Killer Commute (23 page)

“In the paper this morning, Charlie, it said the police had a suspect in Jeremy's murder. You and me was the only ones here. Nobody'd suspect you. You're somebody's mother.”

“Oh, Betty.” Charlie was facing the refrigerator door with the hummingbird magnets and yellowed picture of Mrs. Beesom's church's glorious gift of the sentry palm. Why hadn't Charlie ever wondered why Betty Beesom could overlook Jeremy's little girlfriends—considering her religious attitude about everything else? She obviously didn't approve, but she'd done nothing about it. Then again, she was the one most dependent on him here. And it was obvious that she liked him.

Hell, we all did.

“We can alibi each other, can't we? Even if we're women? And Detective Amuller is sweet on you. So that just leaves me.”

“Betty, stop this. I'm the suspect here, not you. And he's not sweet on me, he used that to get information from you.”

“Charlie, you got it all wrong. I talked to Lawyer Seligman himself this morning. He only works for murderers and bad people. I read about him all the time in the
P-T.
I'm just an old lady who didn't know what she was doing.”

“You've got it all wrong. He's my lawyer. I spent most of last night in a jail cell. He got me out. Listen to me. They think I did it. You and I know neither of us did.”

“Oh Charlie, I'm so sorry.”

“For what? I know you are not telling the whole truth, Betty. I know God loves you, but I know you can lie. Now Detective Amuller is going to try to use what you told him to convict me of Jeremy's murder. And Ernesto Seligman is going to try to use what you told him to prove Amuller is wrong. Mrs. Beesom, I want you to tell me what you're so sorry about—what you really know about Jeremy, and your owning his house, and I want you to tell me about Harry.”

“He's a cat.”

“No,
Harry.
The man.”

An astonished but miraculously recovered Betty Beesom rose to wrap the half of the sandwich Charlie couldn't eat in cellophane. “Don't worry, dear. I can't tell you about Harry, but I can say that he will take care of everything. It will all be just fine. I'm so relieved Mr. Seligman is not my lawyer. But Charlie, there's another problem. And it's much bigger. And I'm so sorry.”

CHAPTER 31

CHARLIE
GRILLED THE
tuna steaks in a grill pan on the stove because the on-and-off rain turned into long and steady. They propped open the kitchen door to let the fresh smell of the rain join them for dinner. She coated the steaks with Captain Iam's Sinful Seafood Seasoning and served them with steamed asparagus, strawberries, macaroni salad, French bread, and wine. Not a bad meal for a little-interest, no-talent cook.

Charlie told Larry and Libby and Edward Esterhazie about the redwood house with a red Ferrari in the garage and a man who hid when she knocked on the door. “I'll bet you anything his name is Harry.”

“Or Jonathan Phillips,” Ed said.

“Pepe and Joe at Manic's remembered a woman who could be the one I chased before the bomb went off in Jeremy's house. She'd pick him up when he left off one of the cars for repair. And I saw her and the Ferrari at the Wine Merchant this morning, went back to the redwood house, the Ferrari was still gone and the man still there.”

“You've been pretty busy for a woman who spent the night in jail,” Edward said. He was too robust and distinguished for ED. “This tuna, by the way, is excellent. I didn't know you could cook.”

“Yeah, Mom, the asparagus is even good. And it's green.”

“A secret gourmet seasoning on the tuna and dill weed in the water under the steamer for the al dente asparagus,” Charlie said smugly.

“And the macaroni salad has the classic taste of—” Larry kissed the ends of his fingers and then unpetaled them toward his fellow diners, in a burst of gastronomic pretension, “—could it be France—no, it is, I think, Hastings—Von's Deli, yes?”

“And a very good year for mayonnaise,” Charlie agreed. “After spending the night in jail, I'm stocking up on good memories.”

“Have you told Ernie Seligman about this redwood house and the woman at the Wine Merchant with Jeremy's car?” Edward wanted to know.

“My tough-case lawyer didn't want me snooping around and annoying Amuller even more. I was ordered to be a good girl and stay home and let him and the LBPD do the legwork. Seligman even questioned Mrs. Beesom. She was convinced she was the suspect reported in this morning's
P-T.
”

“Tomorrow morning, first thing, I'll go with you to this redwood house and we'll find a way to make this guy answer the front door,” Larry said and tore a piece off the crusty baguette.

“I have to take Betty to the eye doctor.”

“Tomorrow's Saturday.”

“He had a cancellation and is open on Saturday mornings and Wilma Granger still had his card I showed her and finagled an appointment for Betty and me, too.”

Betty had thought that an even worse problem for Charlie than being the suspect in Jeremy's murder. “I told her she shouldn't bother you with that now, but Wilma's just a doer, Charlie.”

“Mrs. Beesom's eyes have always been red, Mom. Does she need new glasses?”

“Charlie, far be it from me to criticize someone as altogether as you are, but have you checked the arrangement of your priorities here?” Edward asked.

“Betty Beesom knows something she's not telling and I'll have several lovely hours all alone with her on the 405 to L.A. and back to pry whatever it is from her. Trust me, it has to do with Jeremy's murder and, Libby, Mrs. Beesom has a cloudy film on her eyes called cataracts and they can be removed by laser surgery. And did you notice Edward here doesn't wear glasses anymore? Well, he had a different eye surgery that made that possible and that everyone thinks
I
should have. So Betty and I will go together to see Dr. Pearlman, and, Larry and Edward, you can visit the redwood house for me at the same time and we'll outsmart J. S. while looking innocent.”

“When did Mr. Esterhazie become Edward instead of Ed?”

“This morning just before you left for school, as I remember,” Charlie said.

Edward added, “It's one of those adult things you don't want to know about.”

Libby studied Doug Esterhazie's dad with a squint and chewed on the last spear of fresh asparagus. “It's about sex?”

Actually it was, but nobody wanted to explain erectile disfunction to Libby Abigail Greene. Especially her mother.

*   *   *

When it was impossible to avoid doctors, Charlie tended to look up those closer to work than to home because she could schedule them during their mutual working hours. So this was an L.A. doctor, and Charlie and Betty headed out on the 405 early the next morning. Charlie stopped at the drive-through for her latte and bagel just like it was a work day. Betty refused anything—she'd had her All-Bran and decaf.

“Does your mother really have a boyfriend, Charlie?”

“Apparently.”

“Well, she should. My Nathan died late enough in my life I didn't have the energy to deal with anyone else. But she was widowed awful young, too young to have to be alone.”

Apparently not as young as her boyfriend.

The fog was thick this morning after the rain last night, and even on Saturday the smoke from cars on the 405 added to it to form smog. Charlie drove with headlights on, the strong coffee gradually clearing the fog of sleep from her head.

“Oh, she's lucky to have you, Charlie. And you're lucky to have Libby. I don't have anybody. Never really wanted children. They always seemed messy and cranky and demanding, but now I know what I probably really knew then, if I'd bothered to pay attention. Children grow up to be responsible and dependable as you grow old and messy. They need you and all that attention early on, but you're going to need them and attention later on. I know it's been obvious since Jesus was born but when Jeremy came he promised he'd look after me in my old age because he didn't have a mother or children, either. And I thought everything would be all right. Then I got too nosy and the problems started. Charlie, old people can get scared and desperate, too. And the other night when you put your arm around me and said I was your friend, I felt so good. And then we found Jeremy dead.”

“What problems started, Betty, when you got nosy?”

“Nathan, he had a boy by an earlier marriage. He was quite a bit older than me—Nathan. The boy died young and Nathan split up with the mother. He didn't want another child. So here I am—old and alone.”

“You didn't answer my question, Mrs. Beesom. And who is Harry, the man?”

“Oh, there's no man, just Hairy the cat.”

“You said yesterday he would take care of everything. A cat can't do that.”

“Don't pay no attention to the ramblings of an old woman.”

“Who did you see at the memorial for Jeremy that upset you so you had to go to the hospital? Betty, I'm not just being nosy—the police think
I
killed Jeremy.”

“Have they searched your house for the gun that shot him?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Well, see, they don't really suspect you. Taking you to the jail was just to worry me into a confession.”

“Did they search your house for a gun?” This conversation was growing more strange than informative and Charlie had been concentrating on it and navigating the thick fog smog and not spilling her latte so she didn't register right away that the low little car passing her could have been red in the thick gray engulfing them, that it had the possible shape of a Ferrari and a smeared-to-indiscernible license plate, until the car disappeared into soupy air ahead. A monumental double semi passed next and demanded all her attention.

“Charlie, what happens if your hearing goes out again in this traffic and fog?”

Charlie didn't answer Betty Beesom as Betty hadn't answered her. Hardball seemed to be the only solution to the impasse here. And Charlie controlled the Toyota, if not the situation. She was reminded of her dream about the crash with the semi and Jeremy, Tuxedo and Hairy in the cab with him, when the Ferrari and the double semi appeared out of the fog soup ahead side-by-side yet again. But the car she imagined was the Ferrari pulled to the right with blinker flashing and disappeared on an off-ramp. Charlie relaxed some, finished her bagel, and took a last swig of latte.

“You know, Charlie, people younger and stronger than me take advantage of my weakness.”

“You know, Mrs. Beesom, they do me, too. Younger people take advantage of my weakness and older people take advantage of my strength. You're just part of a larger world that doesn't have a clue, either.”

“What a stupid thing to say.”

*   *   *

Charlie led Betty Beesom to the elevators in the FFUCWB of P building and punched the button for the fifth floor.

“We're gonna be early. Maybe we should of stopped for pie and coffee first.”

“This isn't the eye doctor's office. It's mine.”
And you're not going to get pie on Wilshire this early in the day.

“What'd we come here for?”

Charlie slid the pass card's magnetic strip through the slot on the agency's door to release the lock instead of answering the poor woman.

“Guess you're mad at me, huh?” Betty blinked helplessly but followed Charlie into the reception room of Congdon & Morse, Inc. rather than be left alone in the strange hallway.

“I don't like being lied to by a good Christian like yourself.” Charlie hated playing hardball with a white-haired neighbor with cataracts. But as long as Betty could convince herself she was doing Charlie no harm, she wouldn't give up her secrets.

Sometimes agents came in to catch up on off hours, but the agency sounded empty this morning. Charlie hoped Dorian Black hadn't brought in a woman, the pig.

The intestinal distress of the tiny office refrigerator, the inexorable slow drip of the faucet above the sink next to it, the huffing of the ventilation system, Mrs. Beesom's worried sniff—all made Charlie so aware of how she depended on her overachieving hearing system. Was it still that acute, or did it just seem like it compared to the unwelcome periods of total silence?

Ruby Dillon's desk was clean and perfect as usual. Charlie led Betty down the hall toward the front of the building, passing up Tracy Dewitt's cubicle and the other agents' offices to throw open Richard Morse's door and let Betty gape at the two walls of windows on the corner office, the huge desk, and leather furniture. “This is Richard's office. Mine is right next door.”

And she showed Betty into Larry's cubicle.

“Oh, this is very nice, Charlie.” The older woman tried to sound impressed. “Now we'd better get ourselves over to that doctor.”

“This is Larry's office—mine's right through here.” Charlie's message light was flashing and she thought she could smell cigarette smoke. The message was from Keegan Monroe, her most valuable client, a screenwriter with incredible credits—still in demand at thirty-five. And unfortunately in Folsom Prison. He wanted to know what she thought of the new screenplay and wanted her to know he was to appear before the parole board on Monday morning.

Great, her most valuable client was just about to get out of prison and she was just about to get into one. Charlie left Betty to be impressed by Charlie's position in the world because of her impressive office and went back to Larry's cubicle to search for Keegan's screenplay. Larry had loved it, and hidden it when the cops and Feds or whoever came to look into her computer files. Charlie knew where he hid things he didn't want found.

In the towering drop-leaf file cabinet stuffed with stuff they'd probably never get to, she looked under M. It was in the first folder. The working tide—no producer in the world would refuse to look at a full screenplay by Keegan without the usual pitch first, but rarely would they use his title, either—was
Open and Shut.