THE SOUND OF MURDER (20 page)

CHAPTER 47

I a
m easily distracted. It’s not that I’m fluttery or nervous. It’s just that so many interesting things tend to happen at one time. It’s one of the reasons theater is good for me. I can’t be distracted during a play—I have to stay in character and focused on the people onstage with me. My distractibility is both a good thing and a bad thing when it comes to PI work. Good, because I observe and collect a lot of information. Bad, because once I learn something new, the old piece of information goes into a mental file cabinet where it languishes among dusty folders until something reminds me to pull it out again. Something like my conversation with Marge.

As I walked through the entrance of Mountain View Care Center, veering around folks parked in wheelchairs in the corridor, I planned my talk with her. The drug issue was obviously the most important, but I had other questions, and I thought I’d better ask them first.

I found Marge in the dayroom, a bright sunlit room where the scent of citrus air freshener overpowered the nursing home smell. She was watching
Good Morning Arizona
on a TV mounted on the wall, along with a half dozen other residents. I sat down next to her and gave her a sideways hug.

“You look good,” I said. She did look better. Her hair was combed nicely and she wore a red polka-dotted shirt. Rather than clashing with the flowered chair she sat in, it made her look a bit like the Red Queen presiding over Wonderland. “Can we go back to your room to talk?”

“That room gets so stuffy. Let’s stay here.”

“But…” I looked around the other people, several of whom were openly eavesdropping. One even waved.

“Don’t worry, chickie. Some of them won’t know what we’re talking about, some won’t have anyone to tell, and most, like me, won’t remember this conversation five minutes later.”

I shrugged and jumped right in, raising my voice over the background TV chatter: “Do you have any enemies? Anyone who might want to hurt you?”

“Nah.”

“Even at the theater?” This was what I really wanted to know.

“Ah. You mean Bitsy, right?”

I nodded. “What does she have against you?”

“You know. I had a bigger role, a nice house on the golf course, and a great boyfriend. I don’t take it personally.” She chuckled a little, a good sign. “Bitsy’s got second-itis, big time.”

“Second-itis?”

“Second place is never good enough. She wants to be first at everything. Everyone has to love her best. You heard about the Sunnydale Poms incident?”

“I did.” A tiny wizened lady sat up straighter on the couch.

“Me too,” said the man next to her.

I shook my head. The Sunnydale Poms were a group of over-sixty cheerleaders. They were pretty awesome and pretty famous, performing at conventions and marching in big parades.

“Bitsy was in the Sunnydale Peps, kind of the second string, like a pep squad. But now she’s in the Poms. They had an opening after one of them fell and broke her ankle during a parade. A couple of people swear they saw Bitsy trip her.”

The couch couple shook their heads.

“People,” said the man.

So Bitsy’s sweet exterior disguised a bitter inner life. I wondered if Arnie knew, which led me to my next question: “You said she might be envious of your boyfriend…”

“Oh, god, is she after Arnie now? Figures.” Marge shook her head, disgusted. “You heard of ambulance chasers? Bitsy’s a hearse chaser. First one to go after any recent widower. She even tried to get her hooks in poor Charlie Small, when all the world could see how much he missed Helen.”

“Tried to?”

“He was having none of it, but she wouldn’t let up. Charlie finally dressed her down but good at an opening night party a few months ago.”

“In front of everyone?”

“Yeah. It was great. When she left the room in a huff, all the women cheered.”

The tiny lady on the couch tittered. I thought about telling Marge about Bitsy’s marriage, but a yawn caught me instead.

“Lassie keeping you up at night?”

I nodded.

“That’s why I got sleeping pills. Between old age, my restless leg, and that dog, I wasn’t getting a wink.”

“I actually wanted to talk to you about—”

“I ever tell you about the time Arnie got his sleeping pills mixed up with Viagra?” Marge did a little Groucho Marx eyebrow wiggle. “He was up all night.”

The couch couple laughed, then looked at each other, got up quickly, and padded down the hall, his hand on her waist.

“Seems like you’re doing really well,” I said. “Have they figured out some medication for you?” Maybe Marge’s doctors had already figured out what I thought I knew.

The smile slipped from her face. “No. I’m just having a good morning. Yesterday I thought my yogurt was face cream.” She tried to crack a smile but couldn’t hold it.

“I may have some good news. Are you still taking Gabapentin?”

“Yeah. For my restless leg.”

“I did a little research last night and found that Gabapentin can have really serious side effects, including unsteadiness and dementia. Not only that, but combining Ambien with Gabapentin makes them worse. And,” I added, having noticed Marge’s well-stocked liquor cabinet, “they say you shouldn’t drink while on it, either.”

Marge stared at her hands. She slowly lifted her chin, then looked at me, a plea in her eyes. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying? That I might not have dementia?”

“I think you and your doctor should look into it.” I handed her a sheet of paper. “Here’s a list of all the medications I found in your medicine cabinet, along with the phone numbers of the pharmacies where they were filled.” I couldn’t get info about Marge’s prescription history, but I hoped her doctor could get access. I pointed at the bottom of the page. “I also wrote down every vitamin and supplement I found in your house, just in case there’s an interaction.”

Marge reached over and clasped my hands in hers. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” I said. “I still haven’t figured out what happened the morning you were attacked.”

“So you believe me?”

“I do.” I thought about what Jeremy had said about most people falling forward down the steps. Marge had fallen backward, like she’d been startled or even pushed by an attacker. “You were found in the garage. Do you think the intruder came in through the garage door? I’ve heard it’s pretty easy to do.” Uncle Bob had shown me a YouTube video called, “How to break into a garage in six seconds.”

Marge shook her head. “That’s the one way he couldn’t have gotten in. I had the whole shebang fixed and secured after that break-in I had last month.”

“Wait, someone broke into your house?”

“Nah, just the garage. You know the only thing they stole?” Marge shook her head in puzzlement. “My catalytic converter.”

CHAPTER 48

“I
can’t believe I didn’t ask Marge about her catalytic converter.” I paced my uncle’s office, really annoyed with myself. I’d driven there straight after my visit to the care center.

“You got a file, right?” Uncle Bob leaned back in his office chair. “Isn’t your research in there?”

“Of course.” I threw myself into my chair. “But that was Charlie Small’s file, and…” I didn’t want to tell Uncle Bob I hadn’t flipped through it lately…oh, what the hell. “And files don’t work for me, because if I put something in a file, I can’t see it. I am the poster child for ‘out of sight, out of mind.’”

Uncle Bob pursed his lips in thought, then pushed himself away from his desk and went out the office door.

A minute or so later, someone knocked. I opened the door to see my uncle. Or rather a large whiteboard with my uncle’s legs sticking out from under it.

“Hold the door for me, will ya?” He wrangled the whiteboard into the office, smacking it into a bookcase. “Try this,” he said. “You can put your research headings, suspicions, and suspects on it. The whole gambit.”

“Like in a squad room on TV.”

“Like in a squad room on TV.” Uncle Bob grinned. We both loved cop shows.

“But where’d it come from?”

“We got a shared conference room down the hall. No one in the building ever uses it.”

“You just took the whiteboard out of the conference room?”

“I left a Post-it.”

I spent the rest of the afternoon in geek heaven—using squeaky markers to write all the pertinent information onto my big beautiful whiteboard. Now everything connected to the case was in one place: the number of suicides, house sales, golf course lots, catalytic converters, and viatical settlements. I listed everyone I knew who was connected with Charlie, which included Carl Marks, neighbors, everyone at the theater, and all the people at Charlie’s church and various clubs. Since Hank was Uncle Bob’s friend, I didn’t write him down. But I didn’t forget him.

I also made a pit stop at a garage after work on the way to the theater. “This may be a weird question,” I said, pointing to my new Taurus. “But can you tell if this car has a catalytic converter?”

After ascertaining that my car did have a catalytic converter, I drove to the theater, made sure Jeremy’s ticket was at will-call, and headed down to dinner. Afraid my love of coconut fried shrimp was beginning to show on my thighs, I ordered a chicken breast, wild rice, and asparagus.

A few minutes later I sat down next to Candy, who was wolfing down a double order of my favorite dish. I looked at my grilled chicken breast so sadly that she plopped a shrimp on my plate. “Just one won’t do you any harm.”

“Jeremy’s coming to the show tonight,” I said.

“Your biggest fan.”

I nearly grimaced but caught myself in time to fake a smile. I hadn’t told anyone that the flowers weren’t from Jeremy. I didn’t know who had sent them. I had told Jeremy that they were from Uncle Bob, but it wasn’t true. White lies in the name of romance were okay, right?

Candy grinned at me. “Ever noticed that all your boyfriends’ names start with J?”

“Huh?”

“Jason, Jeremy…”

“Jeb,” said Zeb, popping up out of nowhere.

“Your name is Zeb,” I said.

“I could change it.” Then in a louder voice, for the benefit of the whole table, he said, “Guess what? I got my extra credit and my science teacher says I’m a shoo-in for the summer program. I am officially a science geek.”

We all congratulated Zeb and I shook his hand, which was a mistake because he grabbed it and began kissing up my arm, Pepé Le Pew style. I swatted him back into the kitchen, ate my dinner, and prepared to go onstage.

But nothing could have prepared me for that night.

After the Wolf and Teasel dance, Timothy/Wolf kissed me, as he did every night. But this time, he didn’t do so in the tender, seductive manner he usually employed, but instead grabbed my ass and French kissed me, with lots of disgusting slobbery tongue. I had to kiss him back or break character. What us actors have to do in the name of art. As soon as we came offstage, I turned on him. “What the hell was that?” I wiped my lips for extra emphasis.

“You don’t have to do that.” Timothy actually looked hurt. “I was just trying to—”

“To what? It’s not choreographed, it’s not necessary, and unless you’ve been fooling all the people all the time, it’s not something you want to do with girls, so why?”

“I was told I needed to sex up the character, that I was coming off too gay.”

“Well, you could have warned me, is all I have to say.”

Blechh. Imagine being unexpectedly French kissed by your hairy brother. Blechh.

The rest of the show was okay. Bitsy didn’t have Marge’s voice, but she made a decent Mother Superior; I sang well, and we all escaped the Nazis.

But when Jeremy met me in the greenroom after the show, his smile was tight. “You were great.” He kissed me and gave me a single wrapped rose. “
This
flower is from me.”

We walked in strained silence toward Jeremy’s pickup. I’d decided to leave my new car at the theater. No use rubbing salt in the wound. Roger said he’d give me a ride to the show tomorrow.

Jeremy drove the short distance to Marge’s house, pulled into the drive, killed the engine, and turned to me. “Ivy,” he said. “I don’t know if I can take this. I mean, I knew you were an actress when we met. I was willing to put up with your screwy schedule since mine isn’t exactly normal.” He looked away from me. “I might even be able to get past your skimpy costumes…”

I thought about the even more provocative costumes I’d worn in the past and kept silent.

“But man,” Jeremy said. “It felt horrible, watching those old guys in the audience ogle my girlfriend. And what if we had a family?”

I had a fleeting glimpse of Jeremy tossing a laughing little boy into the air. My heart nearly stopped.

“How would I explain why Mama was half-naked onstage?”

“But—”

“But what was even worse tonight,” Jeremy clenched his fists in his lap, “was watching that guy kiss you.”

“Jeremy, he’s gay. Timothy, the actor playing Wolf, is—”

“He French kissed you! I could see that all the way from the audience.”

“He’s never done that before toni—”

“And he groped your butt. What’s worse, you looked like you enjoyed it.”

“My character is supposed to look like she enjoys—” A quick glance at Jeremy’s face told me this was not the way to go. “Listen, please just come inside for a drink and I can explain. Please?”

Jeremy didn’t say anything, but he did get out of the car, slamming the door as he did. I let us into Marge’s house, tossed my keys on the table into the hall, and headed toward the back of the house, Lassie at our heels. I’d get us a couple of beers, and we could sit on the patio and talk this through. We could.

But as we walked through the house I felt a breeze, saw the door to the back patio open, and heard a splash from the pool.

“What the hell?” Jeremy said, before I could say it.

We crept to the back door and peeked out into the night. A man was swimming in Marge’s pool, a black silhouette against the turquoise light of the pool. When he got to the shallow end of the pool, he noticed us, stopped, and climbed out of the pool. Roger—wearing the briefest, tightest Speedo I had ever seen.

“I’m sorry.” He nodded at Jeremy, but spoke to me. “I thought it was my night with you.”

Jeremy turned on his heel. “Wait!” I yelled, running after him. “I don’t know what’s going on, but—”

Jeremy stopped so abruptly I nearly ran into him. “I don’t either and I don’t want to. I think you’re part of a screwed-up world and I don’t want any part of it.” He shook his head, like he was getting me out of his system. “I’m sorry. I really liked you.” He left, not even bothering to shut the door behind him.

I ran back toward the pool. Roger reclined in a lounger, looking unperturbed.

“Why in the hell did you do that?” I shouted at him. “And what are you wearing?” I picked up his wet towel and tossed it over his Speedo bits. “We are not a couple, Roger! You and I, I mean. Jeremy and I, on the other hand, were, until—” I burst into tears. “What the hell?!” I wailed.

“I know we’re not a couple,” said Roger. “And—”

“Let’s go, Gorgeous!”

Roger sat up. “Is that Arnie?”

I ignored him. “Shit. I need to walk the dog.” I stomped off toward the house, but not quickly enough for Lassie. “Let’s go, Gorgeous!” Arnie’s recorded voice said again. I turned back to Roger. “You’d better be gone by the time I get back.”