Dial H for Hitchcock (10 page)

T
he next item on the agenda was a visit to On the Bias, Bridget’s vintage clothing store. It was only a couple of blocks away, but at $2.75 every fifteen minutes, I wasn’t leaving the car behind.

I found a spot right on Burton Way and deposited a couple of quarters in the meter. Then I tucked one of the suitcases under my arm, and pushed open the heavy celadon and gold door.

At the sound of the bell, Bridget’s dachshund, Helmut, trotted out and gave me the once-over. Then he backed up a few steps, steeled himself, and made a flying leap for the hem of my baby blue swing coat.

He missed.

“We’re not open,” said an African-American woman who was not my friend Bridget but a smaller, younger, and quite possibly more officious version of the same.

She was wearing a black turtleneck minidress, her waist
cinched with a wide black leather belt covered in bronze studs. She scared me, which I suppose was the idea.

I put down my suitcase. “I’m not a customer.”

“Indeed,” she replied, rising from her chair.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” A chip on the shoulder can feel like a boulder. I’d learned that from a fortune cookie.

“Nothing at all. Now if you don’t mind…” She gestured to the stack of papers on her desk. “I have to get back to my correspondence.”

“You go right ahead,” I said. “Is Bridget around?”

She studied her perfect red nails. “I’m afraid Miss Sugarhill is indisposed.”

“Can you tell her Cece is here?”

She frowned. “Cece who?”

“Cece Caruso.”

“I’ve never heard of you,” she said icily.

“Helmut knows me.” And hates me, I did not add.

“Helmut is a dog.”

“I’ll bet Bridget doesn’t know you talk like that.”

On cue, the boss emerged from the back room, also wearing a black turtleneck minidress with a wide leather belt covered in bronze studs. She would’ve scared me, too, if I didn’t know she liked to sleep in pj’s with little sheep on them.

“Well, well, well.” Bridget scooped up Helmut from the pink mohair chaise where he’d been busy grooming his privates. “Look who the cat dragged in.”

“Bridget, shouldn’t you be resting?” the woman asked, brows knit in concern. “Or shall I bring you a nice cappuccino?”

“A nice cappuccino?” Bridget pursed her lips. “Do you mean with chocolate sprinkles and extra foam?”

“Just the way you like it.”

“Good idea,” Bridget said. “And some of those liver treats for Helmut.”

“I like mine with no foam,” I said.

No response.

I tried again. “So. You must be Bridget’s new intern.” They rotated seasonally. Most of them followed up the experience with a visit to the psych ward.

“I prefer the term ‘assistant,’” the woman said. “I’m Bernadette. As in
Song of?”

I’d seen it. Jennifer Jones, speak of the devil, won an Oscar for her role as Bernadette, the young woman who has a vision of the Virgin Mary, played by an uncredited Linda Darnell, best known for her topless photos.

“Before you go,” said Bridget to Bernadette.

“Yes?”

“Tell me about Cece’s purse.” She clapped her hands. “Quick!”

Bernadette straightened her spine. “1958–66. Bonnie Cashin for Coach, pink glove leather with gilded frame, no chips, skinny chain handle and signature Mexican striped cotton lining. Approximate value: $225.00.”

“Open the purse, Cece,” Bridget demanded. “Show us the lining.”

There was almost three thousand dollars’ cash in there. No way was I opening it.

“I have a headache,” I said abruptly. “Can we go somewhere private and talk?”

Bridget looked at me curiously. “Okay.”

I followed Bridget into the back, whispering, “I’m worried about you. Haven’t you ever seen
All About Eve?
”

“Pish-tosh.” Bridget picked a green Fortuny gown off the seat of an old leather chair before sitting down and rolling over to where I was standing. “It’s you I’ve been worried about.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Yeah, well,” said Bridget with a grin. “It sounded good. Sit down, Cece. You’re making me nervous.”

I perched on the edge of a hard chair. “So I wanted to talk to you about something.”

“They’re ready!” announced Bernadette.

Bridget rolled over to Bernadette, took the drinks, and shooed her away after explaining that I was the dear friend who had canceled my wedding at the last second like a crazy person.

My cappuccino was tepid.

“Nice and hot,” Bridget said of hers, licking the foam from her lips. “Just the way I like it.” She rolled back toward me, stopping an inch away from my face. “All right. I’m all ears.”

“I’m taking a little trip,” I began.

“Again?”

“This one is work-related.”

“Speaking of work, you didn’t ask me how the audit went.” Bridget turned away. “I’m hurt.”

“How did it go?” I knew better than to get exasperated.

She beamed. “Did you know that both Jimmy Hoffa and Amelia Earhart disappeared on their way to IRS audits?”

I stared at her blankly.

“It’s a joke. My auditor had me in stitches. When he
wasn’t complimenting my books, that is. I’m getting a refund! William says he’s never met anyone as scrupulous as me.”

“Probably doesn’t get out much,” I mumbled.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” I reached out and gripped the arms of her chair so she’d stop rolling. “About my trip.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, but I’m planning on getting a lot done. It all depends on how fast I can work. Anyway, the thing is—” I heaved my suitcase onto the desk. “The thing is, part of the time I’m going to be in the middle of nowhere. No nail salons, no fancy restaurants, no ATMs, even. Which is what I wanted to talk to you about.” I unzipped the suitcase and flipped it open.

“What is all this?” Bridget asked, gaping at the piles of clothing inside. “Is this—no! This isn’t your Lanvin capelet, is it?”

It was. The rarest and most expensive vintage garment I’d ever owned.

“And this? What is this gorgeous thing all wrapped up in tissue?”

It was a black velvet Juliet cap covered with hand-embroidered flowers—irises, roses, hyacinths—and trimmed in the palest lavender silk.

“I found it at a garage sale in Evanston,” I replied. “I hope you’re proud of me. I practically snatched it out of the hands of a curator from the Chicago Art Institute. It’s from the twenties. French. I wore it exactly once. With my lavender bias-cut dress, the one that looks like Jean Harlow, with the gold feather trim? You’ve seen that dress. It’s at the bottom of the suitcase someplace.”

“Oh, my God,” Bridget said, no longer listening to me. “I love this!”

She’d grabbed a black, art deco evening bag with a lapis and canary yellow enameled clasp.

“And this!”

She dropped the bag and held up a muted olive green velveteen wrap from the seventies with an oversized white fur collar and fuchsia and tangerine paisley lining: Marlene Dietrich with a rock-and-roll twist.

“I’m glad you like it.” My voice was quiet. “Because I might need you to sell some of this stuff for me.”

“Sell it?” She looked aghast.

“Yes. In a hurry.”

“But—”

“And then wire me the cash.” I stopped. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Bridget frowned. “You’re in trouble.”

“Not exactly.”

“I think we should get Gambino on the phone.”

“No.”

“Cece. He’d want to know. He’d want to help.”

“It’s not possible.” I shook my head. “Okay?”

She shrugged her shoulders in resignation. “Fine.”

“This may be overkill. I just wanted to be sure I could count on you if I needed to.”

“You know you can.”

“All right,” I said, heading for the door. “Then I’m leaving.”

“Wait!”

“What?”

“You almost forgot your coat.” She helped me with it, then gave me a rare hug.

“Thanks,” I said. “I mean it.”

As I was walking out to the car, I felt something in the pocket that hadn’t been there before.

Five hundred bucks and a Hershey bar.

I smiled as I pulled away from the curb.

There’s no substitute for a true friend.

O
ne more stop, then I was flying the proverbial coop.

I’d never particularly noticed the two-story building, which was a block and a half east of West Hollywood City Hall and sorely in need of a paint job.

The lobby was your standard shabby affair. Stained linoleum tiles, peeling wallpaper, no directory. The only sign of life was an overflowing trash can.

I climbed the stairs to the second floor. The landing was covered in shag carpet of an indeterminate hue. There was a wood veneer console at the far end, and somebody named Phil had traced his name in the dust. I followed the sound of laughter down the hallway to the single open door.

A pretty brunette was sitting at the desk. Above her head was a sign that read DERMALUXE COSMOCEUTICALS.

“Hasta luego,”
she said into the phone. “Can I help you, Miss?”

“I hope so.”

“Great! You’re in good hands.” She whipped out a thermometer. “We’re not going to get an accurate reading on your basal temperature, it’s too late in the morning, but it’ll give us an idea of where to start. Ready?”

“No,” I said, backing toward the door.

“Reluctance is perfectly natural. Skepticism, even. But do you know how the system works? You pick a target date—say your wedding—and we develop a custom skin-care regimen based on your basal temperature and hormonal balance, keeping in mind the pheremonic boost caused by joyful expectation.”

“I’m not exactly wedding material,” I said.

“High school reunion, perhaps?”

“Actually, I’m looking for Gersh Investigations. Is it somewhere around here?”

“Gersh Investigations? Why didn’t you say so?” The thermometer went back into its case. “You’ve come to the right place.” She slid open the top drawer of her desk and sifted through some papers. “Here it is.” Out came a shiny plaque that read
GERSH INVESTIGATIONS.
She studied it, frowned, exhaled onto its surface, then rubbed it with her sleeve before positioning it on her desk. “Um-hmm. Okay. Ready.” She cleared her throat. “Sy is out right now, but I’m going to give him a call and get him over here, so don’t move. He’s in the neighborhood. He never goes far.” Her hand flew up to her heart. “He’s such a sweetheart. All his clients are like family to him.”

“Who said I was a client?” I asked.

“Whatever.” She already had him on the phone. “Sy? Hi,
it’s Esperanza, at the office. I have a woman here—yeah, tall, long curlyish hair, nicely dressed. White cropped pants, blue kind of twirly coat. What? Oh, sure.” She looked up at me. “Are you Cece Caruso?”

I wasn’t sure how to answer that. “I—”

“Yes,” she said, jumping the gun, “it’s her. Okay. I’ll tell her. See you soon. No problem.” She hung up. “He’ll be here in a jiffy. Sit down.” She gestured toward a plush chair in the corner. “Would you like a magazine while you wait?”

“I’m fine,” I said.

“I know you’re here to see Sy, but you might want to peek at one of our brochures.” She pointed to the coffee table, where they were neatly fanned out. “We’re launching at Cosmoprof in Bologna this spring. There are franchise opportunities. You’d be getting in on the ground floor.”

“Thanks.” I sat down and pulled the manila envelope out of my tote bag.

I was giving Sy exactly ten minutes.

So here’s how I saw it.

Somebody showed up here, pretending to be me, most likely the same person who hung out with Anita those last weeks of her life, drinking cranberry martinis and talking girl talk. Maybe it was Chantal. Maybe it wasn’t. Whoever it was hired Sy to follow Anita Colby, and possibly even to break into her apartment, which I know he must’ve done because how else would he have gotten his hands on a bunch of letters from Anita’s crazy ex-boyfriend in Bakersfield? Anyway, the point was, once Sy saw me in the flesh, he’d realize that he’d been had. Then he’d be angry. And then we’d put our heads together to try and figure out where the imposter was hiding.

The false Cece.

She was the key to all of this.

“Here I am!” said a skinny little man who materialized out of thin air, like a rabbit being pulled from a hat.

“Sy?” I jumped to my feet.

“None other.” He yanked up his gray trousers, which were several sizes too big.

“Have we met?” I demanded.

Maybe I was a little too intense. He opened his mouth and yawned nervously. “Sorry. Late night. Big stakeout.” He tried to make eye contact with Esperanza, who was making a show of tidying up her desk. “Esperanza!”

“Yes?”

“Hold all calls.”

“What about Big John?”

“You can put Big John through.”

Sy ushered me into his office and took a seat behind an ugly desk with nothing on it except a plastic pumpkin filled with cellophane-wrapped mints and one of those pendulums that’s supposed to prove Newton’s theory of something or other. Sy smiled obsequiously. He had pearly white veneers, which had the odd effect of aging him.

“Well?” I asked.

“Have we met?” He wrinkled his brow. “That was the question, right?” He swung one of the silver balls and the horrible clacking began.

“That’s right.” I took off my coat, spun around, turned my head to give him both profile views. “You’ve never seen me before in your life, have you?”

“No,” he replied.

Thank God. “Would you be willing to tell that to the police?”

“You in some kind of trouble?” Sy asked. “Because trouble is my business. It says that on my card.”

“Of course I’m in trouble! Aren’t all your clients in trouble?”

“You’ve got that right, sister. But I’m a little confused. Are we
supposed
to have met?”

“Yes. When you took the case. I mean, you met someone named Cece Caruso that day. Me. In theory.”

He stared at me blankly.

“Didn’t you?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “You and I have spoken only on the phone, Ms. Caruso. We’ve never had a face-to-face until this very moment.”

“Right,” I said, sitting down.

“Now,
Marv
—him you’ve met in person. He was here the day you came in. Holding down the fort, so to speak. Esperanza was sick. Me, too. Bad oysters. But I doubt you’re confusing me with Marv. He’s a big guy. High blood pressure.” Sy shook his head.

“Marv,” I said. “Of course. And where is Marv right now?”

“Honolulu.”

“Working on a case?”

“A tan.”

“Can we call him?”

“Nope.”

“Why?”

“He’s on vacation. His first in eighteen years. No wonder he has trouble with his ticker. Stress kills.”

It was then that I made the executive decision to go on the offensive. “Tell me, Sy, was it you or Marv who stole these from Anita Colby’s apartment?” I pulled the stack of envelopes from the manila envelope and waved them menacingly. “I’m concerned about the illegality of that. I think it’s imperative we get Marv into this discussion, and I mean now.”

“Ms. Caruso, you’ve gotta take it easy. You’ve got some short-term memory loss here or something. You might want to see a doctor. I’m happy to recommend—”

“I’m under the care of an excellent neurologist already.”

“Glad to hear it. Because Marv and I had nothing to do with getting those letters. You were the one who gave Marv those letters, to assist in the investigation. Don’t you remember? After dropping your stuff all over the office, I might add. Marv said he’d never seen anybody so
verklempt.
You gotta relax, Ms. Caruso! We are
completely uninterested
in how you got your hands on those letters. Your business is your business, even if it is trouble, which is also
our
business, as I might have mentioned. But speaking of trouble, we do owe you an apology about something. Mea culpa,” he said, raising his hands in the air. “Marv and I went out to Bakersfield like you asked, but All-America Auto was closed that day. So we never dealt definitively with the boyfriend question.”

At that moment, the intercom buzzed.

“That’ll be Big John,” he said. “How ya doing, B.J.? Give me a minute.” He put Big John on hold and walked around to the other side of his desk. “Good luck in all of your endeavors, Ms. Caruso. One last thing. About that $1200 invoice we sent you?”

I rose to my feet. “The check is in the mail.”

Back in the reception area, Esperanza was watering a plant.

“Stop by anytime,” she said. “You probably know you’re normal to oily, but that’s just the tip of the iceberg. It’s best if you take your own temperature before you get out of bed or even speak, after a minimum of five hours’ sleep. Have a great day.”

I’d shoved my pink purse into my tote bag, buttoned up my coat, and was halfway through the door when Esperanza called me back.

“Sorry,” she said, running back around to the other side of her desk. “I’m sure you’ve got someplace to be, but I don’t want you to forget this again.”

“What’s this?” It looked like a business card.

“When you kind of lost it the other day, you know, dropped your purse and everything spilled out all over the place, you left this behind. Marv gave it to me and I completely forgot to stick it in the envelope I mailed you. Hope it’s not too late.”

I flipped over the card.

Cece Caruso had an appointment at Orchid Thai Massage in less than two hours.