Madeline Carter - 01 - Mad Money (3 page)

Giving Los Angeles six months had felt like
a good idea. If I hated it, there were other places: my life was
portable now. Before I’d left New York I’d sold practically all my
stuff. Everything that wouldn’t fit easily into a box or suitcase.
I hadn’t had that much to begin with, but it felt good and
right
when it was mostly all gone and my life was very
light. And when Jack’s face would pop into my mind I’d push it away
and move on to the next aspect of my big, new project: my newly
revamped life. A work in progress.

I needed a place to live. The hotel was
wonderful, the perfect respite, but staying there for more than a
week or so wouldn’t be a good idea. I had enough money, but I
wouldn’t for long at four hundred a night. And I needed to think
more about what I was going to do for gainful employment. But this
was L.A. For the first time in my adult life, I needed a car.

My second day in Los Angeles I asked another
cab driver to take me to where “a lot of car lots” could be
found.

“What kind of car?” he asked.

I shrugged. I knew I didn’t want an old car,
and I wanted it silver and not terribly expensive. Beyond that, I
didn’t feel fussy.

I bought the first new, silver,
domestically-priced automobile I plunked my eyes on, quietly
delighted at the power that buying a new car without a lot of fuss
made me feel. My own magic carpet. And it was easy to rationalize
the purchase: I kept thinking that part of my Chagall had paid for
the whole vehicle. Viewed in that light, it was a good swap.

Driving myself back to the hotel wrapped in
the scent of new car, I felt positively
Californian.
Even
when I took a wrong turn off the freeway and ended up lost, I still
felt exhilarated. When you’re not in a hurry to get anywhere, even
being lost can feel like sightseeing. It’s all in the way your mind
frames a situation, that was the first thing I discovered in
L.A.

A few days later, this new, brighter frame
of mind carried me out to Malibu to meet Sal’s friend and look at
the apartment he had for rent. He’d actually called it a “guest
house” on the telephone, which I took to be localese for “really,
really cramped and small.” But he also said it had a view and
privacy and both of those things sounded good to me — as did the
price — so we set a time and I headed out to see it.

I fell in love with Malibu before I got
there. The Santa Monica Freeway very abruptly turns into Pacific
Coast Highway and, as you head north, the city falls away. The
closer I got to my destination, the more peaceful things became
until, when I started driving up Las Flores Canyon as directed, I
found myself on twisty mountain-style roads. After crowded Beverly
Hills, it was like a beautiful moonscape.

I saw the address I’d been given, but
couldn’t see a house: just sort of a widening in the road and a
post with the street address on it. I pulled over, got out. Sure
enough, there was a house there — a big one — down the cliff.
Precarious stairs led me down. Sal had told me his friend with the
Malibu house was named Tyler and that they went “way, way back.”
Nothing more. And nothing Tyler said on the phone when we set up an
appointment for me to come out prepared me. But when he opened the
door, I recognized him instantly. There are very few film directors
that the average person can identify on sight. Tyler Beckett —
director of
Spirit of the Flame
and
Thanks for
Midnight
and I don’t-know-how-many other movies — is one of
them. I would have recognized the inky hair, cheerful single
eyebrow and assertively stooped shoulders anywhere.

If he noticed me trying not to ogle him, he
was cool about it. “You’ll be Madeline,” he smiled as he took my
hand. “Sal told me to keep an eye on you out here on the big, bad
Coast.”

“That’s Sal,” I smiled back. “My
self-appointed guardian. He’s the sweetest guy. How do you two know
each other?”

“We were at Neighborhood Playhouse together.
About a million years ago, I guess.”

“Neighborhood Playhouse in New York? The
acting
school?”

Tyler laughed at my obvious amazement.
Nodded.

“Sal was an
actor
?”

“Well,” Tyler was grinning widely now.
“Let’s just say that, as an actor he was a pretty good
stockbroker.”

“Wow. Sal an actor. Bizarre.”

“I guess that’s what some of our coaches
thought, too. Poor old Sal,” he said affectionately. “I shouldn’t
talk though. I wasn’t so great on that end of things myself.”

“And you guys have stayed in touch?”

“He handles a lot of my investments. And
we’re old friends. Which is why he figured this would work out. He
knew the guest house was empty and that we have plenty of room in
the house for actual guests. Let me show you the place.”

The apartment was teeny. And perfect. Tucked
under the big deck we’d walked over to get to the stairs down to
it, the guest house was so impossibly private you would have missed
it if you didn’t know it was there.

“This used to be the governess’ apartment.
My daughter is 17 now. No governess. It’s been empty for the last
couple of years and my wife suggested we rent it if we could find
the right person. We’re gone a lot and it seemed like a good idea
to have someone around. Keep an eye on things, you know.”

I did. With a 17-year-old daughter around,
you could have problems that your security company wouldn’t be able
to handle. Having once been a 17-year-old girl myself, I knew the
game. I smiled at Tyler. “I get it: you’re hoping for a
deterrent.”

“She’s a good kid, really,” he spread his
hands helplessly. “Just some of her friends... With someone — an
adult — down here, it might keep things from getting out of
hand.”

The apartment charmed me. Four small rooms —
counting the bathroom and the closet — lead off the guest house’s
own deck, big enough for a barbecue or a lounge chair, but not
both. The front door brought you into a tiny living room — the
kitchen little more than an alcove in one corner — which opened
into the bedroom which opened into a closet. The rooms were small,
but the view was huge. Each room, even the closet, had
floor-to-ceiling windows. The house was perched above Las Flores
Canyon and what you saw from the apartment, was — literally — a
bird’s eye view. It made you feel as if you were soaring.

“I love it,” I said, drinking the view.

Tyler smiled, “And you haven’t even seen the
bathroom.”

“There’s a bathroom?” I joked, following
him. It was right next to the entrance. When the door to the
apartment was open, the bathroom door was hidden, which was how I’d
missed it. Though as small as the rest of the place, the bathroom
was charming, with a clawfoot tub and a pedestal sink. I could
imagine candles lit around the room, a glass of wine balanced on
the edge of the tub and me looking like a glamourpuss from an old
movie, bubbles up to my armpits and a satisfied smirk on my
face.

“Now I love it even more. And I’d like to
take it but, to be honest with you, I’m not anything like a
baby-sitter. I like kids OK, but I haven’t spent a lot of time
around them.”

“Oh, no,” he assured me. “We’re not looking
for anything that...” he hesitated, looking for a word,
“pro-active. We were just hoping to find someone responsible —
someone we know something about, obviously — to be around. Like you
said,” he grinned engagingly, “a deterrent.”

I grinned back. “I can do that.”

“Sal told me you worked with him until
recently. He didn’t tell me how.”“I’m... I’m in stocks.” The
hesitation surprised me, though it shouldn’t have. I was in the
middle of redefining myself.

“A stockbroker?” he asked.

“I was. Until recently. I’m not
anymore.”

Tyler looked at me speculatively. He had
kind eyes so it wasn’t an uncomfortable feeling. “You’re a day
trader?” he asked, as though this would be the most natural thing
in the world. I shook my head — no — but I could feel something
inside me taking root, growing, but if Tyler saw me hesitate, he
gave no sign. “And the stuff about being a deterrent didn’t scare
you?”

“Naw,” I replied. “Seems like a good idea,
actually. And it seems to me that you’re looking for someone who
looks grownup enough that they won’t party with your offspring, but
who also looks as though they can stand up for themselves.” It had
occurred to me that, since the deck was above me, any partying that
went on would be directly above my head. I mentioned this, as
well.

Tyler smiled. “I think you’ll fit the bill
pretty well. So, if none of what I’ve said scares you,” he
hesitated and I shook my head, “I think you’ve found yourself a
room with a view.”

Tyler had me fill out a rental agreement, I
wrote him a check and, even though it was more than a week until
the end of the month, Tyler said I could move right in. “It’s empty
anyway.” And so I did. Right after I did some shopping.

The nice thing about living in a small place
is that you don’t need a lot to fill it. The bed was built into an
alcove along one wall, so I only needed a mattress. I bought a
dresser. A small wood dining table and two chairs filled the
kitchen and overflowed into the living room. A couple of tall
stools would give me a place to have breakfast or make phone calls
at the back of the kitchen counter. I bought a Metropolitan Opera
poster for
Die Zoberflötte
featuring a reproduction of
The Magic Flute
by Marc Chagall. I had always loved this
image: an angel playing music for, perhaps, all of the animals in
Eden. It was peaceful, colorful, cheerful. And since beautifully
framed and matted it cost me less than two hundred bucks, it was a
bit of a personal joke. The rare and beautiful early etching had
brought me $25,000, but reflected something no longer real to me.
Same artist, different phase. For both of us. I liked the way that
felt as much as I enjoyed the color the poster added to the
room.

I got a big desk and placed it in front of
the living room window: I’d be able to watch the world while I
worked. I got a big computer to put on the desk. The very same kind
I’d had in the office in New York. It seemed like the right way to
go. I got myself a comfy office chair. All these purchases made
something clear to me: though I had yet to acknowledge a plan to
myself, it certainly seemed to include some serious work.

I had just taken delivery of the last piece
of furniture — the dresser — and was celebrating how nice
everything looked by stretching out on the bed and alternately
looking around the apartment and looking at the view, when I heard
a loud snuffling. It sounded to me like a badger closing in on its
prey. I pulled my duvet over me and listened. And didn’t hear it
again, though I listened hard. I relaxed: it must have been my
imagination. And just as I felt the tension begin to drain out of
my body, I heard it again. Not imagination. And louder this time.
Closer. Inside my apartment, I was sure.

Instinct squeezed my eyes shut, accelerated
the pounding of my heart. I was going to die here in my new
apartment, with my books and my clothes still unpacked. My phone
wasn’t even connected yet.

The snuffling got louder. Closer. Fetid
breath touched my face.

I chided myself for my cowardice. If I was
going to die here, eaten by some strange and exotic beast, the
least I could do was fight back or, better still, make an attempt
to run. I opened my eyes to find another set of eyes looking back
at me. Kind, amber canine eyes. And the opening of my eyes caused a
tail to wag.

And then a feminine voice, outside. “Tycho?
Tycho! Get back here.”

“He’s in here,” I croaked, relief still
flooding my body, but not quite relinquishing its hold. A dog. Only
a dog.

A girl poked her head into my room just as I
managed to pull myself to a sitting position. She looked 15 going
on 24 — smooth pale mahogany hair, well cut chin, carefully tweezed
eyebrows and familiar blue eyes — I had no trouble guessing her
identity.

“Ohmigawd! Tycho, you bad boy.” And then to
me, “He knows he’s not supposed to be in here. You big goof,” she
petted his head affectionately. “I’m Jennifer Beckett. Tyler is my
dad.”

“Hi Jennifer, I’m Madeline.”

“I know. What a welcome. Did he scare
you?”

I nodded, reddening slightly.

“Sorry. He likes it in here for some reason.
And I don’t think anyone that’s ever lived here has liked him. He’s
a little scary looking.”

I looked at him more closely now that I knew
he wasn’t a feral animal. I saw that the girl was right: the dog
was
a little scary looking. And big. Very big. About 120
pounds, with a coat like an abused brillo pad and ears that looked
like they wanted to be erect, but couldn’t quite make it.

“I guess he
does
look sorta scary,” I
admitted aloud, less embarrassed in the face of Jennifer’s
friendliness. “I thought... I thought he was a badger. Before I saw
him, I mean. I heard him.”

Jennifer scratched the dog’s back and he
snuffled again, appreciably this time, then shook his back leg
comically. “He’s just a big silly, but he’s harmless. Unless you’re
a rock lizard.”

“What’s a rock lizard?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Jennifer replied,
absently petting the dog’s head. “I don’t think they’re actually
called rock lizards. But they’re little lizards and they live in
the rocks on the cliffs next to the house. When it’s warm, they
come out and sun themselves. And then dufus here catches them, if
he’s quick and they’re old.”

“Yuck.”

She nodded agreement. “Pretty much.”

“Why Tycho?”

Jennifer rolled her eyes. “Because my dad
thinks he’s
so
funny. The whole story is just too, too dad.
You’ll have to ask him about it because I don’t tell it right. See,
he’s named for some philosopher guy who exploded at a dinner
party.”