A Corpse in the Soup (23 page)

“Did you tell him about the letter?”

“You bet. He couldn’t remember seeing anyone lurking around the studio that didn’t belong there. But he said with all kinds of people coming and going like messengers, workmen, purveyors, salespeople and janitors, if Wesley was actually stalking Wellington, he could have been in and out of there on a regular basis and no one would have noticed. He was very excited about Flossie and Sterling finding that letter. Of course, I had to tell him that they were the old cleaning people...”

“Did he love it?”

“He sure did! Said the disguises were great. Told me to give Flossie a big kiss and tell Sterling that he loves him too, but isn’t about to kiss him, and, oh yes, he wanted to know if they do windows.”

Goldie smirked. “By the way, he said to be ready at eight and save your appetite. He has reservations at
Il Cielo
for dinner. He said you’d understand. What is it anyway?”

“It’s a charming place on Burton Way, Goldie. Very secluded and classy! I’ll bet he wants to eat in the courtyard after being cooped up in jail. Things are looking up, Sis.”

Like a neatly plotted script, the phone rang on cue. Godiva answered it and heard Angel’s cheerful voice.

“Just a minute...let me put it on speaker,” she said, hitting the button.

“Good morning, Angel. Thanks for calling back so quickly.”

“Ready for duty, ladies. What do you need?”

Goldie leaned toward the machine. “A trail, Angel. We really need a trail. Can you step up the search for Wesley Wellington? Get right on it if you can.”

“Consider it done. Hey, this is so cool to be helping you guys. I heard about the foodie fans outside the jail while I was driving to work. That chef of yours sure has a loyal following.” She exhaled. “There’s no way Romano did it. Man, the police are so off base—well, not my Nathan, but his boss. Everyone knows that battle between them was all hype. You think Wesley Wellington is the guy, then?”

Goldie smiled. “Well, Angel, we’re hoping you can help us find out.”

“Count on me, gotta go.” And she was gone.

The twins looked at each other, relishing the silence for a moment.

“Okay, Goldie. What next?”

“We need to go back and talk to Chris. Maybe Candy, too. We’ve got to find out if either one of them saw the envelope that letter came in or if they remember anyone weird hanging around the studio...”

“You mean any weirdoes other than those mysterious old janitors?”

CHAPTER 41

Candy’s breathless voice wrapped around the recorded message. “Hi, this is Candy. Nothing would make me happier than to talk to you, but (giggle) I’m not here right now. Leave your name, I’ll call you. Bye.”

They tried Chris next. No luck. Pulling out the note-filled yellow pad, Goldie and Godiva went back to their hit list.

A very sunburned Torch emitted little groans as he eased into the chair opposite his mother. “Hey, whatever happened to dropping everything and taking care of your kid?”

Godiva’s eyes widened as she took in her son’s boiled lobster complexion. “Guade—” The maid shuffled into the room and placed a tray laden with cotton balls and a large jar of Noxzema on the table.

“Meester Torch, thees should help with your troubles. I will breeng a large cold drink, too.” She retreated to the kitchen.

While Godiva fussed with Torch’s blistered face, he leaned toward his aunt. “I was going to entertain you with the details of my big gig in the desert, but first things first.” He turned to Godiva. “So, Mom, how’s it feel to be dating an axe murderer?”

Godiva swiped the soothing cream on her son’s nose harder than necessary.

“Ouch! Hey, I was only kidding. I know, it wasn’t an axe, it was a butcher knife...”

“Well, I’ll have you know, young man, that Caesar is out of jail already. And, we are very close to clearing his good name.” She scooped more ointment out of the jar and slathered it across his forehead.

His eyes flitted from sister to sister. “So, does that mean you two are mucking around again where you don’t belong? I suppose Grammy and Uncle Sterling are playing Miss Marple and Hercule Poirot to your Nancy Drew and Trixie Belden?”

Goldie pursed her lips. “Come on, Torch. You make us sound like a bunch of weirdoes. It’s perfectly normal to want to help a friend.”

“There’s nothing normal about this family, Auntie. This week I was out in the desert creating fireballs in hundred-ten-degree heat, last week my cousin became a fiery TV icon overnight, yesterday my mom’s boyfriend got arrested for murder and to top it off, my eighty-year-old Grandma seems to be running an amateur detective agency.”

Waldo the Wonderdog, who was sleeping under the table, stretched and yawned. “
Norrrmalll.
”

“Geez, even our talking dog’s a flippin’ weirdo!” He smiled and rubbed the dog’s belly with his bare foot. “Anyway, since I am sure you were gonna ask, everything was great. My pyrotechnics were outstanding. Wait till you see it on the big screen. Truly awesome, if I do say so myself.” With that he took a deep sip from the iced coffee Guadalupe set before him. He spread a copy of
Variety
on the table and flipped through the pages while Goldie and Godiva prioritized their list.

“Holy shit! Look at this!” He held the paper up sideways so the sisters could see the eye-popping double page ad. Biff Wellington’s image, looking like the devil incarnate, was spread across the two pages, poster style. In bold type, beside the muscle-bound bicep, it read:
From Bad Apple to Beefcake...the Biff Wellington Story
.

Torch read out loud, “Production slated for November. Geez, the dust hasn’t even settled and they’re profiting from his shocking past. But, in this town everyone seems to have a hidden...”

Godiva tore it from her son’s hands. “Give me that!” Frantic, she scanned the paper and read the fine print aloud. “A ShockWorks picture produced by Manny Manicotti, written by Lenny Rodriguez, directed by Garrison Levy.”

They all stared at the paper for a moment. Then the twins shouted simultaneously, “Omigod! Lenny Rodriguez!”

Godiva dumped the paper into Torch’s lap. “He must be the writer that Helen at the
Cotati Clarion
mentioned. Remember, Goldie, she called him Lenny but couldn’t remember his last name?”

“Yeah, she thought he was an aging college student or something.” Goldie scribbled
Lenny Rodriguez
at the top of their “must interview” list.

Torch held up his hands. “Hey, this may be no big deal. A lot of people knew Wellington was the bad boy of cooking, and there was going to be money to be made off of his story no matter what. He was hot stuff. I mean, really, Manicotti, the head of Food Broadcasting, is producing the thing.”

Goldie chewed her lip. “I dunno. The timing is too perfect. It’s a lot easier doing a tell-all when the subject is dead. I think we need to talk to Mr. Manicotti.” She added his name to the list.

Godiva nodded. “Back to Rodriguez. Wonder what gave him the idea to write this. What sent him to Cotati?” She snapped her fingers. “Maybe he located Wesley. There must be an easy way to find this Lenny guy.”

Goldie said, “He’s a writer here in Hollywood, surely there’s a list or something.” She looked at her nephew.

“Shouldn’t be too hard, Auntie. Just call the Writers’ Guild. I’ve never heard of him, but this city is full of writers I’ve never heard of. Even if he’s not a member of the Guild, he probably registered the screenplay with them.”

Goldie grabbed the phone in the kitchen and tried to track down Lenny, while Godiva moved into the family room where she used another line to call Chris Cross again. This time she got through, and he explained that he’d been on the internet earlier, which was why the message machine wouldn’t pick up. He agreed to let them come over at one o’clock. She jotted the time down beside Chris’s name.

“Well, that’s a relief,” she said to no one in particular. “Let’s see, it’s Thursday, Hollywood Has-Beens day...that should keep Mom and Uncle Sterling out of trouble.”

Meanwhile Goldie hit pay dirt with the Writers’ Guild and jotted Rodriguez’s phone number on her list. He wasn’t a member, but Torch was right. She got his contact information by giving them the name of the project.

A pre-recorded mechanical female voice informed Goldie, “The party you are calling is not available at this time. Leave your name and number at the tone and your call will be returned as soon as possible.”
What did this world do before answering machines?
She left a message that she was with the Los Angeles Times and would like to speak with Mr. Rodriguez about the new movie. She crossed her fingers, hoping that he would take the bait and that her lie didn’t count in the grand cosmic scheme of things.

The phone hadn’t been returned to its cradle for ten seconds before it chirped, startling Goldie. Candy’s voice babbled on about going with Chris to pitch a show of her own the next day so setting up a time to meet with her was difficult, what with her hair, nail and body treatment appointments. But she finally agreed to see them at five o’clock.

“I don’t get it Godiva. One day Chris is a gofer. The next day he’s this wheeler-dealer helping Candy with a proposal for a show. What gives?”

“You poor little country bumpkin. You forget. This is Hollywood, the land of dreams where anything...and I mean
anything
...can happen. Believe me, I’ve seen much stranger transitions. Just remember, you can’t take anything at face value. That’s the first law of LaLaLand.”

“I guess you’re right. Every time I come back to L.A. I remember why I left. Is anything in this town actually real?”

“Of course. But the list isn’t very long.”

CHAPTER 42

At five minutes to one Godiva shoehorned the Mercedes into a space in front of Chris’ building, the only one available for blocks.

“Wow, your parking karma is terrific, Godiva! The horoscope was right when it said this was a good time for travel.”

Chris opened the door on the first knock.

“Hello, ladies. Can I offer you something to drink or do you want to get right to your questions? Godiva sounded pretty serious on the phone.”

“Thanks for the offer, Chris, but we just finished lunch and you’re right, this is serious. Let’s get right down to it.”

As before, they sat on the shabby sofa while Chris pulled a chair away from the dinette table and faced them. “Shoot.”

Goldie cleared her throat. “We’re wondering if it was part of your job to open Wellington’s mail. Did you do that sometimes?”

“Well, you know I actually only worked there a few weeks and half the time he didn’t even remember that I was there. I never really figured out what I was supposed to do. The guy was so unpredictable that one day he was pissed if I did something and the next day he was pissed if I didn’t do it. You know what I mean? Like, when I first started working there I opened the mail and he said I wasn’t supposed to, so the next day I didn’t open it and he wanted to know why I wasn’t doing my job. Guess I won’t have to worry about that any more.”

He turned a solemn gaze down to his beat-up tennis shoes. “Now I don’t have a job.”

Goldie’s heart ached for him. The kid’s clothes weren’t in any better shape than his furnishings. She let her eyes travel around the room. Always one to spot the vintage or unusual pieces, she settled on a lovely old silver picture frame with a portrait of a blond woman wearing an embroidered peasant blouse and patchwork vest. Clearly 1970s hippie. Displayed beside the picture was a birdseye maple keepsake box inlaid with marquetry in the design of birds and musical notes. These were the only nice pieces in the room and probably had belonged to someone in his family.

Godiva continued probing while she picked at a worn patch on the arm of the sofa. “So, what will you do now? I mean, maybe Food Broadcasting can find some other work for you?”

Chris radiated a glimmer of confidence. It was the most emotion they had seen, up until now, in the somber young man. “Well, that’s what I’m hoping, but I’ve got my sights set a little higher than gofer level. You see I’ve got this great idea for a show for Candy. Believe it or not, after Mr. Ziti snubbed us and made fun of us at the funeral, Mr. Manicotti actually read my proposal and asked us to come in tomorrow so he could hear us out. Tell you the truth, I’m really excited. I just know he’s going to bite. I can feel it.”

Godiva said, “So you and Candy are not only friends, but also working on something together? Can you tell us about it?”

“Sorry. Not before we pitch it to Mr. Manicotti. I don’t want to jinx us. What else did you want to know?”

Goldie hesitated, wanting to formulate the question just right in case Chris tried to evade them. “Chris, think hard. Did you see anyone hanging around the studio that didn’t seem to belong there? Someone who might have been stalking Wellington? It’s really important. Try to remember. You see, we think his son might have had something to do with his death. If that’s true, Caesar might be off the hook.”

“Son? He had a son? He never mentioned that.” Chris’ brow furrowed, giving him the appearance of a wizened old man.

Goldie said, “Well, from what we can gather Wellington abandoned Wesley—that’s his son’s name—quite a long time ago. He was just a kid.”

“And you think this son was stalking him? It sounds like you think he’s the killer. What makes you think that?”

Goldie reached into her tote bag and took out the letter. She handed it to Chris, cautioning him not to take it out of the zip lock bag. “This was found in Wellington’s office at the studio. Somehow the police missed it and let’s just say it came into our possession through a bit of luck. That’s why we asked if you opened the mail. It doesn’t sound like the son wanted to have a loving reunion with dear ol’ dad, does it?”

Chris stared at the flattened-out sheet through the plastic bag, his eyes following the words across the page. He gave a slow shake of his head. “No love lost there, that’s for sure. Sorry to disappoint you, ladies, but I certainly didn’t open this.” He handed the letter back to Goldie.