return his call. Well—murder’s hectic, you know? Sorry, Charlie.”
“See if you can salvage tomorrow, Tuesday at the latest. It’s perfect.”
“Rudy Ferris takes calls on weekends?” Maggie said.
“His people do,” Larry answered and added cryptically, “and Charlie’s people make them.” He went off to converse with his own cellular.
“Beverly Hills is not the town Amuller is talking about, Charlie,” Ernie Seligman reminded her. “I don’t care how many celebrities you know.” Now his cellular bleeped. “Right. On my way. Come on, Ed, it’s Amuller. We’ll have dessert when we get back.”