Everybody Takes The Money (The Drusilla Thorne Mysteries) (10 page)

He couldn’t keep himself from snorting at that. He knew why.
 

“Does she come here a lot?”
 

He shook his head. “Why don’t you head back to Greg’s office and you can wait for him.”

Just then, the man himself, Greg Hitchcock, passed me on his way back toward his office. As he walked by, he trailed his hand along my back. Some men have no respect for personal boundaries. Given that this was the man Courtney so desperately wanted me to talk to, snapping his wrist and maybe each of his fingers could wait until after I found out why Courtney wanted to involve him in our little dispute.

“Be with you in a minute,” Hitchcock said to me, and he gave me one of those winks men think are so charming but come off as sleazy. “Let me go see what Miss Cleary wants. Jonathan, why don’t you get our guest here a cup of coffee or something like that?”

Jonathan pasted a tight expression on his face, akin to a smile but much more tense. “May I get you something?” he asked. “Water? Coffee?”

“Certainly.” I wasn’t thirsty. If getting a glass of water would prolong our conversation so that I could find out a little more about Courtney and her business here, then I would get the glass of water. “Do you have somewhere I can sit down while I wait?”

“Sure.” He wasn’t happy about it, though.

Jonathan led me through the doorway into the hallway that led straight back. The hallway had four doors on it, plus one at the end with the familiar blue circle indicating that it was a bathroom. He led me into the first office, which was apparently his workplace. On the desk was a large computer screen and a keyboard, plus lots of extremely neat piles of paper. To one side of the computer screen was a photo of him, a woman, and a baby girl.
 

It took me a second to recognize the preschool teacher we had just talked to.

The bookcase behind the desk chair was packed with books, all of them upright and in good condition. There was a watercolor of Jesus with his heart glowing and an inspirational poster that had a cross radiating light and text in some kind of italic font—way too difficult for me to decipher.

“We haven’t been introduced. My name is Drusilla Thorne.”

“Jonathan Ricciardi.” He shook my hand firmly and didn’t linger on the touch for a second longer than needed.

“I’m sorry to have disturbed your work day. It can be hard to get back into the flow.”
 

He opened a refrigerator cube and took out a small water bottle for me. “No trouble,” he lied, not very well.

“Are you the office manager?”
 

He sat in the desk chair and glanced at the computer screen. “I’m the accountant,” he said.

“Is that your wife?” I pointed to the picture of the preschool teacher.

He looked at the photo on his desk with great pride. “Her name’s Alison. And my daughter, Hailey. She’s eighteen months now.”
 

Hailey. The little girl Courtney had focused on at the preschool. “She’s beautiful. Looks just like you.”

He looked down and fidgeted with a pen on his desk. “Thanks.”
 

He was embarrassed at my compliment. I wanted to take a photo of his blush to remember the moment. A nice man who wanted to do his job and not cause waves. I wondered how he managed to qualify for residency within the Greater Los Angeles area with a personality like that.

“Is this place affiliated with the financial counseling office?” I said.
 

Jonathan shook his head. “No.” He emphasized the denial hard. “No, they are two separate entities. Greg started that service with some people from the church. But it’s not part of the church and we have nothing to do with it here.”

“The church. Tarzana First Christian?”

“Oh. You know it?”

“I’ve been there before,” I said. “Are you a member there, too?”

“Yes, I am. That’s how I originally met Greg.”
 

“That worked out nicely,” I said, and we both laughed. “Have you been here long?”

Jonathan looked off into the distance, then shook his head. “Going on six years.”

Six years. The longest I’d ever been in one place in my life was probably three or four, and my only excuse for that was that I’d been a child who had no say in the matter. “Well, congratulations. Seems like this business is doing very well.”
 

He blushed again and said, “Thank you,” before glancing up, startled.

Courtney’s hand curled over my shoulder. “Dru, come on with me a moment. I want you to meet my friend Mr. H. Hey, Jonathan, I saw Alison and Hailey over at the school. They seem to be doing real well. That girl is growing like a weed. Such a sweet young lady.”

He nodded at her without responding. His mouth had set into a firm line. Instead of the mention of his wife and daughter making him more amenable, it was making him more upset.
 

I picked up the unopened bottle in front of me and stood up. “Thank you for the water, Mr. Ricciardi.”
 

Courtney was all smiles as she put her arm around my shoulder in the hallway. “Let’s introduce you to Mr. H.”
 

“And why do I want to meet him?”

“He’s a real good man, Drusilla. He can help you out.”

I stopped her in the hallway. I towered over Courtney—she was only about five centimeters taller than Stevie, which put me at about fifteen taller than her. She was also about as thin as my last few alibis, with no muscle on her at all. I backed her up against the wall. “Let’s be clear about something, Courtney. The only help I require at the moment is your asshole boyfriend dropping the assault charges against me. To that end, I want you to withdraw your affidavit. I’m going to talk to your Mr. Hitchcock, and after I do so, you’re going to follow through on your part. Or am I mistaken about what we’re doing here?”

She pushed away from me. “I need your help, Drusilla. You need my help. We’re sisters, when all is said and done.”
 

“The only person on this planet I love unequivocally is my actual sister. You aren’t her. You and I are nowhere close to being said and done. Don’t push it.”
 

She opened the door with the biggest nameplate on it.
 

When we walked into his office, Greg Hitchcock was leaning way back in his desk chair, phone tucked between his chin and his shoulder. He grinned like he’d just heard the world’s stupidest joke and couldn’t wait to repeat it. “That’s a ten-four, Mikey. I’ll see you on Tuesday at eight a.m. sharp. No handicap from me. Not after what you shot last time. Okay.” He hung up and sighed heavily, like arranging a golf date was the hardest thing he had to do all day.
 

Then he leaned forward on the desk, clasped his hands together, his big, scratched, dulled wedding ring out front, and said, “Now what can I do for you ladies?”
 

Courtney had come back here to talk to him for several minutes, and he claimed not to know why I was there.
 

“My friend Drusilla here is going through a tough time,” Courtney said. “I thought maybe you could help her out.”
 

“Well, if we can help her out, I’d love to. What seems to be the trouble, young lady?”
 

He started rubbing the cross on his collar. He either had a nervous tic or he was trying to subliminally reinforce his Christian credentials. If my guard wasn’t already up, that would have done it.
 

As the old saying goes, ‘Whenever someone starts telling you what a good Christian they are, hold on tight to your wallet.’
 

“Like everyone else, I find myself slightly short of income.”

“Well. That’s probably a tough situation for a glamorous young lady like yourself.”

He kept calling me “young lady.” True, I was much younger than he was. But much like his pointing out the cross, his use of the term seemed to be more for my benefit than his.
 

Time to play along. “I don’t know what skills I have you might find useful.”

“We could always use a receptionist over at the Financial Counseling service. Can you answer phones?”

“And how much does that pay?”

He mentioned the hourly figure. Slightly above minimum wage. I smiled politely. While I had taken plenty of jobs for much less money, I also hadn’t been paying income tax on any of it. This money was for a real office job, with a W2 and everything. It was ridiculous to think anyone near an urban center in the US was supposed to live on that small an amount of money. I wondered how much the firms with my family’s name on them paid junior-level employees. As little as they could get away with, undoubtedly.
 

It was time to push my luck. “I’m in a real fix, Mr. Hitchcock. Courtney says you might have some work.”

Courtney put her hand on Hitchcock’s shoulder. “Greg is willing to help you with that.”

Now he was Greg. Fascinating.

“Maybe I could drive you home and we could discuss it,” Hitchcock said. “Where do you live, Drusilla?”

“Pacific Palisades.”
 

Hitchcock blinked in surprise. No one making minimum wage lived in Pacific Palisades. Or anywhere near Pacific Palisades. His gaze slid over to Courtney in a silent question. When he looked back at me, he licked his lips. “I guess driving over here would be a big commute for you.”

The cost of gas weekly would easily eat up whatever money I earned.
 

“I thought you lived near Century City,” Courtney said.

“That’s where my lawyer works,” I said.

“Lawyer?” Hitchcock asked. His voice dropped in register.

At that, Hitchcock glanced at Courtney. His friendliness seemed to have vanished.
 

“Why do you need a lawyer?” Hitchcock said.

“Do you know why Courtney and I have become acquainted, Mr. Hitchcock? No? I would have thought Courtney might have mentioned something. I had an altercation with Courtney’s friend Roger yesterday. Do you know Roger?”
 

Hitchcock looked puzzled for a second and then shook his head. “Who’s that?”
 

“Roger has got Courtney involved in an assault case. I would be the person who was assaulted.”

“I didn’t want to say anything, but you poor girl. What happened?”
 

“It’s no big deal,” Courtney said.

“You’re not going to drop that affidavit, are you?” I said.
 

“What affidavit?” Hitchcock said.

I shook my head. “I’m done here. See you in court.”

Jonathan looked up from his spreadsheet as I walked by. I didn’t stop to chat.

WHEN I RETURNED to the house in Pacific Palisades, I had a thumping headache, a definite desire to drink myself stupid, and more questions than I’d started the day with.
 

I left a message for Anne, telling her that Courtney was a pain in the ass and I had learned absolutely nothing.

Stevie came into the kitchen, fresh from gardening. She wore a huge wide-brimmed hat, her khakis were covered in mud, and she had a giant smile on her face. “You’re back!” she said. “How did things go?”

“My nefarious plot to force Courtney to drop her affidavit has not gone well.”
 

She pushed past me to rummage in the hall closet and came up with the canister vacuum cleaner that was in the house when we first moved in.

“Tell me about it as we get to work.”

“Get to work doing what?”

She led me out the kitchen door. “It’s Tuesday.”
 

I didn’t work an office job and I didn’t watch television regularly. I often had no idea which day of the week it was. “And this is relevant because...?”

“We clean out your car on Tuesdays.”
 

To the best of my knowledge, I’d never cleaned out my car, on a Tuesday or on any other day. Good to know Stevie had a system, though.
 

As we walked through the kitchen and outside into the garage, I told her about my visit to Greg Hitchcock’s office. Clearly Courtney had remained close to her on-screen boss from the show.

“I did a bit of reading about him after our powwow with Anne yesterday,” Stevie said. “He’s done exceptionally well in the building business. He has projects all over Los Angeles.”

“The economy’s turning around,” I said.

“He seems to have expanded right during the crunch. He moved to Los Angeles ten years ago and his business has tripled every two or three years. Including in a recession.”

“How is that possible?” I asked.

“There must be quite a need for commercial real estate in greater Los Angeles,” my sister said.

“Where are they putting it?” I asked.

In the garage she already had a bucket in the garage’s laundry sink, along with a few sponges and two pairs of rubber gloves.
 

She put the pink set on and held out the yellow gloves. “Here’s a pair of marigolds,” she said.

“You seem to be doing fine without my help,” I told her. “Also, I’m in pain. Before we get started, could I have a Vicodin or something?”

She sighed as she plugged the vacuum into the wall. Then she opened the passenger door and made a face. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Dru,” she said. “You bought another purse?”

“I haven’t bought anything in weeks. You keep taking my money.”

She pulled off her gloves and laid them on the roof of the car before leaning inside. She stood up again, holding a very cute clutch purse made out of needlepoint. It had a unicorn on the side and a set of keys in an attached keyring. “It’s not really your thing, is it?”
 

I stood up. “That’s not mine. That’s Courtney’s. She must have left it when we drove together.”
 

Stevie unzipped the purse and glanced inside.
 

“Her driver’s license, ten dollars, some change, a motel room key, a phone number, and a library card.”

“Courtney Cleary has a library card?” I asked.
 

“Drusilla, be kind.”

“Why?” When Stevie made her disappointed face at me, I sighed. “If I must. Let me see it.”