Sympathy for the Devil (5 page)

P
anic.

Since the doctor was attending to Bruno, I raised my voice and shouted above the whispered, weeping, “Oh my god!”s and the worried, “What's happening?”s.

“Everyone, please stay calm.” I had to repeat it a few times just to get their attention, and soon the guests started to quiet down if only to hear what was going on.

“The Huntley family would appreciate your cooperation at this time. Could you all please clear this area and move to the patio where coffee and drinks are now being served.”

There was movement.

I radioed the bartenders who were stationed near the patio so they would be prepared for the crowd. Wes and Holly hurried from the tent to set up a makeshift dessert and coffee buffet there. Soon only the immediate family gathered around Bruno on the floor.

I got a squawk on the radio and moved away a few steps so I wouldn't disturb them as I spoke into it.

“Rudy here.” He sounded slightly out of breath. “I'm having a situation at the front gate.”

“What is it?”

“Somebody called the paramedics, so I sent them up to the tent. And somebody else must have called the cops, because they just arrived and they're kinda bent out of shape. They don't want no paramedics touching nothing 'cause they heard the old guy's dead anyway.”

“Cops are coming up?”

“Yep.”

“That's dandy.”

A clutch of Huntley offspring and ex-wives were arguing near the body. I wasn't really surprised. When were they not?

The giant frog stood off to the side. It must have been the same man I'd seen earlier with Lily, only now he'd taken his mask off and I thought I recognized him as one of Bruno's employees.

Dr. Epstein was kneeling next to Lily. She was sitting on the floor a few feet away from the body. Her white dress was streaked with blood. Bruno must have cut himself with all his tortured banging against the floor.

Lily was holding herself. No tears. Not a whimper.

Two men, dressed in L.A. Fire Department paramedic uniforms entered the tent. The doctor rose and conferred with them. I could hear him say Bruno had died at 11:59 p.m., after suffering an acute onset of seizures. I noticed that aside from feeling for a pulse, the paramedics left the body alone. Police. Control freaks.

I slipped out of the tent. Just ahead on the path I saw two people approaching, dressed in street clothes. It struck me. Here were two people who were not wearing costumes and did not have invitations. Poor Bruno; dead for fifteen minutes and already his wishes were being ignored. It seemed, in this new universe, it no longer mattered what Bruno Huntley wanted. And at that moment I realized that there were a great many people whom Bruno had bullied and managed and overpowered and outshouted that might now find themselves throwing off their masks and sighing in relief.

“Are you the police?” I asked, to start the conversation.

The man who spoke to me was tall, certainly over six-two, and I'd place him in his early forties. He was accompanied by a woman officer, and as they came into the light, I immediately recognized her.

Lizzie Bailey was about the most stunning-looking
woman I'd ever known. When we'd first met, I hadn't been living in L.A. for very long. Even the cops, I'd thought then, look like movie stars.

“I'm Lieutenant Chuck Honnett and this is Officer Elizabeth Bailey.” He looked at me and took in my silver tights and the glitter sprayed in my hair. “You have a body here?”

“Actually, it's the owner of this house. Bruno Huntley.”

In the context of this tragedy, it felt odd to hear the sounds of prerecorded moaning coming from the speakers and see the holographic ghosts that were projected in the trees.

Honnett followed my gaze.

“Quite a party going on. You Mr. Huntley's daughter?”

“No.” Both Officer Bailey and I answered at the same time. Then she smiled her cocky smile at me.

“This is Madeline Bean, a friend of mine. She doesn't always look so…fluffy.”

“My catering company is in charge of this party, so I…”

“You took charge. Fine. You okay?” Honnett asked.

“It was pretty grim watching Bruno convulse and die like that.”

“You know him pretty well, then?” he asked.

“I've worked for him on and off for a number of years. The family's in there.” I nodded to the tent. “With the body.”

Honnett didn't seem in such a hurry to see Bruno. He kept talking. “Possible poisoning was what we were told. That right?”

“Maybe.” I swallowed. It sounded horrible. “His doctor was with him when he died. He said…”

“I'll get the doctor's statement in a minute. I just wondered if you've already cleared up the food from the party? Make sure your people don't dispose of anything, okay?”

Was he implying Bruno died from food poisoning? From
my
food?

“Lieutenant, six hundred healthy guests ate the same…”

“Mrs. Bean, I never suggested…”

“Call me Madeline.” I could interrupt, too.

Honnett smiled at me, calm as a bowl of oatmeal. “All right, Madeline. This is the beginning of what looks like a hellacious investigation. There were what? You said maybe six hundred people that had opportunity? Motive we don't know yet. And the usual way that nasty people get their victims to eat poison is to hide it in their food or drink. So we need to stop all the cleaning up. That way we can hand our diligent forensics people the bloody nightmare of trying to pin down exactly what dish of spaghetti or whatever was dosed with poison.”

“Oh.” Maybe I overreacted.

“It's okay, Maddy,” Lizzie said. “We're going to need to speak to all of your staff. Can you arrange that for us?”

“Sure.”

I was no longer in charge of this party. I felt relief, along with something else. I guess it was anticlimax. Instead of the thanks and congratulations I always gave our workers at the end of a great evening, I now had to round them up to await police questioning.

Lieutenant Honnett turned to enter the tent. Lizzie stayed with me.

“I didn't know you were with Homicide,” I chided her.

We had first met years ago, both working on a film of Bruno's. Lizzie, working on her off hours from the department, headed up location security and I did the food.

“This is a big break for me. The call came in and I heard it was at the Huntley place. I told them I'd been here before and had worked with Huntley in the past. So they gave me a chance.”

Lizzie was good at making the most of her opportunities. In a system that had historically been slanted against young black females, she always seemed to find a way around.

“I could use your help, Maddy. Can we get together and talk this one through? How about breakfast tomorrow?”

“Make it lunch.” I knew I'd be exhausted, but I was intrigued to hear anything she might have to tell me about this case.

“Meet me at Chez Nous in Toluca Lake at twelve. That give you enough beauty sleep?”

I took the path to the patio to see the last of the unhappy guests being rounded up by officers. Wes walked over to me.

“Where have you been? Is he dead? Half the guests are convinced it's a giant hoax just to get them to leave the party and stop drinking Huntley's booze. Isn't that terrible?” Wes suppressed a smile. It's hard not to succumb to gallows humor, especially for us.

“Wes!” I warned him.

“Tell me what's going on.”

“He's dead and it may be poison and the police want all the plates and trays and food to be left as is. No cleaning up. They want to sift through all this trash for clues.”

“Hmmm.” Wes and I surveyed the scene.

Of course by this point, all the cleaning up is pretty much done. We like to be able to leave the premises of a party by one o'clock. The late crowd could then serve themselves drinks all night, if they wanted, on into the a.m.

I looked around. Instead of the trays and plates and glasses that had been there a few hours ago, there was now a line of trash bags, about sixty or so, and a few dozen crates of china, glassware, and silverware to be picked up by the party rental people.

“They're going to hunt through all that?” Wes asked, dubious.

We eyed the fifteen hundred pounds of trash and dirty dishes.

“Wesley, when did we lose control of our Halloween party?”

“I remember exactly. It was the day we agreed to work once again for Mr. Bruno Huntley.”

I
woke up very late Saturday morning, warm and safe beneath my old postage-stamp quilt, with its tiny stitches holding together hundreds of faded, patterned, one-inch fabric squares.

Oh, yeah. The party. Last night. Bruno Huntley was dead.

Dr. Epstein said he'd never seen anything like what killed Bruno. If it was poison, he said maybe it could have been strychnine. The actual cause of death was asphyxia. Bruno couldn't breathe.

I flashed on the vivid picture of Bruno's body twisting and squeezing the very breath out of him from the inside. All that pain, his trachea and stomach and lungs in spasm after spasm without letup.

I pushed my head deeper into the pillows and tried to drift back to sleep.

Memories of last night would not switch off.

My hand ventured out from under the quilt and made an unerring swipe for the remote control on my bedside table. I turned on my twenty-seven-inch Toshiba and flipped through the stations until I hit PBS.

Julia Child was trilling on about sesame oil and a wok. I had seen this episode before. I knew the recipes, but I was struck by the sound of her voice, so confident, so optimistic. I feel like that when I'm cooking, too. I sat up in bed and began to feel a little better.

Maybe that was the key to Julia's popularity. It wasn't about food so much as it was about her gusto for life. Julia could whisk just about anything into a pleasing outcome. My goodness, if this large pleasant lady could master the intricacies of a forbidding French dish, not even looking at what she was doing half the time, all the while talking and smiling at the camera, couldn't we all master a little problem of our own? Especially if we paid attention.

Somebody had killed Bruno Huntley. And my normal happy denial seemed to be deserting me. Most days I do a pretty fair job of hiding from the pain of living on the outside edge of the twentieth century. But last night, I'd run screeching into something ugly and evil.

Julia Child was talking to the camera, giving the impression she was looking right at me. She said, “You just have to roll up your sleeves and get started!” Julia. So safe. So familiar.

I wanted to get started. I pushed aside my quilt and stood up.

I sleep in the smallest bedroom of a three-bedroom house in the hills just north of the 101 Freeway, in an old neighborhood in Hollywood named Whitley Heights.

My house is California-style Art Deco: a lot of geometric angles, a lot of rounded moldings and coved ceilings. When I first found it, it was a wreck. Still, it suited my needs, it had a romantic history, once having been owned by a long-forgotten silent movie star, and its dilapidated condition just barely allowed me to afford it. I use the downstairs for my business and the upper floor as my home.

Two of the upstairs bedrooms now serve as my living and dining rooms, with the added advantage of giving me extra closets. When dressing, I may walk through to the living room to find my belt and then move into the dining room to retrieve a silk blouse. In this way, I promenade around my upstairs apartment and call it exercise.

On this Saturday morning, I showered quickly and then walked into the dining room, looking for clean jeans.

This room was actually the middle bedroom. But now,
my small dining table is surrounded on three sides by walls, lined to the ceiling with clear pine bookshelves. On them I keep my overflowing collection of cookbooks and travel guides and mystery novels.

I've rigged up an old-fashioned dumbwaiter connecting this room to the kitchen down below. When I invite a friend to dinner, or more often, read a book while dining alone, I pile all the food on a tray down in the kitchen and push a button that transports the whole thing up one floor to this dining room above.

As I pulled a pair of faded Levis out of the dining room closet, I noticed the silver clock on one of the bookshelves. I'd have to get moving or I'd be late meeting Lizzie.

I moved into my living room, looking for my boots. This was originally the master bedroom and so it has the most space and best windows. I looked under the sofa, pulling up its linen slipcover. No boots. Facing the sofa are two thirties-style down-filled chairs that I rescued from a friend's garage. And in front of the fireplace, the bare wood floor is covered with a Chinese hook rug.

I opened the closet. No boots. Under the chairs, ditto.

Marching down to the opposite end of the hallway, I entered my tiny bedroom, which has just enough room for my old iron bed and the pine dresser that holds my T.V. No sign of my boots there, but the sweater I wanted was in the dresser, and as I bent to close the middle drawer, there was Julia Child in my face.

“Don't be afraid to really get in there and stir!”

I pulled the thin black sweater over my head and nodded soberly at Julia's advice as I walked into my bathroom.

There they were. My favorite black ankle boots were tucked near the claw feet of the tub. As I pulled them on, I noticed the crumpled costume I'd worn at Bruno's party discarded only six hours ago in a heap near the hamper. Impossible to escape from last night.

I tried to do something with my unruly hair as I picked up the bathroom phone and dialed Arlo at home. Naturally, he wasn't there.

I left a message. “How ya doing? My party went great except for the part at the end when Bruno got poisoned. Call me.”

I dialed his office number and got voice mail. I had already used my best material on his home machine, so I told his voice mail to call home for messages and hung up. If we were true to our usual pattern, we'd probably hook up around Tuesday. It was okay. Who had time for passion these days?

I scooped up the satin gown with the sparkling silver netting and took it with me as I descended the curving grand staircase that brought me into the office area below.

Downstairs, I'd had to modify the kitchen by knocking down the walls to the breakfast room and a small laundry room and butler's pantry. Now it was large enough to cook industrial-size meals, and more importantly, to pass the city building and county health code regulations that made cooking there for the public legitimate.

What used to be the formal dining room was now an office that Wes and I shared. Holly had a small desk set up in the entry hall, and we used the living room to hold meetings and entertain clients.

As I came down the stairs, I was surprised to see Holly already there. It was eleven-fifteen, earlier than she normally liked to make an appearance on a day we didn't have a party scheduled. She claimed to keep “rock 'n roll” hours.

“Hi.” She smiled at me. I handed her the Good Witch ensemble and told her about my date for lunch.

Holly followed me through my office into the kitchen. I opened the refrigerator, grabbed a Diet Coke, and asked if she'd had coffee yet. She shook her head, and her long uneven white-blonde bangs spiked into her eyes.

“I can't get over what happened,” Holly said, with gusto.

“I know.” We both shook our heads at each other.

I set about making her an espresso. I get my espresso beans from Torrefazione, a wonderful shop in Seattle that
roasts their own. “If he was really murdered,” I said, “what I keep asking myself is who killed him?”

“That dude was a genuine jerk. It could have been anyone.”

I protested. “Not just anyone could commit murder!”

“Oh, sure they could, if they're ticked off enough.”

I was measuring the correct amount of ground espresso beans into the Pasquini. But I stopped.

“Could you kill someone?”

“Of course.” She stared at me. “You never know about people. What secrets they have, what pain they're in…”

“But to actually buy some poison, and put it in the stew, and then sit back and wait for the poor sucker to die in agony?”

“Oh, sure. I imagine that's the best part.”

“Holly!”

“No, really! A lot of people hated that old guy. What's amazing is he wasn't killed a long, long time ago.”

“Holl.” I smiled and shook my head at how simple she seemed to think life was. “There are lots of despicable people in this big bad world. But justice isn't so black and white! People don't just get fed up one day and…and kill them.”

“Hmmm.” Holly sipped her cup of caffeine and arched a colorless brow at me. “Too bad.”

I laughed. She was teasing me. And then we heard the faint tinkling of our front doorbell.

I looked at my watch. It was getting late and I had to leave in order to meet Lizzie.

Holly noticed my look. “I'll get the door,” she said. “You can sneak out the back if you want.”

How could anyone as thoughtful as Holly think herself capable of murder? I stood at the sink and downed the last of my Diet Coke. And as I was rinsing the glass and feeling around in my purse to find my sunglasses, Holly popped her head back into the kitchen.

“You still here? This is kind of odd. The person at the front door is the maid for the Huntleys. Weird, huh?”

“Their maid is here?” That stopped me.

“She says she'd like to talk to you and it's important.”

Intriguing. I took off my sunglasses and put down my purse. “Take her into the living room and, Holly, call over to Chez Nous and leave a message for Lizzie Bailey I'll be late.”

She nodded and disappeared.

The living room had a very high arched ceiling and a wall of French doors that open out onto the patio. When I entered, I saw the woman's profile as she stood looking out at the view.

“Hello, can I help you?” I asked.

She turned to face me. It was Rosalinda, the Huntley's nanny. I noticed one of my cream-colored business cards in her hand.

“Missus, I am Rosalinda Luquin, maybe you remember me?”

“Yes, of course. My name is Madeline. Please sit down.”

Rosalinda stood where she was and looked at me uncertainly. Then, she moved over to a straight-backed chair and sat down. I waited while she decided what to say.

“It is about Mr. Bruno. Oh, what a terrible thing. My poor Babalu,
pobrecito
, this morning they tell him about his daddy and he is very upset.”

I murmured something sympathetic, but couldn't imagine what any of this had to do with me.

“Mrs. Madeline I will tell you the problem,” she said. I looked up. She was small and thin and looked to be around thirty. She had thick dark hair, cut short, and she was dressed up, wearing a silky purple dress and heels.

“There is something wrong with what Mr. Bruno say. I am very worried, you see. It is wrong.”

“What did he say?” I asked her.

“Let me tell you. For the time of the party, I sit in the house with Babalu. I watch him in the Nursery. And that nice lady, the one who answer the door for me right now,
last night she bring up the food for our dinner, for Babalu and for me, too.”

I nodded. That would have been Holly.

“My Lewis, he go to bed maybe at ten o'clock and then I sit and watch the party out of the window. At eleven-thirty, I think everything is pretty quiet, so I go outside to look at the party.”

That was right before the murder. She might have seen something. “Then what happened?”

“I walk around and I see all the pretty things. Oh, it is such a beautiful party, I think. And I walk to where the music is playing to maybe take a look at the people all dressed up so nice. So that is why I was standing near to the…
carpa
?” Unable to find the correct word in English, she tried the Spanish one.

“I'm sorry?”

“Oh, the
carpa
is…” she shook her head. She started again, “Where the music is playing and all the people dancing. You know?”

“The tent?” I asked.

“The tent. Yes!” she said firmly. “I was near to the tent and I hear the shouting, very loud shouting. So I go very fast to see what it is. And I see it. I see it all! Poor Mrs. Lily is crying and I hear Mr. Bruno. He is choking. But he is talking! Talking, Mrs. Madeline, and saying a terrible thing.”

“What did you hear?”

She shook her head, but then she went on. “He is talking about a curse! Like a witch could make.”

“A…curse? Are you sure?”

She whispered, “And then he say…he happy. He die and choke on these words, ‘happy, happy.' She shuddered and started weeping. “Missus Madeline, I cannot sleep. There are bad witches in the house. They make a curse on Mr. Bruno and he die! I cannot say these things to Mrs. Lily. She is all the time crying. The police…for me it is not too good to talk to the police. But I have to tell someone.” She looked up at me. “Yesterday, you say to me you
would help me. You remember? At the sink? And your friend, he told me to come to you. And I have your address…”

Yes, Wesley had handed her our card after that disgraceful scene in the kitchen.

“And your house, it is not too far away. I see I can take a bus. I know you are a smart lady. Maybe you can tell the police what is the problem. It is a witch that killed poor Mr. Bruno.”

“Yes, well…” I looked into her serious eyes. Who was I to dismiss her culture, her superstitions? Yet, somehow, I didn't think Honnett of the LAPD would think much of this witch theory.

Her English was serviceable, but I was pretty sure she had misunderstood Bruno's last words. A curse? Bruno Huntley using his last gasp of air to say he was happy to die? Jeez, I hope she misunderstood him.