Dim Sum Dead (16 page)

“Is it time for dessert?” she asked.

“Mama? Are you up from your nap dear? Meet our new friend, Madeline. She’s a very clever cook. She made the girls a marvelous lunch.”

“Is that dessert?” the tiny old woman asked again.

How totally bizarre. Mother and daughter, dressed as twins.

“Sonia,” Catherine called out. “Let’s set another plate for Mama at the table.” She turned to her mother. “Mama, go get a seat, honey.” Catherine spoke loudly into her mother’s hearing aid.

The old woman smiled, revealing a little too much of her toothless gums, her head bobbing without a pause. Sonia led Mama through the butler’s pantry and on to the dining room.

“Mama’s ninety-three. Doesn’t she look fabulous?” Catherine asked.

“She’s amazing.”

“The girls call her minimom.” She laughed loudly. “Get it?”

I had no trouble getting the nickname, and then I had an idea.

“She lives here with you?”

“Oh, yes. She had an entire wing upstairs, but she began to get tired climbing all the stairs up to it. We had to give her Sonia’s room, but then Sonia lives out now, so it’s worked just fine.”

“How nice,” I said. And I was amazed at how sincere I sounded, when inside I was raging.

“And doll,” Catherine said to me, as we walked together toward the dining room, “I wouldn’t believe everything you hear from Eva James. That lush has been sipping Tommy Collins since ten-thirty this morning.”

After I made sure the old gals were seated and dessert was served and lavishly praised, I rushed back through the kitchen. I remembered what Catherine Hill had said to her friends when they wanted to know where the book was being kept. She had said, “It’s in a safe place. Trust Mama.”

Trust Mama.

At the time she said it, I’d thought Catherine Hill was saying “trust me.” But that was before I met Mama.

I found a door just off the kitchen and turned the knob. A bedroom, just as I had expected. This was the location of the maid’s room in every old house I’d ever worked in, right off the kitchen, perfectly situated for the help. And now, I knew,
it was Mama’s.

I slipped into the room and shut the door behind me. The room wasn’t large, but it was pretty, decorated in a soft shade of peach and neatly kept. The heavy peach damask bedspread showed only the slight indentation made, I was sure, by the body of a napping woman who could only weigh eighty pounds.

Where would they hide the book? I pulled up the peach dust ruffle and checked under the bed, I tried opening a few dresser drawers. No dice. I walked across the small room and entered the adjoining bathroom. It, too, was decorated in the same shade of peach. The sink and the toilet and the tub, everything the same. The little room was perfectly clean. On the sink was a glass holding Mama’s dentures.

Their secrets. Their secrets were submerged. What did that remind me of? It was a line. A line from a movie. It was a line in one of Catherine Hill’s movies, but which one? I thought it out. I had rented a bunch of old films not long ago. Holly and I stayed up late watching them. Yes!
Heavenly Girls in the Forbidden City.
Teenaged Helen Howerton was hiding teenaged Catherine Hill’s diary from the nuns. And where did she hide it?

The toilet. I picked up the heavy peach porcelain top and moved it slightly ajar.

Astounding. There, taped to the inside of the tank, submerged in cold water, was a large clear plastic storage bag, the kind famous for its airtight seal. Catherine Hill watched those commercials.

I pulled the bag out of the tank and dried it using one of Mama’s fluffy peach terry-cloth bath towels. Inside the bag I could clearly see the prize.

With one quick unzip, I had my hands on Dickey McBride’s red-leather book. I was high with my triumph. Here, too, in fact, was even the silver case that held the dragon dagger. I had lied, eavesdropped, and prowled, but I was victorious.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have another second to enjoy the thrill of espionage. For at that moment, I heard a noise. I
looked up. The knob on the door to the little peach bathroom was turning.

Quick, before even the shock wave of fear reached my heart, I rezipped the plastic bag, and stuffed the entire package into the back of my short designer skirt, down between the waistband and my back.

The door began to open.

I spun and sat down, fully clothed, on the toilet, praying the book wouldn’t fall in.

When the door swung wide, there stood minimom.

I glared at her with an intensity that required no acting on my part,
whatsoever.
I hissed, “Excuse me, this room is being used.”

She stopped and stared, extremely alarmed. Her old eyes caught the completely unexpected sight of a young woman, me, using her loo. She gasped with such force, I feared for her heart. Her toothless mouth formed in a wobbly “O.” Catherine Hill’s ancient mother sucked in air until I wondered if she would ever remember to exhale.

But unfortunately, her befuddlement was so great, she simply couldn’t manage to move.

“I’ll be right out,” I said, “if I could just have a little privacy.” I had snaked one of my hands behind me and used it to hold on to the book, which was snug and stiff against the small of my back, and quite uncomfortable. I realized the porcelain top to the toilet tank was just ajar. Hell, if minimom stood there gasping much longer, she just might notice.

“Oh.” She found her voice at any rate. “Oh, my.”

Just
leave.

“How embarrassing,” she said, still rattled and trying to find her way. “I…you see…I forgot my teeth.”

I eyed the contents of the glass that stood on the sink.

“I need my teeth,” she said, “and I didn’t know…”

“I’ll be right out,” I said, my voice singing a cheery if insistent note. “Honest. Right away. In two shakes. Just give me a minute alone, please.”

If I sat there any longer, surely she’d notice that I had not really assumed the proper position, my skirt was in place
and I wasn’t using the facility as anything more than an odd chair.

“Oh,” she said, finally reacting. “Must I go out and wait?”

“Would you please?” I asked, finding a smile somewhere and pasting it on.

“Of course. Why, of course.” Minimom doddered her way out, slowly, very slowly closing the door behind her.

In an instant, I readjusted the tank, flushed the toilet for verisimilitude, and stood straight up, checking to see that my short navy blue suit jacket would cover the back of my skirt where the bulky package was hidden. It would just have to do.

I pulled open the door. The old woman was about to leave her bedroom. No, no. I couldn’t have her tell her daughter that she’d found me in her bathroom. Even if the poor old dear hadn’t yet realized how physically close I had been to their hidden secrets, Catherine Hill would guess my motives in a half a second.

“Minnie,” I said loudly, mindful of her hearing aid.

“Wha…?” She stopped and slowly turned back. She saw me and smiled. “Take your time, young lady. Wash your hands. Do whatever you need to do. I will go—”

“No, no, no, no!” I rushed over to her and turned her around, faced her back toward her own little bathroom. “Your dentures…remember?”

“Oh.” She looked startled, raising her hand to her sunken mouth. “Oh, yes. Thank you, dear.” And without another thought, she headed back toward her bathroom.

I eased myself out the door of her room, back into the kitchen. How much time would little mama take to put in her choppers and get back to the gang? How long until she told of the terrible faux pas, walking in on a young lady in the john. I knew I didn’t have much time to get out of there.

“Miss Madeline,” Sonia called, catching sight of me.

“I’m in a hurry. Thanks for your help, Sonia.” I grabbed my purse and moved across the kitchen, fast. I had to get to the front door before any of Catherine Hill’s friends suspected I had found Dickey McBride’s red book.

“You’re leaving?” Sonia’s voice trailed after me, but I
was already down the main hall and almost into the entry. I pulled open the front door, glancing back inside the house, afraid someone would jump out and stop me.

But that was ridiculous. These were old ladies, after all. It was only my guilty conscience imagining forceful pursuers, expecting to be caught. My hormones on overload, I was just overreacting to the urgent need to make a quick getaway.

I sprinted down the steps.

But I was not alone. There, standing right between me and my car was the chard guy.

Okay, so my heart was already pumping pretty fast. It got a jolt, just the same.

“You!” He looked at me, as startled and uncomfortable, if possible, as I was.

“Yes,” I said, smiling brightly. “I remember you. You remember me. Very good. Now—” I reached for the handle of my black Grand Wagoneer.

The man was about my height, but powerfully built and tense. He wouldn’t budge, blocking my way, breathing through his mouth. His face was stern. No doubt he was trying to work it all out.

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone anything. I’ve got to go.”

“You wait,” he said, pointing at me with the garden tool in his hand.

I looked at it closely, as it was only inches from my face. Oh, good. A trowel.

“Can’t wait,” I said, as lightly as I could. I wondered how many hours had passed since I left little mama in the peach powder room. “Must go. Now.”

“No.” The chard man squinted and pointed the trowel more forcefully my way.

I could run. I could abandon my car and just run. But then there was the eight-foot-high electric fence. And the gate down at the end of the drive. It was locked. I would never get out before he called his boss.

“See here,” I said, feeling the plastic bag that I’d stuck in my waistband beginning to slip down. The book. Slipping.
The time. Ticking. This was getting out of control.

“You come with me,” chard man said. He didn’t have what you would call a friendly voice.

“No,” I said, aware that the zipper bag had now really and truly slipped another inch. The bad news was the book was now slipping down behind me at an alarmingly quick rate of speed. The good news: I had somehow luckily managed to stick the zipped package inside the waistband of my underwear as well as my skirt, and the damn bag wasn’t likely to slip much further.

Unless…

I realized with a rising trill of panic, how gravity works. How heavy the package felt now that it was no longer wedged between my back and the tight waist of my suit skirt. What if the weight of the small red-leather book and the silver dagger case was stronger than the elastic that held up my damn panties? I had a momentary out-of-body awareness; the vivid flash of me, standing near the steps of Catherine Hill’s mansion, threatened with a garden implement, with my silk underwear falling down around my ankles and the red book sitting on the pavement for chard man to find.

“Catherine and I made up,” I said, talking faster. “She and I just had lunch. You’ve seen my car here, haven’t you? We are just fine. But if I don’t get the new
Soap Opera Digest
I promised her right away, I’m afraid she’ll be cross with me. I must run this errand, and fast.”

“You’re getting her a magazine?” he asked, still upset. But I had gotten his attention. He earned his living making the grande dame inside the mansion happy.

“She said to be back in ten minutes and it’s already been…” I looked at my watch, crossing my legs as subtly as I could. Hell. It had been ten minutes already. Minimom was probably right this very minute telling her upsetting tale about finding that young lady cook in her peach bathroom. I looked at the front door, sure it would open immediately, my panic real.

“She wants it right away?” he said, connecting the real fear on my face to the fear he must live with on a daily basis—of the consequences of not pleasing the boss lady.

“Could you just hit the gate button for me, and I’ll run down to Sunset? I’ll be back in a few minutes, and maybe Miss Hill won’t be mad at me.” Hey, we were on the same team, see?

He put his tool down and moved across to one of the front pillars and I saw the button that released the remote control gate. Mustn’t displease the boss.

“So…” he said, about to punch the gate release.

I scrambled into my car, hastily sliding in and safely sitting down on Dickey McBride’s secret book before it had a chance to fall to the ground.

“You are not here about that day in the market?” he said, his face still worried as his finger pressed the gate release.

As the gate at the bottom of the driveway slowly retracted, I said, “Not at all. Think nothing of it.” I turned my key in the ignition. The gate that barred access to the street was opening slowly, but it was not open nearly enough, yet, for the large Grand Wagoneer to escape.

I put it into drive and punched the gas, pulling my SUV all the way down to the wrought-iron bars, willing it to move more quickly on its track. I checked my rearview mirror, heart still thumping. I was almost out. Almost out.

In the rearview I could see the front door of the large house opening. Holy shit.

Yes, in the mirror I clearly saw Catherine Hill, gold turban flashing, striding out her front door.

“Come on,” I said, urging the gate to open faster. I only needed a few inches more to squeak through and I’d be free. “Come on.”

My eyes flicked back to the scene behind. Catherine was turning to push the remote control button, to stop the gate. To stop me. She almost reached it. Chard man was running down the drive toward me. Through my closed windows, I could hear him his voice yelling, “Hey, stop. Stop!” I locked my doors.

He was halfway down the drive, closing on me, waving his arms. With my eyes glued to the rearview mirror, I stepped on the accelerator. I didn’t even look to see if I was going to clear the opening gate. And then, like a flash, I was out. Down Bellagio with the pillared prison rapidly disap-

B
ack at home, several hours later, I felt the need to be outside. The January night was mild and cool, probably mid-fifties, but I was running a little hot. I needed to clear my head after spending the last hours of the afternoon indoors reading the red book.

In the little courtyard behind my house, a high retaining wall was literally all that separated me from the Hollywood Freeway. The city-built cinder-block wall was covered now with sprays of bougainvillea vines and white twinkle lights. A steady hum of unseen freeway traffic droned like a passing jet. I had become so accustomed to living with this neighbor that I almost didn’t notice the rush of noise as I entertained a late-night guest. We had to sit close together, Honnett and I, in order to hear each other clearly.

I had called Honnett to tell him the news. I needed to tell him about the red book and what it meant. But our positions were difficult, as always. He needed rules. I needed answers. And there were other things that would be left unsaid.

“Maddie, don’t do this to me. I’m a cop.”

I looked up at Honnett. He was rubbing his eyebrows like that would help ease us out of the trouble he was sure I’d gotten into.

“Listen. It was all right, I think.”

“Really?”

We were sitting in the cold on a patio bench. I think neither of us was ready to be alone together inside my warm
and cozy house with all its memories and temptations. It was almost ten o’clock. I had discovered what the blasted red book really was. I’d just spent the late afternoon with Wes reading Dickey McBride’s diary.

“I didn’t break any laws, so relax,” I said. “I was in the little bathroom off of the maid’s room. When the door opened, I tucked the book behind my back, into my waistband.”

“Madeline. C’mon.” Honnett looked really sore.

“Look, Honnett. It was my book! Well, it was Wesley’s, and I was acting for him. It was stolen property, anyway, and I was reclaiming it.”

“It doesn’t work that way. Don’t you realize what you did? Taking that damn book compromises any use it might have as evidence.”

“The hell with that. You think I care about some case you’re never going to make, anyway? Let’s be real. This isn’t some drug dealer you’re trying to put away. This is Catherine Hill we’re talking about. You told me she was untouchable.”

“No. Not untouchable. I told you we wouldn’t want to bother her for some petty—”

“Exactly,” I cut in. “And what’s the crime? Possessing a ratty old book, with almost no value, written by an old friend of hers? Don’t make me laugh. No one would have given you a warrant.” I shook my head in frustration, but tried to calm down. “Listen. There was no way to do this straight. If I’d left the book there, you think it would have still been there when Cath Hill finally decided to permit a search?” I didn’t wait for him to answer. “Anyway, I was there. I lucked out. I found the damn book. But man, Honnett. I was practically shocked out of my socks when little Mama opened the bathroom door.”

“What did she say?” Honnett asked.

I sighed. Finally, he was listening.

After all, I found Dickey McBride’s diary. I got it back. What was done was done. The implications of how highly I had disappointed him and how unwilling he was to help me would be ashes we could poke through some other day.

“She understood. I had to pee.”

“Nice detail, Bean. Less graphic, please,” he said, going back to rubbing his eyebrows.

“And the cool thing was, I made it out of there. It felt electrifying, you know? Like very powerful. I think I drove seventy-five all the way home.”

“Don’t tell me this, Mad. I’ll worry about you. I mean it.”

I smiled. “There I was, wasting my time all afternoon, chatting politely and flattering those old movie sweethearts, and cooking for them, and what did that get me?”

“I’m impressed. It got you inside the house.”

“Yes. But I got nothing.”

He put his arm around me, casually. I liked it there just fine. I think he was figuring he might as well accept what I’d done.

“It wasn’t until I starting working smarter, not harder, that I found out anything at all.”

“Please, Maddie. Don’t give me all the details, okay? Seriously.”

“Okay. But Wesley and I read McBride’s diary. It was all handwritten, which was not so easy to read. There were plenty of references that were so obscure we couldn’t figure them out. Lots of dates and initials. But we marked two passages that could be important.”

“So what do you think happened?” Honnett asked. “Are you saying these old movie stars were behind the mugging in Santa Monica?”

“Of course they were. Aren’t you paying attention here? I saw the freaking chard guy riding the freaking power mower over Cath Hill’s freaking Marathon II sod! It was him. He was even wearing the gold ring I remembered. And then later…” I stopped. After all, didn’t Honnett just say he couldn’t handle all the details? I tried a different tack.

“Let me try to explain. After Wes found the mah-jongg set hidden behind the wall at Wetherbee, the only person he called was Quita McBride. He told her he was busy all day, meeting me in the morning in Santa Monica, yadda yadda, working on the house. He offered to bring the maj set to her
at the Sweet and Sour Club party that night. Wes was being his good-guy self, figuring he should return stuff that must have belonged to McBride.”

“I get that.”

“But Quita asked to meet him earlier that night at the Wetherbee house, so she could pick it up privately.”

“Does this make sense to you, Maddie? Because it sure doesn’t make any sense to me.”

“Look,” I said again, facing him. “At that point, Quita was the only one who knew Wesley had found Dickey McBride’s mah-jongg set. She probably knew that her husband used the case as a hiding place for his journal. Let’s say Quita suspected the journal had some pretty hot stuff on Dickey’s old movie crowd. I think she called Catherine Hill and offered to sell the journal to her, sight unseen. Quita was acting desperate for cash. So that makes sense.”

“Okay. And you’re saying Catherine Hill and her friends were scared of that diary. They had secrets from years ago, and they were afraid that maybe McBride wrote them down. The ladies were panicked that little Quita would shake them down. So, Catherine Hill decided to steal the book before Quita could blackmail them.”

“Right. Don’t you see? Once Quita had that book in her hands and had a chance to read the secrets in Dickey’s journal, what would keep her from being a permanent pain to Catherine and Rosalie and Eva and who-all? Quita could keep draining them for cash forever.”

“Yes, I see that, but…”

“I think Catherine Hill wasn’t about to let that happen. I talked this over with Wes. He remembers telling Quita that he wanted me to look at the mah-jongg set. He told Quita we were meeting at the Farmer’s Market. I bet she told Catherine Hill about it, too. And I bet Catherine Hill sent her handyman to grab it before Quita got a look.”

“You have an amazing mind,” Honnett said. He didn’t look happy about it, though.

“Thank you. And when I think about it from Quita’s side, it makes sense, too. It’s the only way to explain the crazy way
she had been acting all night. When she met us at the Wetherbee house, she didn’t care that Wes and I had lost the mah-jongg case. She only wanted to hear about the red book. And she panicked when she realized it was gone. She had been counting on a big payoff from Catherine Hill. Without the book, she couldn’t come up with the cash, and that scared her.”

“Yes. I see that.”

“It all fits. Those old women were scared of the book. When I was hiding in the pantry, I heard them talking, Honnett. I’m sure I’m right about this.”

“Don’t keep telling me about your illegal activities, Maddie. If you care for me at all.”

I looked at him. The first personal comment of the evening. “Honnett, come on. I checked it all out with Paul. You remember Paul?”

“That lawyer you hang out with.” He did not sound terribly impressed.

“Paul is the best lawyer on the planet. And he specializes in alternative law—you know, how to slip through the cracks and not get caught.”

“A fine friend. Everyone should have one like Paul.”

“Paul told me I don’t have anything to worry about. First, I was invited into Catherine Hill’s house as a guest. I didn’t break in.”

“Yes. Good.”

“Second, I was preparing lunch with Catherine Hill’s permission. No law against a caterer doing that. Believe me. And there’s no law that Paul is aware of that prohibits a caterer from spending a little time in the butler’s pantry.”

“True.”

“And third, I don’t believe there are any laws against using the bathroom when you’ve been invited into someone’s home.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“I didn’t crack open any safes. I didn’t pry open any locks. I simply took a little peek into the toilet tank…”

Honnett raised one eyebrow. It looked good on him.

“…to make sure the ballcock was in operating condition…because…”

“Because…” Honnett said, finishing my explanation, “…you are extremely careful about plumbing.”

I laughed. “True.”

“There is so much about you I never knew.” Honnett smiled.

“True again.”

“But then, see, we get to the nasty part. You stole private property from Miss Hill’s house.”

“No, no, no.” I shook my head. “Here’s the last point: Four, I was so lucky! I found a lost object at a new friend’s house.”

“You are so lucky.” He looked at me.

“Okay, yes I am. But, after all that work, don’t you want to hear about what I read in Dickey McBride’s diary?”

“I suppose I do. But you won’t like my reaction.”

“Why not?” I turned to look up at him.

He reached up and gently pushed my hair back, touching my face. “Because whatever it is you read, it’s not going to take away your pain, Maddie. Some old man movie star’s diary will never tell us why, just a couple of nights ago, that poor drunk girl tripped and fell down the stairs and died. You may never know why.”

“But I still have to keep trying. I have to. Have a little faith, Lieutenant.”

I sat there and looked at him. He looked at me right back. We had been sitting for about an hour on my padded patio furniture out in the cold night air. I hadn’t noticed how cold it was, but now, I felt a shiver. I thought it might be too cold to stay outside.

“So tell me what you learned,” he said.

“The diary covers about ten years, from 1946–1956,” I said, happy at last that he would finally listen. McBride only kept occasional entries, marking dates and setting down information using a casual style of shorthand. He mentioned many, many women. I was disgusted to report he had a sort of rating system. Stars. I suppose in McBride’s line of work, he was used to reviews.

One of the entries that got my attention was dated March
1952. “Rose is lying. She can’t find records.” And the next month, there was another mention of Rose. “Studio agrees to audit. Rose is raging mad.” And another entry, three months later. “Showed Rose ledger. Embezz?”

Honnett looked at me. “Who’s Rose, then?”

“Well, today I met Rosalie Apple. She had been McBride’s manager at one time, and he fired her. This was all a long time ago. I’m guessing Rose was his nickname for Rosalie. I’ll have to check on the dates and things. I’m guessing there were irregularities with royalty payments. As McBride’s manager, Rosalie Apple got all his checks. Perhaps she kept more than her ten percent.”

“This was years ago. McBride never pressed charges. Do you expect me to go after some old lady without any evidence?”

“Do you always have to ruin my buzz, Honnett? No one is asking you to arrest anyone. Jeesh.”

He smiled at me, trying to relax a little. “It’s hard enough for two people to get together without all of their personal garbage getting in the way, you know? On top of that, you go dragging all sorts of professional crap into the mix.”

“Calm down, Bubba,” I said, and gave him a peck on the cheek. “We’ll be fine. We will. Just don’t come busting down so hard on my good day’s work.”

He took my hand. “Sorry about that.”

My goodness. The man said he was sorry, and it hadn’t killed him. I was beginning to have hope.

“You said there were two things in that red book you got excited about. What was the second one?”

“Well, back at the house today, Eva James told me some odd story about a girl named Jade. She told me Dickey had an affair with this Jade back on a movie location in China. At the time, I was sure she was just trying to lead me off the track. But then, when Wes and I were reading Dickey’s diary, we found some passages about Jade.”

I filled Honnett in. The dates were back in 1947. They were datelined “Hong Kong.” Dickey talked about Jade teaching him mah-jongg. He posted his winnings, taking quite a bit of cash off that film crew over the six months they
were shooting
Flower of Love.
One entry read: “Jade my soul mate.” It was unusual in that it was one of the only affectionate things he’d written over the entire ten years and dozens of women the journal covered. Even more startling, there was an entry, in 1948, where Jade’s name appeared again. It read: “Jade arrives LAX. Daughter?”

“What was that?” Honnett asked. “That’s a bombshell. You think McBride had a child with this woman Jade?”

“I think so.”

“But this all happened years ago, Maddie. Whoever this Jade was, how does it figure into this mess today?”

“You mean, fit in with Quita McBride’s death?” I looked at him. “I will always regret what happened to her, Honnett. Somehow, not having liked her much makes it all worse. I will always regret it.”

Honnett pulled me toward him, our faces close. “I’m sorry if I hurt you…if doing my job, being the guy I am…if that let you down. Don’t you know that? But in the same situation, I’d respond the same way. Because there is nothing I could have done that would have made this thing turn out any differently.”

“I know you think that,” I said, “I know…but maybe if you and I hadn’t been so distracted that night…”

He let go of me.

What had I said?