Death of the Office Witch (14 page)

“And you're right, he's a kook,” Detective Gordon said behind them, “but he gets those results in spite of himself.”

14

Mary Ann Leffler's clothes still hung in a corner of the walk-in closet over her shoes, her empty suitcases on the floor in another corner. Two drawers in one dresser were half-full of things that didn't hang. A laptop computer sat open on a bedside table. Makeup and toiletries were scattered sparsely across a bathroom the size of Charlie's bedroom.

Mary Ann's presence hadn't made much of a dent in all this space. Neither did her absence. Charlie obediently ran her fingers over the terry-cloth robe hanging behind the bathroom door, parted the clothes on the hangers—mostly blue jeans, sweats, sundresses, and informal cotton knits. She picked up a shoe. “So is she dead or what?”

“You're supposed to tell me,” Detective Gordon said as she passed him on her way to the balcony.

“I'm not getting a feeling either way. I don't think I'd know it if I did.” And I don't like pawing through other peoples' things. It's sad.

“I heard you up in the orange grove.” Besides a bull neck and a smirk, Detective Gordon had freckles, lots of freckles. “‘Touch my things,' you said.”

There had to be an explanation for that, too. She just couldn't think of one. Charlie didn't believe in psychics, but if there were such a thing a person wouldn't reach the ripe old age of thirty-one before knowing she was one.

If I was psychic—whatever that is—I'd know where Libby was last Friday night and how she feels about Jesus.

The wind was growing stronger and seemed to blow sound as well as sand in circles. For instance, she could hear the wind chimes on the deck above and behind her, but not the voices of the two men on the beach in front of and slightly below her.

Keegan Monroe and David Dalrymple stood in that peculiarly male pose of discreet discomfort—hands deep in pants pockets, eyes glued to their shoes, rocking back and forth, shrugging with their elbows. Less cerebral types would probably be spitting, as well.

If something had happened to Mary Ann by the same hand that did in Gloria, the only people that Charlie knew who were even acquainted with both of them were herself, Keegan, Richard Morse, and Roger Tuschman. But their common connections to weird types could be infinite. Or Mary Ann could have seen who killed Gloria and been a threat. Anybody who thought Charlie had some kind of pipeline to dead or missing people or any innate expertise in matters of murder simply did not know Charlie Greene. She grinned, remembering her daughter and best friend going into hysterics at the very idea last Saturday night, and heard herself tell Detective Gordon, “She's in her car.”

“Who, the Leffler woman?”

“What?”

But he yelled to Dalrymple, “She says she's in the rental car.”

The homicide detective and the screenwriter hurried across the scuttling sand. The wind chimes went bonkers.

Oh that's just great, Greene, now what are you going to do, put on a turban and buy a crystal ball? How about some tarot cards?

“Where?”

Dalrymple's sharpness surprised her into saying, “Underwater somewhere. Maybe somewhere not too far.”

He drove her up and down the coastal highway, into and out of every beachfront and access road and even some driveways before he gave up and let Keegan drive her back to the agency.

“How do you know she's in her car underwater?” Keegan asked.

“I don't. I don't even know why I said that. It's like I'm trying to get out of work, for God's sake.” Charlie checked her watch and groaned. “You know what I think? I think I'm the only sane person left in this world. I think I'm letting you all talk me into something here. I think you're right about the ulcer.”

“You know what I think? I think there's a great story in Lieutenant David Dalrymple.”

“He told you about Deborah Ann and the Chicago fruitcake, right?”

“Charlie, think of it—a homicide detective sympathetic to the paranormal arts. Sounds like a great concept for a TV series to me.”

“I don't know, Keegan, it's pretty original.”

“Yeah, you're probably right.”

“Of course, you might make the cop a woman. It would have to be on spec. Write up a treatment and I'll show it around.” She told him about Tina Horton at CBS that morning.

“She pitched to Shapiro himself? Think he'll pick it up?”

“He was very interested. My gut feeling is it has a chance.” My gut feeling is also that he'll want to buy Tina out and get a name to write the pilot, offer her her own show later. The name will be a guy, they'll move the location to Seattle, and Tina will get screwed out of the credits and her own show later will never materialize. I'd sure like to be wrong on this one. “So if something has happened to Mary Ann, where does that leave
Shadowscapes
?”

“All but finished. Second act needs shoring. But if I can unplug her suggestions, I could have it in in two days.” There was an odd catch in his voice as if the emotion behind his words threatened to choke him.

Charlie glanced at his profile and then back at the traffic. Could this frustrating business have broken one of her best clients? Could Keegan have done something awful to Mary Ann Leffler? Could the woman simply have offered one too many frustrations for this normally even-tempered man? Or did Charlie actually know him as well as she thought she did? Writers had many hidden places in their psyches.

“So tell me again about Lady Macbeth in her submerged car,” he said carefully, as if aware of her sudden attack of paranoia. “I can't buy the business about our talking you into saying what you did back there.”

“Have you ever been hypnotized? No? Well, I have. By a guy years ago at a party in college. I can remember him to this day telling me while I was supposedly under that I wouldn't remember anything that went on. I also remember him telling me that later on in the evening long after I'd awakened, I would go up to this other guy and kiss him, but that I would not remember that my hypnotist had suggested it. And I did.”

“Did what?”

“Did go up and kiss this guy and
did
remember that my hypnotist had suggested it. And I really couldn't tell you if the kiss was a lark or if the suggestion was so powerful I couldn't help myself even though I knew full well where it came from.”

“The power of suggestion.”

“The power of suggestion. And when they find Mary Ann alive and well or find her dead but not in her car underwater we'll know I said that because everybody has been on my back because of this psychic thing. I am
not
the L.A. fruitcake.”

All hell had broken loose at the office. The Vance was on the front desk because The Kid and Tweety had had it out. Richard Morse was bouncing off the walls because so much was happening at once and Charlie wasn't there.

“Christ, you been in Malibu all day? I'm going to start hittin' up the police department for your commissions. Listen, Steve took the manuscript home, says he'll get back to you on it in two, three weeks.”

“Dorian got Steven Hunter to look at
The Corpse That Got Iced
? I'll believe that when I get that phone call.”

“Ay, don't underestimate Dorian. That's your problem. You underestimate people just because they're men. Listen, babe, you're on a roll here. First the
Alpine Tunnel
, and now ZIA wants a call back, get in there. Oh, and CBS is even asking about Ellen Maxwell. Thanks for the mention. Maurice is on the line to her now.”

“But Tina just pitched this morning.”

“She pitched to Shapiro himself, right? Things can happen fast when you start at the top. That's your problem, no confidence. All you women are like that. Good luck comes in threes you know.”

“How about bad luck?”

“Well, yeah, that too, but that's everybody's problem.”

When Charlie Greene the agent staggered into the condo in Long Beach that evening, she was greeted by a frantic Libby before she could kick off her pumps.

“Hurry, Mom, we're invited to Doug's for dinner tonight and Mrs. McDougal gets rabid about tardiness. I tried to call you at the office but the lines were busy, and then when I did get through, Larry was so pissed about something he kept on sputtering and I couldn't make him listen. What are you doing, Mom? Hurry.”

Charlie Greene the mother was leaning her spine against the kitchen door trying to focus. “Libby, I'm exhausted. I wish you wouldn't spring this stuff on me. And Mr. Esterhazie and I really aren't—”

“Mom, on top of everything else … are you a les?”

“Whaaat?”

Dinner at the Esterhazie mansion was certainly a step up from macaroni and cheese with Dom Perignon. The Greenes and the Esterhazies dined in a small informal room just off the kitchen that overlooked the bay window that overlooked the lighted swimming pool in the backyard. They sat at a cozy round table that seated four comfortably—could have handled six—and were served formally by Mrs. McDougal. The catch was that to get to this cozy back room you had to walk through the intimidating formal dining room, where the table could have handled twenty-four without blushing.

“She won't sit with us when we have guests,” Ed explained in a whisper. “It's embarrassing, but what can I do? I think there are laws against harassing housekeepers.”

“Too bad there aren't a few against harassing parents.” Charlie smiled sweetly at Libby, who grinned a nasty, braces-filled reply.

Dinner was a simple little shellfish casserole. Individual casseroles, actually. Simple chunks of shrimp, crab, oyster, lobster, and asparagus tips floating in a rich cream sauce and baked in paper-thin pastry. Served with a white wine Charlie could actually stomach, stuffed artichokes, and crusty rolls. Brie and fresh strawberries for dessert.

Ed was in sport shirt and slacks tonight, but even they looked pricey and tailored. Charlie was still dressed for the CBS meeting in black skirt, hose, and pumps with a black shell and red blazer. She would gladly have killed to get out of the pantyhose.

The kids conveniently disappeared afterward, and Mrs. McDougal served coffee in Ed's study. Ed's study was three times the size of Charlie's office on Wilshire Boulevard.

“The dinner was marvelous,” Charlie told the housekeeper, whose face completely rearranged itself when she smiled. Thin, pale, tired, and sinewy was Charlie's first impression of the woman. And disapproving. Definitely disapproving. But the thick gray hair was cut short and stylishly brushed upward, and when she smiled, all the droop lines tilted up to join the haircut and she was lovely.

“Don't forget the amaretto and the fire, Mr. Esterhazie.” And Mrs. McDougal left them alone in the dim lighting.

“I wasn't kidding about the dinner, but how do we scotch this arranged romance, Ed? Libby practically accused me of being a lesbian if I didn't come tonight, and frankly I've had an incredible day and am this far from passing out.”

“We do have a problem here, Charlie.” His lips had been fighting a curl all evening, and he finally let them catch up to the grin in his eyes. “For one thing I think they have an accomplice in Mrs. McDougal, who really runs this place. And you played into their hands just now with your compliments on the dinner.”

“You're not going to build a fire? That would really put me out.”

“Tell you what, I'll pour the amaretto and forget the fire. You take off your shoes, loosen your tie,” he pushed an enormous brown leather ottoman up to her chair, “rest yourself, and we'll make our plans.”

“They're probably watching from somewhere.” She tried to see through the French windows next to the fireplace, but they only reflected the room.

“I'm sure of it.” He sat on the ottoman near her bare feet and poured tiny cut-glass glasses full of liqueur. “Charlie, are you currently involved with someone special?”

“No, but that doesn't mean I'm a lesbian.”

“Well, I am.”

“A lesbian?”

“Involved.”

“That's our answer.” She took a grateful sip of coffee. “I can just tell Libby that and—”

“It's not so simple. We have two major problems here. One is that your Libby can talk my son into anything.”

“That I can believe.”

“And the other is that neither he nor Mrs. McDougal approve of my current.”

“What's the matter with her?”

“She enjoys cooking and other domestic arts, which my housekeeper finds threatening, and she's a frustrated mother, which my son finds threatening. I think they have decided that you, as a dedicated career woman, are the answer. What I am not sure of is what Libby hopes to get out of it all.”

“Well, this is pretty fancy living compared to our little nest. Maybe she wants to live in style. Which is moot because next week she'll want something else. I have a lot of trouble believing she wants a father. Another parent would just double the rules and expectations she's determined to avoid now. She does keep mentioning your belonging to the yacht club though, seems incredibly impressed by that.”

“You know, that might be it? What exactly do you know of the local social strata?”

“Absolutely nothing. I get my self-esteem from the size of my commissions. Why?”

“The social life of a certain set of young people revolves, particularly in summer, around the pool at the yacht club and selected social events. Although families belong in a manner of speaking, they do so through the auspices of a male head of household.”

The good old boys strike again. “Now that sounds like something Libby would connive for.”

“What's the best way to get her to stop wanting something?”

“Give it to her. Once she's got it, she doesn't want it anymore. Goes on to new wants.”

“What if we pretend to go along with their little plans?”