Royal Flush (16 page)

The neighborhood we were driving through looked like the kind of place you would expect to see the Playboy mansion, or at least its famously forbidding gates. We had gone north and west from the Ethiopian restaurant, up Sunset Boulevard and north on Beverly Glen Boulevard into the neighborhood of Bel Air. The homes, to the extent you could see them through all the shrubbery, were not so much houses as they were
statements
, grandiose and imposing monuments to their owners' success, or at least that of their parents or grandparents.

When we turned up Beverly Glen Boulevard, the GPS started chirping at us to slow down. The Westons' street soon appeared on our right, and Mike eased us into a little patch of road next to a tree-lined lot abutting a gated entrance defended by two imposing stone columns and a wrought iron gate. We got out and hung around awkwardly, hoping nobody would call the cops.

"Check it out," Mike said. He had been peering through the tall, dense greenery to try to get a glimpse.

I wedged my way into the trees while he held a branch back to let me in.

"Wow," I muttered. About a hundred feet past the trees lay a basketball-court-sized driveway paved with exotic looking stones, leading the way into an eight- or ten-car garage. Perched above the garage, atop an impressive stone wall, was a Tudor-style palace that looked as if an Alpine ski resort had been plucked off the side of a mountain and plopped down into LA

"The guy's a billionaire, after all," Mike said. "Not too surprising. I bet there's a helipad in back, over there." He was pointing at a large flat spot behind the stone patio.

"The place seems deserted," I said, eyeing the absence of any cars on the pavement. "Probably still out doing funeral type stuff."

We stood outside the gates for another few minutes until we began to feel the first warm little droplets of rain, which got both of us scampering back to the car.

"How long do you want to wait?" Mike asked. He had been very patient with the whole thing, but I wondered what his tolerance was going to be. Even though he was never super-busy, I knew he had to get back to Vegas at some point.

"Not all day, don't worry," I said. "If they don't show up soon, we'll come up with another way to get in touch. Right now, though, I think this might be our best shot. The family will all be together, and we can let them know what we've learned and maybe get some answers out of them."

He nodded, seeming satisfied. The drizzle had turned into a solid, drenching rain, but that didn't dissuade a visitor from pounding on the driver's side door.

Mike and I exchanged puzzled looks. "Open the window a crack," I said.

"You guys are trespassing," the visitor said. He was a giant of a man, with bushy black eyebrows and a massive nose, his face streaked with rain.

"Sorry," Mike yelled, trying to make himself heard over the rain pattering down on the windshield. "We're private detectives and have some important information for the family. Are they coming home soon?"

The guard flashed a thin smile. "Do you think I'm going to share that with you, Jack?"

I sighed. This might take a softer touch, I thought, a resort to the lowest common denominator.

I reached into my purse and pulled out my private investigator's license. When I leaned across Mike to hand it to the guard, I made sure my top revealed a veritable Grand Canyon of cleavage. And just to make sure the effort was not lost on him, I pressed myself onto Mike's torso so that my breasts almost jumped out of my bra.

The effort backfired. "Look, lady, I don't care who you are. You're parked on private property. This ain't no parking lot."

I cringed silently at being called "lady."

"All right," Mike said, "we'll move. I didn't catch your name, though."

The guard looked confused. "It doesn't matter."

"Well, when we meet with the family, they will be interested to know who kicked us off the property, despite the fact that we have information about their daughter's death."

The guard seemed to reconsider, his brain working on overdrive.

"Get outta here," he finally said. "Send 'em a letter or something. Don't be dragging me into this."

Mike nodded and rolled up the window. "I guess that's that."

"Wait," I said. In my rear mirror, I could see headlights.
Lots
of headlights.

The guard looked up, stiffened, and then lumbered off toward the gate. I watched him in the mirror as the driver's side window of the first car rolled down. The guard and the driver were having a conversation, cut short by a curt nod from the guard.

Mike smiled and rolled the window down. "He's coming back."

The sopping-wet guard cocked his head to one side and stared Mike down. "They said to go on in," he mumbled. "Just follow the last car."

Mike nodded somberly, too classy for an "
I told you so
" retort. When the cars had all filed in, Mike backed us up and then nosed the Audi onto the property. The gates closed behind us, creating an ominous effect in the pouring rain.

The first two cars had driven right into the massive garage, which could have passed for a small automobile museum. An attendant of some kind helped the drivers and passengers out, and then immediately got to work wiping down the cars. From what I could tell, the first car was a Maybach sedan and the second was something Italian, maybe a Maserati, but it was a four-door coupe rather than a sports model. The garage doors then closed, leaving three other cars and their occupants outside. Mike and I sat inside our car, awkwardly waiting to see what happened next.

It didn't take long. Three Latinos in identical red rain jackets emerged from the front door hefting a dozen or more umbrellas under their arms. Stupidly, I got out of the car before they reached us, and it only took ten seconds of heavy rain to get me thoroughly soaked. I gratefully accepted the umbrella from the young man, who fixed both of us with a confused stare but nevertheless waved Mike and me inside with them. Obviously, we were not part of their post-funeral plans.

We entered through twelve-foot double doors, thick as Bibles, and into a dark, cavernous foyer lit with sconces holding real live candles. The décor was two parts English estate, one part hunting lodge, with dark brown wood paneling predominant, particularly on the massive stairway and its oversized railing. Mike and I closed up our umbrellas and dripped off onto a burgundy carpet that was probably not accustomed to the humble role of absorbing raindrops off of non-billionaires. One of the guys in the red raincoats took our umbrellas, but the family disappeared into the back of the house. We stood in the foyer, alone and awkward, examining the surroundings and waiting to see what would happen next. A stuffed eagle peered down at me from a perch on the wall.

"Creepy," I whispered, as though we were in church.

Mike nodded. "If the goal of this place is to make visitors feel intimidated, it succeeded."

"It's not just an ostentatious display of wealth," I said. "It screams
old money
."

"And
power,
" Mike whispered. I found it amusing that we both felt the need to whisper.

After another minute of scratching our butts, a middle-aged man in an impeccable gray suit appeared from the back rooms. His light brown hair was thinning on top, and his flitting and slightly effeminate mannerisms reminded me of Niles Crane, from
Frasier,
one of my favorite reruns.

"Welcome," he began, "although I wish it was under more hospitable circumstances. My name is Lee Mavis—I work for the family. The family has asked me to hear what you have to say, although of course they are in no condition right now to involve themselves in these matters."

"I'm sorry," I said. "I know it's bad timing, but I wanted to put this out there before—"

"Let's have a seat," he said, cutting me off. "They'll bring us something to drink." He motioned us to a parlor off to the left of the foyer. In contrast to the manliness of the dark foyer, the parlor was painted a robin's egg blue and sported airy, white moldings and a plastered ceiling. A real fire was roaring in the marble fireplace, lending a welcome warmth to the room. I found a seat on a chair that was probably worth more than my car.

"So, are you the butler?" Mike began, half-smiling.

Lee bristled at the question. "I am the personal assistant to Mr. and Mrs. Weston. We don't have a
butler
," he said, his contempt for the term abundantly clear.

"Sorry," Mike backtracked. "Anyway, I assume you've heard the gist of what we wanted to talk about, right?"

Lee nodded. He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Yes. That, after all, is why you're sitting here and not in jail for trespassing."

Mike and I exchanged a look. Lee was not exactly Mr. Sunshine.

"I understand the timing is very unfortunate, with this being the day of the funeral and all. But it's very important," I said.

Lee nodded. "Go on," he said simply. A woman arrived holding a silver tray with coffee. I accepted a cup and slurped at it just a little bit too loudly before continuing.

"First of all, is Kent here?" I asked.

"No. He said he had classes in Las Vegas and had to get back."

"Had you ever seen Kent before this week?"

Lee crossed his legs. "No, none of us had."

I nodded. "We believe that the man who was here this week was not the real Kent. That Melanie's husband was someone else, another man who also lives in Las Vegas."

Lee nodded, but looked unconvinced. "And what gives you that idea?"

I pulled out my phone and showed him a picture of the other Kent. "This man is enrolled at the University of Nevada-Las Vegas and passes himself off as Henry John Kent. This is the man Melanie married."

Lee studied the photo then shrugged. "Never seen him before. Why should we believe you? They told me you're a private detective, but what's that got to do with anything?"

I was puzzled by Lee's defensiveness. I had assumed that he and the family might welcome some information that, to me, seemed extremely important. But then again, it wouldn't be the first time the messenger got shot for delivering an unwelcome message.

"Melanie lived in my building in Las Vegas. We were friends," I said, seeing no reason to be completely straight with him.

Lee fixed me with a skeptical look, but remained silent.

"She came to me seeking a detective, though, not a friend. Kent had asked her for a large loan so he could pursue a legal claim on his family's property back in England. He claimed he was part of the royal family, in fact."

Lee straightened up in his chair. "You don't say," he said blithely, dripping with sarcasm.

I smiled. "I
do
say. But that's beside the point. The point is that the man Melanie had me investigate—Henry John Kent—was
not
the man who came to the funeral as her husband."

Lee looked up at the ceiling, unsure of what to make of this unexpected interruption in his day.

Mike piped up. "Am I right that no one even knew Melanie was married?"

Lee nodded. "Until just weeks ago. Apparently they had been married awhile, or several months anyway."

"And how did the family find out?" I asked.

Lee flashed a thin smile. "The family accountant called me up and asked. Their taxes are all intertwined, what with the trusts and everything else, and all of a sudden Melanie had filed something jointly. And so I began poking around a little bit to confirm it, and then we all confronted Melanie over Labor Day weekend."

"So she admitted it but never introduced him?" I asked.

Lee spread his hands apart and sighed. "It was supposed to be on the horizon. It wasn't as if she was going to keep him a big secret or anything once we found out. It just never happened because she ended up …" He trailed off and then stiffened again in his chair, his face becoming deathly serious. "You think there might be foul play?"

I grimaced. "I don't know
what
I think, to be honest. But I'm sure you will agree, what we've told you is something that has to be considered."

"Of course," he said, nodding vigorously.

As we sat in a brief but awkward silence, my gaze turned to the roaring fireplace. I wondered whether it was lit all the time, or whether they lit it just for our benefit.

Mike spoke up. "We're talking with LAPD, although they don't seem to be overly concerned."

"Detective Weakland?" Lee asked.

Mike nodded. "I figure he's seen enough weird things in his day that this doesn't move the needle very much."

"Still," Lee said. "We have to figure out who Melanie's husband really is. Or
was
."

"Melanie paid me a retainer," I said, "and there's still a few thousand left. So I'll be working on this, even if the police are too busy to get their hands dirty."

"That's a little bit comforting, I guess," Lee said, only halfheartedly.

"So do you think the family will talk to us?" Mike asked.

Lee shook his head. "If they're going to get involved, it wouldn't be today. It's too much for them to handle. But I will have them contact you if things cool down. You have a card?" He stood up, signaling the end of the meeting.

I reached into my wallet and pulled out a half-crumpled business card, which Lee took without comment. "And you?" he directed the question at Mike.

Mike smiled, and indulged Lee by producing his own card, which looked as if it had been printed by an Epson printer hooked up to an Apple II. I stifled a giggle.

Lee showed us out the front door, and we found to our relief that the rain had let up almost completely. Just as we reached my car, a voice rang out behind us.

"Excuse me!"

We turned and found a young woman facing us.

"My name is Caroline," she said. "I'm Melanie's sister."

"Hi," Mike said, his voice a little higher pitched than normal. Caroline looked about twenty. Taller than Melanie, she had a fit, statuesque figure and golden blonde hair, with a strong jaw and soft cheekbones. Her gray-blue eyes were piercing, despite the telltale signs that she had been crying recently.