All or Nothing (11 page)

“Take a look in the closet, why don’t ya, honey. Check out her clothes. With your know–how you should be able to get a fix on her.”

The good–size walk–in closet was jammed with stuff, and to Marla, mostly it looked like work outfits. Little silky suits and dresses, skirts and jackets. Decent quality but not expensive. “About what a young woman in her position could afford,” she told Al. “Except, wow! Just take a look at these.”

She took out half a dozen dresses and held them up for him to see.

“Mmmm, what my mother would have called “housedresses,’” Al said, inspecting the frumpy floral prints, the long sleeves and the little white collars. “Now, why would a woman like Laurie buy outfits like that? Unless she was living two different lives.”

“Three!” Marla said, delving into the back and emerging with a batch of lace and silk: short skirts, bustier tops, a strapless black sheath and that bright–blue lace number she had noticed Laurie wearing the night she had spotted her with Steve on the terrace at the Hotel La Valencia. She didn’t have to look at the labels to know what they had cost.

“Where would she get the money for these?” She fingered a supple suede designer jacket from a Rodeo Drive store.

“And while we’re at it, where did she get the money to buy this condo?” Al looked around at the well–designed apartment with its wall–to–wall white carpet and granite and marble fixtures. “
And
she drove an expensive car. Our Laurie must have come into money a couple of years ago.”

“She inherited it,” Marla guessed. “Her mother died, she got the family jewels.”

“No chance. I’m willing to bet there were no jewels in the household she grew up in. Wherever that was,” he added, frowning. He stared gloomily out of the window at the rain, running his hands through his hair, worrying about Laurie Martin. Who the hell was she? As well as
where
the hell was she? Dying for a cigarette, he picked up a handful of jelly beans from a glass dish on the coffee table.

“That’s evidence you’re tampering with, buddy.” The police detective was grinning at him. “Heard you’d given up smoking. Starting to put on a few pounds now, huh, bud?”

“He could use it. Unlike some people I know.” Marla glanced pointedly at the detective’s beer belly.

He grinned as he shook a cigarette out of a pack and made a big show of lighting it up. “You folks finished? I’m about ready for a coffee and a doughnut.”

Al was checking with Laurie’s coworkers at the real estate office, trying to find out what kind of a person she was. Friendly? Flirty? Flighty? Or lonely? Solitary? Aloof? Meanwhile, Marla had been delegated to visit the Baptist church Laurie attended in Laguna Beach.

The Reverend Bones Johnson suited his nickname perfectly, a skeletal young man whose white dog collar bagged around his scrawny neck and whose mild blue eyes had a faraway expression.

As though he was already in another world, Marla thought, exasperated. She had already asked him twice what he knew about Laurie Martin and both times he had begun to answer and then wandered off the subject into his feelings about the ministry and his congregation.

“Yes, Reverend, but about Miss Martin.” She brought him back to the point again, keeping the impatience out of her voice with a mighty effort. This was getting her exactly nowhere. Trust Giraud to have given himself the plum job talking to the coworkers and left her to pick up the pieces with this wacko minister. “Did she attend church regularly.”

“Laurie Martin?” His eyes widened, as though surprised they were talking about her. “Ah, yes, poor young woman. Yes, she came here often. Pretty much every Sunday. Except when she was working. She was a real estate agent, you know. . . .”

Marla raised her eyes to heaven. “Yeah, I know.”

“Sometimes on Sundays she had an open house or took care of special clients, but she hated to miss a service.”

“I can understand that.” Marla tried a smile but the reverend’s eyes were fixed on some point in the middle distance.

“She seemed like a nice, quiet, shy young woman. Took part in church activities, communal suppers and helping with the old folks, things like that. She was always willing to lend a hand,” he said finally.

“I know this is probably confidential, but I’m sure you’ll understand my asking . . . did Laurie ever talk to you about herself? About where she came from? Her family? Men problems?”

He lifted his shoulders in a shrug, shaking his head. “No, she never did. I don’t think any of us knew her that well. Except maybe John MacIver. You should talk to him about Laurie.”

The road leading to MacIver’s house led up a hill on the outskirts of the little town. Kind of isolated, Marla thought, as well as impressive. The house must have been built in the fifties, in a grandiose mock–Tudor style, all blackened beams and diamond–paned windows and huge, curlicued iron gates topped with little spear points.

She sat in the car, eyeing the hefty German shepherd barking at her from behind those gates, wondering how she was going to get in. Between the gates and the dog, the place was a fortress.

Then she saw the old man hobbling down the gravel driveway. “Ah, saved by the bell,” she murmured, glaring back at the dog, which bared its teeth at her in a nasty snarl.

“Shut up, Gestapo, why don’t you. You’ll have the neighbors complaining again.”

Marla stared at him, startled.
Gestapo?
What kind of a name was that for a dog? Even if it was a German shepherd. She glanced around. And as far as she could see there were no neighbors. Certainly none near enough to complain about a dog barking. He must be a little dotty, she thought, taking mental P.I. notes as he approached.
White hair, must be in his eighties, walks with the aid of a stick. Must be the caretaker. But no, he was a little too well–dressed for that role. Probably John MacIver’s father.

“Good afternoon,” she called, giving him the benefit of her most winning smile. “My name is Marla Cwitowitz. I’ve come to speak with Mr. John MacIver.”

He peered at her through the gates, the dog still snarling at his side. “I said shut up, Gestapo,” he said again in a quavery voice. “Sit.”

To Marla’s astonishment the dog did as it was told. “He’s not home,” he said curtly.

“But it’s about Laurie Martin. Tell him I’m trying to help find her.”

His face lit up. “You’re going to find Laurie? Well, why didn’t you say so. Come in, come in. . . .” He pressed a buzzer, the electronic gates swung open and the dog charged out.

Quickly, Marla put up the car window. She couldn’t hear for the growling but the old boy must have given another command because the dog dropped away reluctantly. She flinched as she heard its claws scraping down the side of the Mercedes, imagining what it had just done to her silver–gray paintwork. Giraud would pay for this, she fumed, stepping cautiously out of the car.

The old boy had Gestapo on a heavy chain now, though it was no contest as to who weighed more and who was stronger. Marla stiffened her upper lip and got out of the car. She was taking her life in her hands for Laurie Martin as she walked up the gravel driveway with the old boy. The dog walked on his opposite side, still snarling softly.

“I call him Gestapo because he always acts this way, has since he was a pup. Won’t let anybody near the place. Not until he knows them, that is. Now, Laurie, he liked her, she could come anytime she liked. And always brought him something good, a new food she had discovered or a nice fresh bone. Told me she went specially to the butcher at the supermarket, asked them to save a good beef bone for her. She liked dogs. . . .” He sighed feelingly.

They were at the front door now. It stood ajar and he pushed it wider with his cane. “Come in, come in . . . what did you say your name was again?”

He was obviously hard of hearing and Marla leaned closer to him. “Marla Cwitowitz,” she said into his ear, “but you can call me Marla.”

“Marla, huh? Nice name.”

He led her through a spacious black and white marble–tiled hall into a room that was obviously a den. More like a lair, Marla thought, taking a look around. Floor–to–ceiling mahogany shelves lined with books, heavy plum–colored velvet drapes smelling of dust and shutting out the sunlight, a small television set atop an antique walnut chest, a cracked green leather sofa, club chairs in old, flowered slipcovers, an ancient Turkish carpet. And an ivory grand piano looking as out of place in this room as a sequined Las Vegas chorus girl in a church. Over the massive, intricately carved Jacobean mantel hung a portrait of a haughty–looking blond woman in a satin evening gown and diamonds, holding a single lily in her hand.

She was quite something, Marla thought, staring at the portrait. And was she wrong, or was there a slight resemblance to Laurie Martin? Something about the eyes, perhaps   .   .   .

“That’s my wife,” the old boy said, slumping backward onto the sofa as though his legs had just given out on him. “Imogen. Died ten years ago.”

“A lovely woman,” Marla replied politely, though personally she thought she looked a hard–faced bitch. That contemptuous curl of the lips, the hint of impatience in her eyes. “The artist captured her perfectly,” she added with an insincere smile.

“Eh?” He put a hand to his ear, then seemed to realize what she said. “That’s why I liked Laurie, she looked like her,” he said. “Sit down, Miss Marla, sit down, sit down. . . .” He waved a frail hand.

“And I understand your son attended church with her. The Reverend Johnson said he knew her well.”

“Bones Johnson said I had a son? What’s gotten into him? Of course I don’t have a son. No, it was I who attended church with Miss Martin. I was her friend.”

Well, well, well, Marla thought, pausing to catch her breath. So this was John MacIver! And it seemed that Laurie had a friend after all. . . .

“It’s terrible, terrible, what that man has done to her.” His voice was even more quavery now and a tear trickled down his sunken cheek. “Where is she? Where is she?” He clasped his arms across his chest, rocking back and forth in his pain and Marla got the impression that this was not the first time he had broken down like this about Laurie. He obviously cared deeply about her.

“I’m sorry, Mr. MacIver.” She went and sat next to him on the cracked green leather sofa. “I understand how you must feel. She must have been a very special lady.”

“A lady is exactly what she was. In the old–fashioned sense of the word. Gentle, kind, caring. And lovely, quite lovely.” His faded eyes focused on Marla’s face, close to his. MacIver’s glasses magnified even bigger than Ben Lister’s, and she bet he had cataracts and was having trouble seeing clearly, even with those thick lenses.

“Did you know Laurie?” MacIver asked.

“Ah, well, not exactly. Not personally.”

“Then you don’t know what you were missing.” Struggling to his feet, he hobbled across to the fireplace and took a photograph from an antique Italian table. “This is her.”

Marla was looking at a different Laurie Martin from the glitzy California blonde in the Ritz bar. But it was her, alright, no doubt about that. Laurie in one of the floral–print housedresses with the long sleeves and long skirt. She clutched a large white handbag and wore low–heeled white pumps. Her hair was pulled tightly back into a knot and she smiled timidly into the camera. It was obviously her Sunday churchgoing image.

“She certainly is a lovely woman,” Marla said reverently. “I can see what you mean, she has that nice”––she struggled for a word––”old–fashioned appearance.”

“That’s why I liked her.” His voice cracked and he bent his head as the tears came, faster now. “I loved her,” he admitted brokenly. “I’d asked her to marry me. And she said yes. But not right away, she said first she wanted me to be sure I knew what I was doing. And she didn’t want people talking about us, about her. . . .”

Marla’s astonished eyes swept round the room again; the old boy had money, no doubt about it, and Laurie had obviously known that. “I can see what she meant.”

MacIver took off his glasses and mopped his eyes. “You have a nice face, Miss Marla, gentle, like her. I’ve not told anyone about Laurie, not even the Reverend Johnson. Laurie said it was our secret. But she allowed me to buy her an engagement ring. She told me that would be nice, sort of special between us.”

“The coiled snake with its tail in its mouth and the diamond eye,” Marla remembered suddenly. So that’s where Laurie had gotten such an expensive ring. “An unusual choice, for an engagement ring,” she said.

“That was Laurie, she always surprised you. But then, Laurie was an unusual woman.”

“I hope you won’t mind me asking, but didn’t Laurie care about the age difference? I mean she was . . . what?”

“Laurie was in her thirties and I’m eighty–four. But you don’t understand, Laurie was a very spiritual woman, the age difference meant nothing to her. She said we were on the same plane, that our minds were alike, that we had been together in previous lives. And now chance had brought us together again, though she preferred to call it destiny.” MacIver threw Marla a sharp glance, though she wasn’t sure his clouded blue eyes were seeing her without the thick glasses. “And it was physical too, of course,” he said proudly. “I’m still active, there’s still life in me. . . .”

Well, whoopee for Viagra, Marla thought, but she said smoothly, “And of course Laurie was a woman who appreciated the finer things in life.”

“And I could give her that, provide for her,” he said eagerly. “Though don’t get me wrong, she wasn’t after my money. Oh, no, sir. She wouldn’t let me give her anything much.”

“So what exactly did you give her, besides the ring?”

“She never took a penny. Not for herself. Never. Though I did help her out once, when she needed money to pay for her sister’s child to have an operation. And for a special charity she was involved in, to help children at Christmastime.” Tears stood in his eyes again. “Laurie was a good woman. A very good woman. And I know she loved me.”

“How do you know that?” Marla was curious. He was no oil painting, after all, and he was a bit doddery and getting on in years.

“She told me so,” MacIver said simply. “Said she had never loved any man since her husband died ten years ago. I was the first. And you know why? Because she felt she could trust me. She was scared out there in that big, ugly world, a gentle woman like her, vulnerable, alone. Men hit on her all the time in her line of work, she told me that too.”