Not A Girl Detective (17 page)

146

S U S A N

K A N D E L

Crawford and Betty Grable among his clients, Star

Shoes was a better place than most to park your vehicle, at least for some of us. And now even Lael—level-headed Lael—had crossed over to the dark side.

“Those are awful,” she proclaimed, pointing to a pair of two-toned Mary Janes in the display case opposite

us. “And these are my rejects,” she said, indicating the mess on the floor.

“Fine work,” said Bridget.

I tore my attention away from the Jetsonsesque light

fixtures, which reminded me of the ones in our dining room in Asbury Park. “Speaking of work, exactly how

long has Andrew been out sick?”

“I don’t remember,” said Bridget, turning back to her tipsy protégée. “What’s your opinion of those over

there?” She pointed to a pair of suede elf boots with fur trim that someone had left at the table next to ours. Lael recoiled in horror. “Correct,” said Bridget, elated. “Do you want another Diet Coke, Cece? I’m getting another.” She started to get up.

I’d decided to keep my wits about me, given my un-

fortunate Visa situation. “No, I’m fine, thanks. Has it been a couple of days, or more?”

“I
said
I don’t know.”

I reached out for her hand. “Bridget. Do you think he was sick last weekend, when we were in Palm Springs?

Stuck in bed, maybe?”

“What’s your problem with Andrew?” Bridget said,

snatching her hand back. “Why don’t you just spit it

out, Cece? If you really want to know, it’s insulting just how negative you’ve been about the whole thing. So

what if Andrew’s younger than I am? Am I such a hag

that a younger man couldn’t find me attractive?”

N O T

A

G I R L

D E T E C T I V E

147

Lael was looking at me like I was Adolf Hitler.

“That’s not what I’m implying. Not at all. You know

me. I’m just nosy.”

“That’s for sure,” she said, barely mollified.

How could I explain to her that I had to know where

Andrew had been last weekend? Had he followed us to

Palm Springs? And messed up Maynard’s car? And

eaten our lobster sandwiches? (Which were
not
waiting on my counter when we came home, by the way, but

Buster could have been responsible, I suppose.) Had he actually stolen that gold key out of my purse? I’d meant to take it back, but Bridget had suddenly materialized at my side, and I’d gotten all flustered and shut the drawer, missing my chance. Dumb. Very dumb. But even if I

could be absolutely certain Andrew had taken it, did

that necessarily mean he was a murderer?

No. I refused to believe it was possible. But what were Andrew and Jake up to? They certainly weren’t the

brightest bulbs, trying to get money out of Edgar’s ATM.

Then something else came to me. Could they have been

the ones who’d broken into my house before we even

left for Palm Springs? Lois had said two men, carrying a birthday present. Andrew and Jake were two men.

“Cece.”

Bridget was waiting for an explanation.

“Maybe,” I said, stalling for time, “well, maybe I’m

asking all these questions because I have a crush on Andrew.” I looked down bashfully.

Lael studied me with narrowed eyes.

“Of course you have a crush on him,” said Bridget.

One could never go wrong appealing to this woman’s

vanity. “He’s very attractive. But hands off. You’ve got one of your own.”

148

S U S A N

K A N D E L

“I know,” I said. “And he’s very attractive, too.”

“I’ll say,” said Lael.

I studied her this time.

“Oh, Cece. You know I like them less beefy.”

“Gambino’s not beefy.”

“You’ve got to admit he’s big,” Bridget said.

“Herculean.”

“Ah, yes, herculean.”

“Can we leave now?” I asked.

“I’m hungry.” Bridget picked up her purse.

“I vote for In N Out,” said Lael. There was one close by, across the street from Hollywood High. Five minutes tops.

We walked out into the brisk night air. A crowd had

gathered in front of the club next door, where they were doing a makeup promotion. There were posters of disembodied pink lips plastered to the brick wall. A model in purple latex twirled on a makeshift stage, smacking her own surgically enhanced lips for the cameras. As

we passed by, someone handed each of us a goody bag

with a small pot of lip gloss at the bottom.

Lael unscrewed the top of hers. “It’s scented,” she

said, sniffing. “Spearmint . . . and strawberry, I think.”

“Chuck it immediately,” said Bridget, pointing to a

trash can.

Indeed. In number 23,
The Mystery of the Tolling Bell,
one learns that complimentary makeup never looks

good, especially when applied by a gypsy pushing a cart.

“Let’s take my car, since it’s right here,” I said,

pulling my keys out of my bag. “We’ll drive you back to your car afterward, Lael.”

“Okay.”

N O T

A

G I R L

D E T E C T I V E

149

And then I saw Mitchell Honey emerge from the

crowd, swinging a goody bag of his own.

“It’s Mitchell! Duck!” I yelped, dragging Lael and

Bridget behind a white van parked next to my car.

Mitchell crossed the street, heading west, away from

the bondage shops. He was easy to track. His bald head glowed like a beacon in the night.

“Why are we ducking?” asked Bridget.

“I don’t want him to see us,” I said.

“Why?” asked Lael.

“I don’t know yet.”

“I’m hungry,” Bridget repeated. “This is stupid.”

“C’mon,” I said, pushing them into my car while

keeping one eye glued to Mitchell. “Hurry up. He’s

leaving. We’re going to lose him.”

Mitchell climbed into an old blue Jaguar and at-

tempted to pull out into traffic. It was Friday night and Hollywood Boulevard was mobbed. The city had recently passed an anticruising ordinance, obviously to no avail. But that was a good thing. There was no way Mitchell would be able to get away.

“Whoa! What are you doing?” Bridget asked, clutch-

ing at the passenger-side door.

“I’m making a U-turn, of course.”

“In this traffic?”

Drivers in Los Angeles are, generally speaking, a

courteous lot. And uncannily attuned to their fellow

drivers. They know to back off when a nut job is in the vicinity.

They backed off.

There was only one car between us now. I could see

Mitchell perfectly when I craned my neck outside my

150

S U S A N

K A N D E L

window, which only worked at stoplights for obvious

reasons. I think he was fiddling with the stereo. Everybody’s window was open and everybody’s stereo was

blaring. Hip-hop, Christian rock, Tejano ballads. I was getting a headache.

“You’ve just passed In N Out.”

“You’re obsessed with food, Bridget. We’re on a

mission now. There’s no time.”

“What mission exactly are we talking about?”

Lael said, “Perhaps if you explained yourself a little better, Cece.”

“Edgar is dead! Isn’t that enough?”

“It’s enough,” they said in unison.

Mitchell’s car crawled along Hollywood until La

Brea, where he pulled a quick right. I was stuck on red, behind the same Chevy truck that had been between us

since Ivar, and I was getting pretty darned tired of looking at the decal in the rear window of that little cartoon guy, Calvin, peeing on a Ford. I tapped my fingers on the wheel. Finally, the light changed and I zoomed up and over to La Brea, scanning the street for Mitchell, whom I caught sight of a few cars ahead. He’d been

stuck on red, too. I zigzagged into position, and

slumped a little in my seat.

“Slump, you guys.”

“He doesn’t know us,” Bridget said.

“Fine. Don’t slump.”

“All right. We’re slumping.” Bridget turned around

to look at Lael. “Get with the program.”

Now Mitchell was heading deep into the hills. Great.

The hills. Isolated houses. No sidewalks. Hairpin turns.

Maybe I should see someone, but I feel trapped if I

N O T

A

G I R L

D E T E C T I V E

151

can’t see down the full length of a block to the cross traffic beyond.

“Cece, pay attention,” Lael said. “He’s gone down

that narrow, windy street.”

“Of course he has.” Mitchell had turned onto a nar-

row, windy street that would surely lead onto many

other narrow, windy streets. Like I said, the hills were loathsome. But so far so good. I hung back some so as not to be conspicuous, and I knew that if he happened to take a good look in his rearview mirror we were

goners, but luck was on our side. He drove like an old lady, nice and slow and oblivious.

And then I made my first big mistake of the eve-

ning. The last narrow, windy street Mitchell turned

down was not a narrow, windy street at all. It was

somebody’s very long driveway. Somebody who lived

in a big white mansion with tall white columns. Some-

body with a Rottweiler, probably. And there was no

way out.

The motor court was full of expensive cars. Mitchell

parked behind a silver Bentley. I cut the motor, turned off the lights, and assessed the situation.

“It looks like Tara,” said Bridget.

“Or a government auction,” Lael offered.

“Down, down!” I whispered. Mitchell was getting

out of his car. He walked up to the front door, then

turned around.

“What’s he doing?” asked Lael.

“I don’t know.”

He walked back to his car, opened his trunk, and

pulled out a smallish, squarish package.

“Hostess gift?” Bridget asked.

152

S U S A N

K A N D E L

“Mail-order smoked salmon,” Lael answered.

He headed back to the front door.

I turned around. “Okay, when he goes inside, we

back down the driveway and get out of here.” We had

accomplished nothing, of course.

“Cece, he’s not going in,” Lael said.

“He’s walking this way!” Bridget was clutching at

the door again. “You better switch into reverse!”

But it was too late for that. One minute I was stealth incarnate, the next minute Mitchell Honey was knocking on my window.

“Ms. Caruso, is that you?”

I rolled the window down. “Mitchell! What a sur-

prise!”

“What are you doing here?”

“We’re looking for the . . . Ellerbee house,” I said

calmly.

“Ellis Ellerbee,” Bridget said, “the famous record

producer.”

“Never heard of him.”

“He’s a mogul, a cigar-puffer. He lives right around

here,” Lael said. “Right around here somewhere.” She

produced a map. “On . . . Ellington Street.”

I grabbed the map from her. “We’ve been looking for

the place for an hour, and then I think . . . I think we must’ve fallen asleep.”

Bridget stretched her arms over her head and

yawned. “Time change.”

“We just flew in from Norway,” Lael said.

“Visiting relatives,” Bridget said.

“Mine, not hers,” Lael explained.

“You know those circadian rhythms,” I said. “Once

they’re out of sync, you’re sunk.”

N O T

A

G I R L

D E T E C T I V E

153

Mitchell picked some lint off his jacket. “I thought I recognized your car from the other day.”

Now how was that possible? When I’d first visited

the house on Carroll Avenue I’d been driving May-

nard’s Caddy. Maybe he meant the memorial service.

But I was sure he hadn’t seen me arrive.

“Why don’t you come in and have a drink? To revive

yourselves. A friend is having a little party.”

“Great,” said Bridget, practically leaping out of the car. She loved a party.

“What about Elliott Ellerbee?” I protested, fighting

the inevitable.

“Ellis. It was a cocktail thing. It’s over now.”

“Right.”

I opened my door and a rush of wind blew my skirt

up around my waist. Would this evening never end? I

yanked it back down, not that Mitchell was barking up that alley. He introduced himself to Bridget and Lael, and we followed him to the front door.

He pushed the buzzer.

Bridget yawned energetically.

“Just tell me one thing.” Mitchell was staring straight ahead. His voice was soft. “How the hell did you find out about Asher Farrell?”

17

Asher Farrell did not have a Rottweiler. What he

did have was a prison record, not that I discriminate against ex-cons. But it’s a good thing to know what

you’re up against.

A big-time contemporary art dealer, Asher Farrell

had started out peddling Lladró figurines, only to discover he had a gift for catering to rich people’s insecurities. And an “eye,” which I think meant he could see dollar signs where the rest of us could only see, say, collages made of cut-up Wonder bread bags. He’d been

married half a dozen times, to increasingly beautiful actresses, several of whom went into early retirement when he was done with them. As for the prison record, it was a short stay in a minimum-security facility. Farrell blamed an overzealous accountant, but tax fraud, it would seem to me, was tax fraud. The thing is, the man was a looker, and people will forgive a looker anything.

I’d read that in a profile in
People
magazine.

The inside of Asher Farrell’s house did not match the outside. It had been hollowed out like a pumpkin,

N O T

A

G I R L

D E T E C T I V E

155

painstakingly scraped down to the drywall. Must’ve