I Dreamed I Married Perry Mason (14 page)

I
knew I'd have to see Meredith Allan again, but the very thought of her turned my stomach. I called her secretary, Mr. Wingate, from the car. I had interrupted his lunch. Tarragon chicken salad. His mouth was full and he was vague. She had gone away for a few days; oh, he didn't exactly know where, just that she was taking a leisurely drive up the coast and she'd be back over the weekend. I wondered if Meredith Allan could have been the one who'd followed me. And who'd mowed me down at Mrs. Flynn's. But she didn't seem like someone who'd do her own dirty work. She'd hire out. Mr. Wingate suggested I call him back on Monday afternoon, after he'd had a chance to confer with the Fairy Queen about her plans for the following week. I supposed it could wait that long.

When I got home, Buster was hiding under the bed. This meant only one thing. I sniffed around. It was never the obvious places. Aha. He'd tried to hide the evidence under the bedspread, but it isn't hard to spot a torn bag of La Brea Bakery rolls. Not given its distinctive shade of burnt sienna.
I loved reading the advice on the back of the bag about how to make a good egg salad sandwich, but it was about time they came up with something new. One roll had been left on my pillow, like an offering. At least I still merited some respect. I walked back to the kitchen and plugged in the Dustbuster, then wandered over to the answering machine.

There was a message from Lael reminding me about her annual Labor Day barbecue on Saturday afternoon. How could I forget? Every year something cataclysmic happened at Lael's Labor Day barbecue. Also, a message from my editor. I erased it. And a call from Burnett. His birthday was this weekend, and his mother was throwing a party on Sunday at the Oviatt Building. It would have a 1940s theme. Would I consider going as his date?

Wow. It was great for my ego, this being pursued by a gorgeous, younger man thing. But given my suspicions about his mother, I felt strange about accepting the invitation. But then again, maybe that was all the more reason to stay close. And his voice was so sexy. And those kisses. And I loved dress-up. I listened to the message two more times, twirling the phone cord around my fingers. What about Gambino? We were history. Oil and water, I reminded myself. I called Burnett back and got his machine. I waited for the beep then told it, him, whomever, that I'd be there. Did I dare don a snood?

Then I dialed Annie's number, but hung up after it had rung only once because I was getting another call. I hoped it was Burnett. I wanted to hear his voice again.

“Hello?”

“Yes, hello, is this Cece Caruso?” It was an old man's voice.

“It is. Who's calling, please?”

“Don't concern yourself with trivialities,” he said portentously. “May I suggest you stay out of other people's business? I'm sure you're aware that curiosity killed the cat.”

“You must be kidding,” I said. “Who is this?”

“A friend. I can't say any more. Well, maybe one more thing, and that concerns—”

“Oh, can you hold on a minute? I have another call.”

“Very well.”

It was Annie, wanting to know if I'd just called.

“How'd you know?”

“I star-sixty-nined you. I thought it might've been Vincent.”

“Did you have something you wanted to say to him?”

“Mom.”

“Listen, I'm in the middle of an anonymous call. Can I call you back?”

“Sure.”

“I'm back,” I announced.

“Fine. As I was saying, let sleeping dogs lie.”

“Could you be more specific, please?”

“I have to go now. Someone's here. Good-bye.”

My mystery caller hung up, so I star-sixty-nined him.

“Good afternoon, Gilbert, Finster, and Johnson, licensed insurance brokers. May I help you?”

I hung up instantly. I needed to think.

The phone rang.

“Gilbert, Finster, and Johnson, licensed insurance brokers here,” said the same sugarcoated voice. “I must have lost you. May I be of service?”

Damn that star sixty-nine. Now what? I could hardly ask to be connected to the old man with the quavering voice. Could I?

“This is Cece Caruso, do you remember me?”

“Yes, we do.” I think it was the young one, the rebel. Were they wearing their blue Lacoste shirts today? “Oh, Ms. Caruso, isn't it just terrible about Mrs. Flynn?”

“It is.”

“And to think, you were probably one of the last people to see her alive.”

“Listen, I have a quick question for you. Do you happen to know who else besides you ladies might have been aware of the fact that I was going to pay a call to Mrs. Flynn? And that she came in to pick up her sister's lockbox?”

“Might I ask how that would be relevant?”

“It's just that I thought I could send a condolence card.” Well, that made about as much sense as starting a fish hatchery in Buffalo.

“Old Mr. Gilbert, the one who was Mrs. Flynn's sister's boss. He knew. We told him. And he was around the day Mrs. Flynn stopped by.”

Old Mr. Gilbert. “Is he in? I'd like to say hello.”

“Well, you're in luck. He is, and he'll be delighted to chat. Not too many people call him these days. He usually just sits around, reading the papers. Just a moment, please.”

She put me through.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Mr. Gilbert. It's Cece Caruso. You just called to threaten me? We must have gotten disconnected.”

Now he had nothing to say. I almost felt sorry for the man. But not that sorry.

“What kind of car do you drive, Mr. Gilbert? A black SUV, by any chance?”

“I don't drive any longer, I'm afraid. My license was taken away after a few unfortunate incidents.”

That'd happened to my grandmother recently. She was ninety-two years old. Something about her bifocals and a rude crossing guard.

“Why did you call me, Mr. Gilbert? Are you aware that stalking is a federal offense?”

“Oh, please, Ms. Caruso, I wasn't stalking you. Dear me, I suppose I've gotten myself into another pickle.”

“What are you worried about, Mr. Gilbert?”

“Well, I just didn't want anyone digging into that Jean Albacco business, that's all. I wanted things to be left as they were.”

Old Mr. Gilbert. Jean's boss was Douglas Gilbert. D.G. Oh, ho. So that was it.

“Mr. Gilbert, I know Jean was blackmailing you. I found her bankbook, and I know all about the payments you made to her.”

“Yes,” he said. “That's what I was afraid of. Will you be making the information public?”

“Well, I don't know. That depends.”

“On what?”

“On what you can tell me. I want to know who killed Jean.”

“Her husband did. He's in jail, as you must know.”

“Yes, but I don't think he killed her. I think you did, Mr. Gilbert.”

No one who had been able to conceal a murder for forty-five years would be dumb enough to make threatening phone calls from his office. Not with that trio in the next room. But I wanted to see how he'd react.

“That's nonsense,” he said, bristling. “I have an alibi for the night in question.”

“How organized you are. Tell me about it.”

“I was miles away on a fishing trip. I'm a bass fisherman. Well, I used to be, a very good one, I might add.”

“Well, that's convenient. But where were you this Saturday?”

“I did not kill Jean's sister!” He was outraged. “Who do you think you are, young lady? How dare you?”

“You knew Mrs. Flynn picked up the lockbox and you wanted it back. You were afraid of what might be inside it. You knew it could ruin you.”

“Nonsense. It would take a lot more than that to ruin me. So I cooked the books a million years ago, so what? Who cares now? Nobody, that's who!”

“It might be hard to celebrate your retirement from a jail cell.”

He mumbled something I couldn't understand. I tried a different tack.

“Who else was Jean blackmailing?”

“Get yourself a yellow pages, Ms. Caruso.”

“Help me out here, Mr. Gilbert. I don't want to have to call your wife and tell her you've been stalking me.”

“Oh, all right,” he said, sputtering. “Well, Jean's sister was involved in some…funny business, you could call it, back when she was in high school.”

“Jean's sister? Mrs. Flynn? Jean blackmailed her own sister?”

“I'm not saying that. Not exactly. All I know is that Theresa Flynn was involved with another girl, and in the fifties that just didn't happen. The families would've died of shame. And Jean wasn't one to let a lucrative opportunity slip through her fingers.”

“How do you know what Jean would or wouldn't let slip through her fingers?”

“She talked to the girls around the office.”

“And?”

“Ms. Caruso, you can't run a successful business and not have spies.”

“Was Maddy Seaton your spy?” She was supposed to be Jean's best friend.

No answer.

“So who was this other girl Mrs. Flynn was involved with?”

“I have no idea.”

Meredith Allan had told me to ask Theresa Flynn about Lisette Johnson. I'd thought she'd been some kind of enemy. Could she have been Theresa's lover?

“Lisette Johnson? Was that her, Mr. Gilbert?”

“What on earth? Lisette Peterson Johnson is a fine woman. She's married to my colleague, Avery Johnson, for heaven's sakes. That's utter nonsense.”

Lisette
Peterson
Johnson. Who would be the former Lisette Peterson. Well, well, well. Looked like the Bible-thumper was our very own L.P.

Interesting. Jean had drawn the line at blackmailing her own sister. How thoughtful. But her sister's lover had apparently been fair game. Maybe it was just that Lisette was the better victim. More vulnerable. With greater cash reserves. A prime investor in Jean Albacco's private hedge fund. What exactly had Detective Moriarty said about her? She was running for office. Talk about your perfect motive to kill Jean. And Theresa, for that matter. Lisette Peterson Johnson's past was unlikely to look good on a family values platform.

Oh, great. I had another call.

“I have to call you back, Mr. Gilbert.”

“Not a word to my wife?”

“Fine, but eighty-six the crank calls, you got me? Hello?”

“This is Father Herlihy, from Tehachapi.”

“Father.” The last person I wanted to talk to. “How are you?”

“I'm fine, but Joseph is not. His hearing is on Monday, six days from today. How are you faring?”

“I've encountered a few roadblocks, but I think I'm getting somewhere, I really do. I just need a little more time.” I paused. “I went to see Joseph this morning.”

“I'm aware of that.”

“It didn't go well.”

“No, it didn't.”

“Father, I don't know what the right thing is anymore.”

“I have no answer.”

“Joseph thinks he's done the right thing. He's given up everything for love. But the woman he loved, the
women
he loved, they weren't whom they pretended to be. And I don't know if I was right in forcing him to confront the truth. He was happy with his illusions.”

“That has hardly been the case, Ms. Caruso.”

“That's not what I meant to say. It's just that before, he could make it through the day convinced he had suffered for a reason, that he'd done the best thing in a bad situation. Now I don't know. I'm afraid for him.”

“Believe in him. He believes in you. And so do I.”

But we were going in circles. I didn't want them to believe in me. Wasn't this whole thing a story about what happens when you put your faith in the wrong person?

W
ednesday morning. Another day in paradise. The birds were singing, the lilies were blooming, the squirrels were stealing my nectarines. After coffee and Advil, I flew out the door. I had things to do, places to go, people to see. I filled up the gas tank, pointed the car north, and lo and behold, there I was at the campaign headquarters of Lisette Peterson Johnson. And I had every right to be there. Goodness knows, if I'm a believer in anything, I'm a believer in the sanctity of church and family.

Lisette Peterson Johnson. Married to Avery Johnson of Gilbert, Finster, and Johnson. Motive, means, and opportunity. She could very well have gotten wind of my visit to the insurance offices from the Powerpuff Girls running the show over there. She could have followed me to Mrs. Flynn's, figured out what was going on, and come back later to finish the poor woman off. Her ex-lover. What kind of stomach would it take?

Located just around the corner from the Busy Bee, where all paths in Ventura seemed to converge, the tiny storefront
was plastered with color photographs of the lady in question. She was plump and grandmotherly, with white hair that looked like thousands of minimarshmallows conspiring to create a halo effect. There were notices posted advertising a rally the following night at which Mrs. Johnson was to be the featured speaker. Her topic would be creation science in the classroom—i.e., Charles Darwin was a bum.

Inside, all was hustle and bustle. Never in my life had I beheld so many rosy-cheeked young people so hard at work. Scurrying this way and that, typing up flyers, poised at the copy machine, manning the phones, organizing the filing cabinet, and not a piercing or a tattoo or even a pimple in sight. It was August, but I swore I heard Bing Crosby singing “White Christmas.”

“Lisette Peterson Johnson! Making the world a more virtuous place one step at a time!” a girl chanted into a megaphone from the back of the room. “Could you hear me up there?”

“All hail!” I shouted.

An older woman finishing up what looked like a grilled cheese sandwich stepped forward, wiped her hands on her jeans, and stuck one in my direction.

“I'm Martha,” she said, smiling. “Sorry. We're a little unorganized. We're just getting ready for tomorrow's rally. It should be great. We've got lots of news coverage lined up. And you are?”

“Cece,” I said, since we were going by first names.

“Cece, nice to meet you. What can we do for you today?”

“Well, I love what the candidate stands for, and I'd like to help, maybe with publicity?”

“Is that your field?”

“Sure is. I publicize things. In L.A.,” I said, gaining con
fidence as I went along. “I'm here for a while because of a family emergency.”

“Oh, my,” she sympathized.

“It'll be fine,” I said cheerfully.

“Well, great, we can use all the help we can get. Even from somebody from Sin City.” She chuckled.

“Isn't Las Vegas Sin City?”

“They all are,” Martha explained. “Vegas, L.A., New York. So what were you thinking about for the campaign?”

Hell if I knew.

“Well, maybe a chat with the candidate would be good,” I said, “just to get the ball rolling. Is she expected in today?”

“Actually, she's over at the Busy Bee, having coffee, I think. You might be able to catch her.”

“Did she drive? What kind of car does she have, out of curiosity? Just so I can watch out for her.”

Martha wrinkled her brow. “I think she drives a Toyota 4-Runner.”

“What color?”

“I can't say I know,” she said, eyeing me coolly.

“Well, I'm on my way,” I said. “Making the world a safer place, one day at a time!”

“It's a virtuous place, one step at a time,” Martha corrected me.

“Don't forget to drop your business card in the bowl,” said the girl in the back. “You can win a free lunch at Tony's Steak and Seafood. The popcorn shrimp are to die for.”

I wasn't about to do that, but I didn't want to arouse anybody's suspicions, either. So I reached into my purse and grabbed the locksmith's card and slipped it in the bowl instead. That's when I noticed the card lying on top. It had an
official-looking emblem on it. “Detective Thomas Moriarty, Ventura Police Department.” How amusing. Either Moriarty was a popcorn shrimp fan or he'd followed up on my lead. Given the size of his gut, probably both.

There was a line in the front of the Busy Bee, but I walked straight to the back, where the puffy-haired candidate was huddled over a pile of papers. She was wearing a flowered cotton shift that redefined the word
bland
. I suppose that was the point. She was supposed to be unthreatening. A mullet cut, lumberjack shirt, and Dickies work pants would've probably alienated her constituents.

I got a smile a mile wide, so I slid into the booth.

“Martha sent me over.”

“That's just fine,” she said, turning over the sheet of paper she'd been studying. The other side was blank. “And what is your name?”

“I'm Cece, and I do publicity. Martha thought I should have a chat with you, to get some ideas. I'm here to help raise awareness of your good works.”

“How wonderful!” She laughed merrily and started rolling up her sleeves, like we were going to bake a pie.

Now I had a problem. First of all, I don't bake. That's Lael's thing. I cook. And second of all, here I was, face-to-face with a double-murderer, well, maybe a double-murderer. What was I supposed to do? I'm not a cop, as Gambino had so delighted in reminding me. Confront her? That seemed a bit rash. Trap her into admitting something? I wasn't wearing a wire, for god's sake. Process of elimination? That's good. Eliminate her as a suspect. Excellent.

“Just a couple questions. Have you seen Theresa Flynn lately? Did you visit her, say, last Saturday?”

“Excuse me?”

“Theresa Flynn. You went to high school with her. Don't you remember?”

“Of course I remember. What is this, young lady? Who sent you? You're with Frank Shattuck's camp, aren't you? You people will stoop to anything to win an election. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“What should you be ashamed of?”

“Nothing. I have absolutely nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Did you know Theresa's dead?”

“I read about it in the paper,” she said quietly. “I was so sorry.” Her eyes went squinty. One tear trickled southward. It looked like the genuine article, but nobody runs for office without being a skilled performer.

“You haven't answered me.”

“I don't have to answer you,” she said, indignant again. She gathered up her things. “Let the past be.”

With that, she made her exit. I finished the doughnut she'd left sitting there, thinking that my interrogation technique could definitely use some work.