Night Night, Sleep Tight (22 page)

Chapter 40

T
he cemetery and funeral chapel were just minutes away. The limousine turned in through a driveway between buildings. Hidden behind them was an oasis of green lawn and flowers, a true secret garden that was Westwood Memorial Park. The limo pulled up in front of the path to the chapel. Its sides were lined with benches, tidy flower beds, and shrubs clipped into perfect circles and domes. It struck Deirdre how much effort had gone into controlling the outdoor space—ironic, given that death was so not something that humans could control.

The three of them got out of the car. Deirdre hooked her arm in Henry’s, held her crutch in her free hand, and started up the path, through the misty rain, thick with cigarette smoke and crowded with umbrellas.

Arthur would have been pleased by the size of the crowd that overflowed the narrow A-framed chapel. Gloria embraced a man in a dark suit who greeted her and drew her over into a group. Among them, Deirdre recognized Vera, Sy’s secretary. Deirdre waved, but she didn’t follow. She had a mission, to get out the word that her father had written a memoir, that it had survived the fire, and that it was in Sy Sterling’s office even as Sy was in the hospital recovering from being attacked.

It felt awkward at first, approaching people she recognized from the parties her parents had thrown, people who’d come over to dinner. “Yes, it’s very sad. And so unexpected,” she said, trying her story out first on Milton Breen and his wife, Anne. He’d been a screenwriter, now a director, who had a house with a pool up in the canyon. Arthur and Gloria had taken Deirdre and Henry there to swim before they built a pool of their own. “And then on top of everything else,” Deirdre added, “the garage caught fire and we lost all the papers Dad had up in his office. Fortunately we were able to save his memoir. In it, he sets the record straight.” She added, even though it sounded a bit lame, “I left the manuscript in Sy’s office for safekeeping.”

The Breens didn’t ask which record got set straight. When she ran the same tape by Lee Golden and a man Lee introduced as another set designer, the reaction was more one of surprise. A little glee, perhaps, at whose secrets might be revealed.

As Deirdre worked her way through the crowd, she noted how each of Arthur’s friends reacted to her announcement that Arthur had written a memoir. To one and all, she added that Sy would be handling its publication as soon as he was released from the hospital.

A blond woman Deirdre didn’t recognize put her hand on Deirdre’s arm and air kissed both her cheeks. Along with the kisses came a familiar blast of rose and jasmine mixed with musk. Probably Joy. “Deirdre darling, I was so sorry to hear about your dad,” she said. The voice Deirdre knew: this was once-upon-a-time brunette Marianne Wasserman, her high school’s queen bee. “You haven’t changed a bit,” Marianne added.

Deirdre wondered how Marianne could tell since Deirdre had on a coat and head scarf and sunglasses. The crutch, probably. “Marianne,” she said. “It’s so sweet of you to come.”

“You remember Nancy Kellogg?” Marianne said, indicating the woman standing behind her. Deirdre never would have recognized the once-chunky redhead who was now a blonde, too, and skeletal.

Deirdre slapped down the bitchy voice in her head. It was nice of the two of them to show up, even if they hadn’t known her father at all and even if they hadn’t seen or talked to Deirdre since high school.

Nancy gave Deirdre’s hand a wooden shake. “We thought Joelen might be here,” she said, rising up on her toes and looking around.
We.
That made Deirdre smile. Apparently she and Marianne were still attached at the hip.

“Oh, there’s Henry,” Marianne said. “Hi!” She waved at Henry, who was on his way over to join them.

“Joelen Nichol,” Deirdre said. As Henry joined the group she shot him a look that she hoped conveyed
don’t contradict me
. “Gosh. I haven’t heard from Joelen in ages. No, I doubt very much that she’ll be here. But you are, so you never know.”

“Hello, Henry,” Nancy said.

Henry colored slightly
.
“We should go in,” he said. “Come on. Let’s get out of the rain. The service is supposed to start soon.”

Henry started to pull Deirdre up the path to the chapel. Deirdre waggled her fingers at Marianne and Nancy and mouthed
See you,
even though she knew that was unlikely
.
“Sounds like they know you,” she said to Henry under her breath.

“Knew me. Briefly. Nancy wanted to be in pictures.”

“Polaroid pictures?”

Henry chuckled. “I told you, I was an asshole. Where’s Mom?”

Turned out Gloria was already inside. She was sitting in the front row, which was cordoned off for family. Mourners had already filled about half the chairs in the chapel. Some Deirdre recognized as family friends. Others anyone would recognize. Gene Kelly. Ernest Borgnine. Ray Bolger. They’d all worked with her dad.

As Henry walked Deirdre down the aisle, simple piano chords accompanied Ella Fitzgerald’s sweet, silvery voice on the sound system. “With a Song in My Heart.” Deirdre’s eyes teared up. She’d helped pick the music.

Henry walked her up to the casket. Deirdre ran her hand lightly over its smooth coffered lid. The words
I’m sorry
echoed in her head
.
For blaming him all these years. For not accepting him for the complicated human being he was. For not getting down off her high horse, as he’d have put it, and just enjoying their time together. And for what she was about to do: run out on his funeral service. She knew it wasn’t respectful, but respect had never been her father’s strong suit either. Besides, she was sure he wouldn’t have wanted whoever killed him to get away with it.

She sat between Henry and her mother. A movie screen was set up in the front of the chapel. When she turned to look behind her again, the rows had filled and people were standing at the back. Frank Sinatra was on the sound system now, crooning about how he’d done it
my way
. Her father might have argued with that choice—he’d always said Sinatra was a thug and a bully. But the lyrics were perfect for a man who, facing the final curtain, would have thought he’d been king.

A little while later, the lights dimmed in the chapel and the hum of voices went silent. The screen at the front of the room lit up with the words
ARTH
UR UNGER 1926–1985
,
white lettering on a royal-blue ground. There was a long pause to allow stragglers to file in, and then the back doors shut and the slides began. First was a stiff, old-world portrait of Arthur as a baby in his bearded father’s arms, surrounded by his mother and three older brothers. Then, Arthur sitting on the front stoop of a New York City brownstone with one of his brothers. Arthur, handsome and muscled in bathing trunks at a pool where he’d spent summers as a lifeguard and sometime emcee at a resort in the Poconos. As a bridegroom in a dark suit, Gloria in a tailored suit, too, carrying a bouquet of roses. Both of them looked impossibly young and handsome and—Deirdre tried to find the right word—tentative.

Silence, piano chords, and Nat King Cole’s smoky voice began singing. “Unforgettable”
. . .
Her father would have found the choice entirely too mushy, but it was Deirdre’s cue. She made sure that her scarf and sunglasses were secure and leaned over to her mother and then to Henry. “I’ll be right back,” she told each of them. Without waiting for a response, she grabbed her crutch and made her way to the back of the chapel.

With her sunglasses on and the lights low, the audience was pretty much a sea of indistinct faces. But when Deirdre pushed into the lobby where it was brighter, she recognized the one person still out there: Detective Martinez. She appreciated that he was keeping a respectful distance from the mourners, and fortunately he was preoccupied writing some notes and didn’t notice her until she was nearly to the ladies’ room.

“Miss Unger?” She heard his voice as the restroom door closed behind her.

The white-and-blue Mexican-tiled room with gleaming brass fixtures was empty. No one stood at the sinks. No feet were visible under the doors to the stalls. Music from the service was muted but still audible.

Deirdre really did need to pee. While she was in the stall, she heard the door to the room creak open. Deirdre raised her feet so they weren’t visible. It wouldn’t be Detective Martinez. All he had to do was wait for her to reemerge. She hoped it wasn’t Marianne Wasserman, concerned as she was about Deirdre’s mental status.

Then she heard a woman’s voice. “Zelda?”

“Thalia?” Deirdre lowered her feet. “Hang on.”

“There you are,” Joelen said when Deirdre opened the stall door. “How do I look?” She turned around to show off a tan raincoat over a short black dress. Her hair was done up in a French twist. She turned her toes out and gave the black umbrella she was holding a Charlie Chaplin twirl.

“Perfect,” Deirdre said. “But better when you’re wearing this.” Deirdre took off her coat and gave it to Joelen. Joelen took off hers and they swapped. Deirdre unwound her scarf and tied it around Joelen’s head. Dropped her sunglasses into the pocket of the coat that Joelen was now wearing.

“Thanks for sending Tyler over to get me,” Joelen said. “He’s pretty cute, though I can’t say I remember him.”

“Well, he remembers you.”

Joelen smiled. “Story of my life, but never with a happy ending.”

“So far.”

Joelen opened up her large black leather handbag and pulled out a blond wig. Deirdre took it from her, shook it out, and started to put it on her head.

“Wait. First you need to put this on.” Joelen took out a net cap with banded edges. She snapped it over Deirdre’s curls, then tucked in stray strands of hair, just like in a bathing cap.

Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra were playing on the sound system now, singing a soused duet and proclaiming
What a swell party this is
. That meant the slide show was past its midpoint.

“Hurry up,” Deirdre said, “before they send someone in looking for me.”

“Don’t have a cow. Hold still.” Joelen eased the wig over the cap and tugged it a bit sideways, then back the other way. “There. Done.” She stood back and assessed.

Deirdre turned to face the mirror and considered her own reflection. Blond bangs and shoulder-length curls framed her face.

“How do you like it?” Joelen said. “Seriously, you should consider going blond.”

“I look like me with a wig on.”

“That’s because you know you.” Joelen got out a comb and teased some of the hair on top, then smoothed it all around with her hands. “There. Fabulous.”

Deirdre looked into Joelen’s reflected eyes. Suddenly she was right back in Joelen’s bathroom, sitting on the fluffy pink fur-covered stool and watching Joelen do her hair and makeup for Bunny’s party, just hours before both of their worlds imploded.

“What?” Joelen said.

“Why did you confess if you didn’t do it?”

Joelen’s eyes widened. “I thought you wanted me to hurry and get back in there.”

“Was it to protect your mom? Or my brother?”

After a few beats of silence, Joelen gave a tired laugh. “Does it matter at this point?”

“I don’t know. It might. What if what happened twenty-two years ago isn’t finished playing out? What if my father’s murder is connected to what happened to Tito?” Deirdre turned to face Joelen. “So please, did you kill him?”

Joelen shook her head. She put her finger to her lips. “
Shhh,
don’t tell anyone.” She paused. “Did you?”

“Did I . . . ?” For a moment Deirdre was too shocked to even form a response. “Are you kidding? You’re telling me that you don’t know who did it?”

“Let’s just say I wasn’t sorry he got killed and I’m not sorry I confessed.” She glanced toward the door and lowered her voice. “I thought I was protecting my mother. It worked out. I only wish that had put an end to it.”

Before Deirdre could ask
Put an end to what?,
she heard a familiar piano introduction, then horns, then Louis Armstrong. “Oh, Lawd, I’m on My Way.” They’d picked it not for the lyrics but because her father loved it, and because it was so deeply sad and hopeful at the same time, and because if her father had had his druthers, he’d have wanted a jazz funeral procession that stopped traffic and marched right down the middle of Avenue of the Stars in Century City, once a back lot of the studio where he’d done his finest work.

The song was the last in the medley accompanying the slide show and Deirdre’s cue to get going. “Here. Take my crutch,” Deirdre said, and gave it to Joelen.

Joelen gave Deirdre a pair of oversized white-rimmed sunglasses and a black umbrella. Deirdre put on the glasses and gripped the umbrella handle—flat instead of a hook. She took a few tentative steps, using it like a cane. The tip, with its corklike rubber fitting, didn’t slip on the tile floor.

“Looking good,” Joelen said, tightening Deirdre’s head scarf around her own head and putting on Deirdre’s sunglasses.

“Front row, second seat in on the left,” Deirdre said. “Break a leg.”

“You break a leg, too,” Joelen said, giving Deirdre a hug. “Be careful, okay?” She took Deirdre’s crutch and, faking a limp that made her look like Quasimodo, started for the door. “Too much?” she asked over her shoulder.

“Yeah. Dial it back, just a smidge.”

Chapter 41

D
eirdre cracked open the restroom door just in time to catch a glimpse of Detective Martinez following Joelen into the chapel. So far so good. As soon as he was gone, she hurried through the lobby and outside. The umbrella made a surprisingly serviceable substitute for her crutch.

The limousine met her as she reached the end of the walkway. Its front passenger door swung open. She got in. Tyler reached across her and pulled the door shut. “Everything okay?”

Deirdre took off Joelen’s sunglasses and dropped them in her coat pocket. “So far so good.”

Tyler pulled out into the street and headed back toward Westwood Village. “You were right, by the way. There’s no record of a new warrant to search your house. And there’s nothing in the West LAPD blotter about any mugging yesterday in or near your lawyer’s office building.”

“You don’t think Detective Martinez was ordered up from Central Casting, too?” Deirdre said hopefully.

“No. He’s real. And very competent.”

Minutes later, they were double-parked in front of Sy’s office. “Your car’s up on the second level,” Tyler said, offering Deirdre her car keys. “Why won’t you tell me what you’re doing? Maybe I can help.”

“I’m not
doing
anything. I’m just waiting to see who shows up. I’ll be invisible.”

“Invisible?” He sounded skeptical. “Why do you have to do this alone?”

“I just do.” Sure, something could go wrong. She was willing to put herself at risk. She wasn’t willing to risk putting yet another person, someone she cared about, in danger. Her thoughtless actions had already harmed Sy. And she wasn’t about to go to the police. Not yet, anyway. She was already considered a suspect, and as Sy said, once they had a suspect they did their job and built a case. “Besides, you need to go back for Gloria and Henry, and to rescue Joelen if it turns out she needs rescuing.”

“Here.” Tyler gave her a slip of paper. “This is the number of the car phone in this rig. Promise you’ll call if you need backup. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

Deirdre leaned across and kissed Tyler on the cheek. “Thanks.” She got out of the car and entered the building, then turned and watched as Tyler pulled the limo away from the curb and drove off. Then she turned back. Centered herself. Reviewed her plan.

First thing she’d do would be to go into Sy’s office, unlock the drawer, take out the envelope she’d left in it, and put it on top of the desk in plain sight. Then she’d settle into the closet and wait. She’d photograph, not confront, whoever came. Wait until the person was gone so she could safely emerge from hiding. Develop the snapshots, take her evidence to Sy, and together they’d bring it to the police.

Deirdre started up the stairs. The tip of the umbrella thumped each time it connected with the glazed tile floor. She was halfway down the second-floor hallway when she froze. The door to Sy’s law office was ajar. Someone was already there.

She tucked the umbrella under her arm and used the wall for support so she could approach the door silently. The door hadn’t been broken in, so whoever it was knew how to pick a lock and disable an alarm. She stood very still, just outside in the hall, listening for sounds. Footsteps. A cough. Anything that would tip her off to whether the person was still there.

She crept closer. Nudged the door open a bit more. It was dark in Vera’s outer office. No one was in the room. But the door connecting to Sy’s office was open. Creeping even closer, Deirdre heard a thump. The sound of a drawer being slammed shut? She fought the urge to flee. Instead, she forced herself to push the hall door open a bit wider. The hinge squeaked and she pulled back, waiting for someone to emerge. When no one did, she slipped inside, crossed the room, and closed herself in the supply closet.

She waited, her heart banging in her chest, afraid that any moment she’d be discovered. But still, there was silence.

Through the gaps between the louvers in the closet door, Sy’s office looked empty, too. But now she heard a shuffling sound. Footsteps? She felt for the camera she’d left on the shelf and took it down.

A black shadow crossed directly in front of her. Deirdre reared back, banging her head against a shelf. The person had been moving fast and was backlit. She’d have to wait—

The phone rang.

Deirdre aimed the camera at the desk where the light on the telephone was blinking. She looked through the viewfinder.

The phone rang again. The figure came back into her field of vision, moving away from her toward the desk. A man.

Click.
She took a picture.

The man picked up the phone. After a pause, he said, “I know.”
Click.
Deirdre’s grip tightened around the camera and she took picture after picture of the man’s back, the camera whirring after each click.

He sat in the desk chair. “It’s not here,” he said.
Eets not hyere.
Deirdre froze. She knew this man’s voice. This was no intruder. It was Sy, sitting at his own desk in his own office. He must have been released early from the hospital.

Deirdre didn’t want to pop out of the closet and startle him. That was all he needed with his cracked ribs and concussion. So she crept from the closet, through Vera’s office, and continued out into the hall. Pretending she’d just arrived, she rapped at the outer office door with the umbrella handle and called out, “Hello?” When Sy didn’t answer, she rapped again and started through Vera’s office to the open connecting door. “Anybody here?”

She entered Sy’s office. He was still at his desk, now talking heatedly into the phone. When he paused, Deirdre came up behind him. “Sy?”

Startled, he swiveled to face her and did a double take. “Deirdre?”

“I didn’t expect you to be here,” she said, taking off her wig and the cap underneath it and shaking out her hair.

In a quiet voice, Sy said into the receiver, “I have to go.” After a brief silence, he added, “I will let you know.” He hung up the phone, leaned back in his chair, and gave Deirdre a wry smile.

It took a moment to register. No bandage around Sy’s head. No stitches down the side of his face. No blood in his eye. He rubbed his chin, his pinkie ring catching the light. “Tests were all coming back normal. I told them I had enough. All those tubes and wires—too much for bumps and bruises.”

Bumps and bruises that had miraculously vanished. Deirdre followed Sy’s gaze to the foot of the deer antler coat rack. There sat a bulky briefcase that hadn’t been there an hour ago. It was the same one that Sy had brought over to her father’s house, the one from which he’d pulled her father’s will, the one that had supposedly been stolen when he was attacked.

“The police recovered it,” Sy said, answering the question Deirdre hadn’t asked.

“Really?” Deirdre wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe that Sy thought he’d been mugged. That he was here in the office because he was a tough guy who’d lost patience with overcautious caregivers. That, throughout her father’s life and even after his death, Sy was still her father’s best friend, the surrogate uncle who’d always been there for her and Henry and always would be. “Did they catch the guy?”

“No, but they found my briefcase”—and there was just a heartbeat of hesitation, Sy’s tell—“just around the corner in a Dumpster.”

Sure they did. Deirdre leaned against the desk, feeling sick. Because there beside Sy was the envelope she’d locked in the drawer, the title scrawled across it in black marker. It had been torn open, and the blank sheets of paper that she’d tucked inside were strewn across the desktop.