Killer Commute (24 page)

Charlie tucked it under her arm and tried the door of the office next to hers. To her astonishment, it opened. The air here reeked of cigarette smoke and the hole drilled through the wall this office shared with hers was much larger than a peephole now. It was large enough to stick a hand through and move A. E. Mous's poster aside. But the office of the mysterious silent partner. Daniel Congdon, was empty.

CHAPTER 32

“I
HAD NO
idea you were such an important person, Charlie. Your office is so grand. And you don't even have to do Mr. Morse's typewriting and answer his phone.”

The whole idea of taking Betty to the office had been to force her to face the fact that Charlie had a real-world job, and Betty's hiding the truth from herself away in her age-cocoon wouldn't work in the real world. Or something like that.

After Dr. Pearlman had assured them both their vision could be restored by the magic laser, Betty began to revert into her self-protective fantasy self again, so Charlie decided to blow Betty away with a lunch at the Celebrity Pit. Shake her up again.

Well, the poor woman's stomach was growling and she'd had no pie for a snack this morning. It had been a long time since her All-Bran and, as Charlie understood it, the purpose of that breakfast was that it passed through rather quickly.

Mrs. Beesom sat speechless over her iced tea—a large glass, it had taken five sugar packets to make it potable. The poor woman was puffing—too much walking for her age bracket here, even though so far most of it had been down stairs because the escalator had brought them up.

Charlie ordered herself the special and Betty the crêpes—the closest thing to pie here. And herself a glass of wine.

“Oh, do you think you should? You have to drive us all the way to Long—is that Charlton Heston up there?”

“I think he's a plant.”

“No, the man sitting in front of that window. He's talking to the woman across the table. Plants can't talk.”

Betty's first course was a crêpe filled with steamed vegetables, but saved by a rich hollandaise sauce. Betty was not overly fond of vegetables, but cooked beat raw any day. Warmed-up canned was even better. Charlie's first course was a leafy salad. And the French bread with real butter didn't hurt, either, but the crust was too hard for Betty to chew.

“You know, I don't think Jeremy was shot at all,” Charlie said to get the conversation back to the particulars.

“But all that blood, Charlie.”

“Could have been a stab wound. I never saw him when he was turned over.”

“But from the picture of him in the paper—it was Jeremy.”

“Oh yes, but if he'd been shot we'd have smelled it in the car and probably on Hairy. And they'd have checked both of us for gun-powder residue on our hands.”

“So what are they up to, do you think?”

“Trying to get me to slip up, probably.” Like I'd like to get you to. “What do you suppose Jeremy meant by warning you to ‘watch out for Harry,' Mrs. Beesom, when he warned us all of something different the other night?”

“Probably thought the cat fights in the middle of the night would startle me into a heart attack.”

The second course for Betty was two turkey-and-potato crêpes with another rich sauce even Charlie couldn't pronounce but Betty was astonished to find could not have a Campbell's Soup base.

“You lied about not knowing you owned Jeremy's house, didn't you, Betty?”

“Told me once he'd take care of me. Guess that's what he meant. Wasn't what I meant.”

“Do you also know where he kept his money?”

“In a bank, I suppose, like everybody else.”

“So he was paying taxes on the house for you and you didn't know it.”

“It was sort of a trust. But the trust could pay the taxes. The designated payee doesn't have to be the owner—like the bills on a rental are sent to the landlord's address.”

Charlie had no idea if this was possible without Betty signing something. But this whole thing seemed so illegal and screwed up she wouldn't doubt it.

Betty's dessert crêpes were stuffed with cherries and blueberries in a crème she described as a burnt-sugar custard. Charlie was getting stuffed watching her eat it. How could someone that small, who mostly sat, eat all that rich food? Charlie hadn't been able to finish the dinner salad and artichoke soup.

When the imposter coffee-pourer automatically poured them each a cup of coffee, Charlie was about to warn Betty it wasn't decaf but Betty interrupted with, “My dear Jesus, Charlie, it's him, Mitch Hilsten, your—”

“No, it's not. And Betty, that coffee isn't—”

“Yes, it is—him,” the lookalike said and handed Charlie the check with a wink. He was fairly convincing, but too young—his teeth perfect because of an orthodontist instead of capped, and his blue eyes were just blue, not powder blue.

“Things is so bad he's waiting tables? You said he was doing very good.”

“Betty, this whole place is a setup—a campy—these-people-are-all-fakes-pretending-to-be—Betty?”

“What, Charlie? You're looking pale all of a sudden—must be the wine. It's not your ears again, is it? We got to get home somehow.” Betty was so frightened she looked pale, too, drank down all the coffee, and didn't even notice the famous heartthrob, Mitch Hilsten, refilling her cup before he picked up Charlie's credit card.

“No, it's—I think I've figured out what I've been trying to tell myself half the week. Why do I never listen to me?”

By the time Charlie excused herself for a run to the bathroom and Betty Beesom had downed a third cup of very strong, rich coffee, Charlie'd formed a strategy for their trip home. She just hoped the poor Toyota could handle it.

*   *   *

“Charlie, dear, I'm so happy my eyes can be fixed.”

“I am, too, Betty. Are you feeling all right?”

“Oh yes, it was a wonderful dinner. Lunch. Lunch is what I meant—oh you're driving too fast, aren't you? And too close to that truck?”

“Settle down. I got you here, didn't I? I'll get you home. You're so jumpy. Tell me more about Jeremy. Where did you say you met him?”

“Wish you hadn't had that glass of wine. It's not safe for you to be driving now, Charlie.”

Charlie swerved suddenly, not to frighten the old woman as she'd meant to but because at that moment she noticed the red Ferrari behind them. No fog or smog or double semi to give her doubts this time. How long had it been following them?

“Jeremy came over to take the second house finished on my lot—I had rights on the first.”

“Is that when you learned he would care for you in your old age and that his house would be yours when he died?” It was
a
red Ferrari, not necessarily
the
red Ferrari.

“That's why the police think I killed him, and not that you did.”

“And when did the trouble start because of your nosiness?”

“I didn't like him having those snotty young girls sleeping at his house. I told him so, too. That's when the trouble started.”

“Betty, you didn't have to be nosy to notice he had young girls at his house.”

“Charlie, I have to find a bathroom. And soon.”

*   *   *

It was clear and warm that evening and Charlie warmed up the deli ribs for them to eat outside. She sent Doug for beans at the diner. Libby worked tonight, so it was the Esterhazies and Larry and Maggie. Maggie brought the salad greens and strawberries, Charlie put out the deli potato salad. They sat outside talking low so as not to disturb a very disturbed eighty-three-year-old woman with cataracts and some serious secrets.

Larry and Edward had found the redwood house, but no red Ferrari and no man. There had been a female figure lurking, ducking, and hiding inside this time. Obviously reluctant to answer the door.

“That could be because the Ferrari was following us,” Charlie said, “and there's only one way its driver could have known our destination. I think he was thrown off by our route, which was a problem with his source.”

“Mrs. Beesom?” Maggie Stutzman shook her head. “I'm sorry, Charlie, but I've known her longer than you have. Longer than I've known you—and I have a problem believing that old woman would—”

“Did she really pee in your car?” Doug Esterhazie didn't seem convinced, either.

“Doug, you've never had coffee at the Celebrity Pit and then gotten on the 405. Trust me.”

“And she talked?” Larry asked.

“She talked some. And the red Ferrari turned off to go to Dr. Pearlman's, unaware that I was going to the office first. But he picked us up again there and followed us to the Pit and all the way here until we turned off the 405 because the driver knew where we lived.”

“Went home to the redwood house and the woman with the socks.”

“Exactly.”

“Did you get a look at the driver?”

“No, but I'm assuming it's the guy who lives in the redwood house—Harry or Jonathon, especially since you saw the woman there today. But I suppose it's possible that more than two people live in that house with Jeremy's Ferrari.”

“I suggest we have coffee and wait awhile before revisiting that house,” Edward said.

“Larry, I took Betty to the agency and picked up Keegan's script. I wanted to show her I had a real life beyond her impression of my life here.”

“You wanted her to know you were an important person who had much to lose if she didn't give up her secrets.”

“Right. But the door to Daniel Congdon's office was unlocked and the room reeked of cigarette smoke.”

“Sounds like
The X-Files,
” Maggie said.

“Charlie's life so often does,” Edward Concrete pointed out.

“That's true.”

“And when I asked Richard about it the other day,” Charlie ignored them, “he essentially said, ‘You don't want to go there.' What do you think's going on?”

“Sounds like the Evan Black project,
Paranoia Will Destroy Ya.
”

“The one Mitch Hilsten's making in Spain—where they blow up Las Vegas?” Maggie managed to grab a remaining strawberry before Doug noticed it.

Larry nodded. “Made with big money smuggled out of the country with no deductions by the IRS. Therefore funny money. Because the agency handles Black, our records have been looked into most carefully. Especially Charlie's. And I heard
Paranoia
has wrapped.”

“They're also desperate to find out how Jeremy could disappear in cyberspace.”

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Doug said, finishing up the last of the leftovers. “I got to diddling around on the computer this afternoon again and came up with four accounts closed out to a Jeremy Beesom, one to a Nathan Beesom, and two to a Harry Beesom. All closed out the same day as Fiedler Enterprises and Beach Enterprises—the day Fiedler died over there.”

The sea breeze clicked the sword fronds of Betty Beesom's sentry palm in the quiet that settled abruptly on this tiny portion of Belmont Shore.

“You almost forgot?” Charlie rasped finally.

“Yeah, see last time I stopped at Betty Beesom and didn't go on with the Beesoms because I was looking for a Phillips and a Fiedler. Oh, there was also a Jonathan Beesom, closed three accounts the same day. All with different brokerages. If I understand the abbreviations, these were all cashed in for cash. Wouldn't the IRS be looking for these guys? Those accounts were all way over ten thousand. Of course it all takes a while to work through the system.”

“It could have been going on longer than just the last few days,” Charlie said thoughtfully. “There must be a lot of it, a whole lot. But what made you look under Beesom?”

“I didn't, but I thought why not do a search on just Jeremy—one word? That's when I came up with Beesom, so I did a search on just Beesom. Duh.”

CHAPTER 33

T
HERE WAS NO
one home at the redwood house, not even the Ferrari. Charlie, Ed, and Larry snooped around the best they could hoping they wouldn't alert neighbors to call them in as prowlers. A dim lamp lit one bedroom enough to expose signs of some serious packing going on.

“It's Saturday night. Maybe they went out to dinner,” Larry whispered. “We could park up the street and wait for a car to pull in here.”

“Maggie's out with Mel and Doug's meeting friends. That leaves Betty home alone. I don't like it. I've got a hunch we could find the Ferrari faster at my place.”

“Why is it when I have a whole idea and you just have a hunch, we act on your hunch?” Larry asked as they hurried back to his Bronco. They'd decided Ed's Porsche would stand out, and Charlie's Toyota had been hanging around this neighborhood too much already.

But when they reached the compound it was not a red Ferrari that greeted them. Instead, an ambulance with all lights flashing backed into the street.

“Ohmygod, another bomb. Please, not poor Betty this time.” Charlie was the first to reach Clayton Melbourne, who was bringing a shaking hand with a shaking cigarette to his face. He leaned against Maggie's Subaru, his car parked in Jeremy's place. “What's happened now? Is Betty all right?”

“It's Maggie. Oh, Charlie, I'm so glad you're here. I can't tolerate hospitals. You have to go to her. She's at Memorial.”

He and Maggie were on their way to his apartment when Maggie insisted on returning home for something she'd forgotten. He'd parked and she'd run in. When she came out, she was clutching her chest. “She's had a heart attack, Charlie.”

Charlie asked Larry and Edward to check on Mrs. Beesom, grabbed Maggie's purse out of Mel's car, and ran into her own house for Keegan Monroe's script. This looked to be a long night.

*   *   *

The frantic staff in the emergency room as much as told Charlie to go climb a tree, until she found someone who would stand still or stay off the phone long enough for her to explain she had the insurance information for a Margaret Mildred Stutzman who'd just been delivered by ambulance.