Dim Sum Dead (4 page)

P
arty planners are like vampires. We tend to be pale. We’re willing to drink odd things. All right, I might be stretching it a bit. But we do stay up all night. We work late catering dinners, and wake up at strange times depending on if we want to catch the before-dawn arrival of fresh tulips at the flower mart or sleep in late after throwing an after-hours soiree. It is lucky that Wesley and I operate rather well on less sleep than most people do.

Our prep work for the upcoming Chinese New Year’s party was completed by four and that left us a few hours before we had to set up the party at seven-thirty. Holly was going to run out and do some errands. It doesn’t matter what time of the day or night she finds a few spare minutes. She knows exactly which hardware store, dry cleaners, and Bed, Bath, and Beyond are open twenty-four hours. Later, our bartender Ray would meet her back at the house to pack up for the party.

In the meantime, I had promised Wesley I’d go over to the new place he was remodeling on Wetherbee. We took his station wagon—caterers tend to drive cars and vans that can schlep platters and coolers—and we drove west from my place.

As we cruised slowly in rush hour traffic, we watched the low-rent stretch of Sunset Boulevard metamorphose from grungy industrial to tacky motels. Here, naughty street corners had been known to lure idiot superstars to self-destruct.
I might mention I almost never see hookers when I drive by, which I find vaguely disappointing from a purely sightseeing perspective.

In only a couple of miles, however, the street turned trendy. There’s a sudden pop-culture rush of giant billboards featuring three-story-high movie posters, or building-sized faces of rock stars. Wes calls this stretch of Sunset “bright lights/big egos.” Only when you see a sixty-foot-high painting of Puff Daddy’s nose on top of Tower Records do you really know Sunset has fully morphed into the Strip.

To the right of us as we drove slowly west, the Hollywood Hills rose in lumpy prominence. Their winding roads and exclusive neighborhoods were filled with celebrity neighbors. Having survived our bumper-to-bumper drive up Sunset, Wes turned his Mercedes wagon up Doheny. We left the city below for a quick jaunt into the hills.

I looked out my window. Large homes were crammed right next to larger homes on either side of Doheny Drive. Many of the hillside communities placed a premium on land. In this neighborhood, you could buy a house that needed work for a million, and—if you fixed it up—sell it again for a million-three, or a million-five. Lots of upside potential here, the real estate brokers liked to say. I couldn’t wait to see Wesley’s fixer.

Wes turned onto Wetherbee, one of the narrow side streets that wound up to the right.

“It’s a mess,” he said. “We’re doing everything—new electrical, new plumbing, new roof, new kitchen. We’ve been ripping the hell out of it. We just pulled out all the cabinets—these sad yellow plywood things put in in the fifties.”

“Demolition is fun,” I said.

Wesley loved houses. He hated to see a bizarre den addition or bathroom remodel from the dreaded sixties or seventies make a fool of a beautiful old home. It hurt him to discover some lovely early twentieth century architectural gem that had been anachronized over the years by owners who had “modernized.”

Wes pulled his car into the driveway of a large Tudor-style house. Against the darkening sky, I could make out the
metal Dumpster at the curb. After Wesley’s busy week, I had no doubt with what the truck-size bin was filled: the debris of the home’s remodeling errors-past and the detritus of several decades of out-of-date add-ons.

Wes turned with a smile. “We’ve got a lot of work ahead. I want your advice. And remember, Quita McBride is coming here at six.”

Quita McBride. This was going to be tricky.

Quita happened to be one of the members of the Sweet and Sour Mah-Jongg Club, which is where Wes and I first met her.

“Did you tell her about the theft?” I asked.

“I thought it would be easier in person,” Wes said.

“Oh.”

Let me back up. The Sweet and Sour Club was a loosely organized group. It was mostly social. Its members included the usual Hollywood types, each with the proper fun-loving personality, the gambler’s love of mah-jongg’s intricacies, and an all-important adjacency to disposable cash.

Buster Dubin was the leader of the Sweet and Sour Club, and Quita was his latest girlfriend. Buster tended to move through girlfriends rather quickly. He was that kind of guy. But in all fairness, it must be said that Quita had a pretty busy past herself.

Until recently, Quita had been living in this house on Wetherbee. She was the widow of the previous owner who had died only last year. Naturally, this was a whole story.

See, this new house of Wesley’s was a “celebrity” home, which is really quite a real estate coup. A celebrity connection is just the sort of thing that gives homebuyers the tingles. It sells houses. In the case of this Wetherbee house, forties leading man Richard “Dickey” McBride was the famous previous homeowner. “Dickey McBride slept here” gave this address clout. The movie star’s love life covered several live-in mistresses, five or six wives, and ended with Quita McBride.

Wes said, “Quita has never struck me as the brightest light on the dimmer board. But she’s sweet.”

Yes. Quita McBride had certainly been helpful. It was
through her that Wesley first learned the Wetherbee house was coming on the market. But, in truth, we didn’t know her well. We had never really wanted to.

“She’s had a rough year,” Wes said.

When Dickey McBride dropped dead from a heart attack last year, their old home had to be sold. Quita mentioned the news at one of the mah-jongg parties. That’s how things get done here. Word of mouth. Naturally, Wesley became interested in the property as soon as she described what a wreck it was. And thanks to knowing Quita, he was able to make an offer on it well before it had a chance to make the
LA Times’
Hot Properties column.

“She’s kind of a space cadet, isn’t she?” I looked at Wes. He had gotten to know her better. They’d had a few conversations as the house moved through escrow.

“She seems spacey. I don’t know if that’s an act, though. She seems to take care of herself.” Wes pulled out his key ring and opened the front door.

Inside, the house was gloomy and darkish. “Sorry. The lights don’t work right now. We’re in the middle of rewiring.”

I walked through the empty entry hall and into the dusty living room. “Oh, Wesley! This place is wonderful.”

“Do you like it?” Wes lit a candle and set it down on the mantel of a large fireplace in the living room. “It’s got such good bones, don’t you think? Look at the ceiling.”

Large wooden beams crossed high above. “It must be two stories high.”

“Sixteen feet. And we’ve been able to save the original finish on the beams.”

“I love it.” I gave my good friend a hug. “You have so much energy. You are amazing.”

He folded his arms against the slight chill in the empty room and grinned.

Just then, there was a tap at the door. It had been so light I wasn’t sure at first if I had heard anything at all.

“That’s probably Quita.” Wesley crossed to the entry hall and opened the front door.

In stepped a thin woman. She was “built,” as they used to
say. Her large chest was absolutely the first thing anyone noticed about Quita. She wore her thick blond hair longer and bigger than was fashionable at the moment. Her darkly tanned face looked like a kitten’s with a pointy chin and a small mouth.

“Maddie,” Wes said, playing the host, “of course you know Quita.”

“Hi, Quita.”

“Nice to see you.”

Quita looked me over quickly and then followed Wes into the living room, which was now a huge hollow space, its dusty hardwood floors here and there covered in drop cloths, its walls in places open and exposed all the way to the studs.

Wes picked up a large piece of plastic sheeting. “Sorry about the mess.”

“No, don’t be,” Quita said. Her voice was soft. She turned back to me. “You’re Wesley’s partner, the caterer.”

“Yep.” I’d only seen Quita every week for the past six months. But some in Hollywood don’t notice the background people.

Quita looked around the empty space slowly. She wore a purply fuchsia-colored silk dress, which fit a little snugly in places over her ample curves.

“So,” Wes said, “you got all of your furniture, right?”

“No.”

“I beg your pardon?” Wesley looked concerned.

“No. I didn’t. Actually.” Quita turned her slightly unfocused gaze from the ripped-open walls of the entry and tried to settle them on Wesley. She just missed. “I think they took all of Dickey’s and my things and put them in storage. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. The lawyers are selling everything. Did you know that? They are. They’ll have one of those fabulous celebrity auctions. And all the money will go to Dickey’s estate, which comes to me. Only it takes scads of time. It’s ridiculous.”

“Really.” I couldn’t help but be curious. So Quita, the last wife, was getting all of Richard McBride’s money. According to the cover story in
People
the week he died, Dickey regretted
never having children. With no other heirs, Quita was inheriting the lot. As she was forty-five years younger, it might even be argued that Quita was the “child” Dickey had dreamed of, but let’s not go there.

“So your life is moving on,” I said cleverly.

“Yes.” Quita shifted her off-center gaze from somewhere in the vicinity of Wesley to make eye contact with me, almost. I noticed Quita had watery gray eyes. She was pretty, but something was slightly off, like her tiny kittenlike nose was just a smidge too tiny.

“I would have loved to have seen the house before everything was removed. Wes said it was filled with art.”

“I have pictures. Somewhere. In one of my boxes. If you’d like to see them…”

“How cool.”

I threw Wes a look. I really doubted I’d be spending much time with Quita McBride, going through old boxes and memories. But it was a magnificently odd thought. And Wesley and I love odd.

“I’d like to see any old pictures you have of the place,” Wes said. He was the consummate rehabber, always digging for historical references. He pulled out a business card for Mad Bean Events and handed it to Quita. “If you should find any pictures, please give us a call at the work number.”

“Have you got anything at all to drink here?” Quita asked.

“Sorry,” Wes said. “No. We don’t have power right now. And the kitchen’s been gutted.”

“Oh, of course. That’s right. Can I take a look?”

“At the kitchen? Sure. I was just going to give Madeline the tour.” Wesley picked up a candle and handed it to Quita. “Just watch your step and follow…”

Wes was going to say, “Follow me.”

I caught his eye. Damned awkward, if you ask me, leading a widow around her own house especially after one has just finished ripping the place up.

“This must be so horrible for you,” I said to Quita, following her down the hallway. I noticed she was almost as tall as Holly is. Man, why is it that I am always surrounded
by tall ones. I remembered something about her working as a model in the past. “It must be a shock coming back to your house and finding it under construction like this.”

It is just my way. I don’t like to dance around a dead buffalo, if one happens to be lying in the ballroom. I prefer to call everyone’s attention to the dead buffalo and suggest it be removed.

Wesley, however, winced.

Some don’t care for the direct approach. Some prefer to wait until the flies are so thick around the dead buffalo it can no longer be denied. Now, where’s the sense in that approach?

“It is weird,” Quita said. “I was just in here, getting a glass of juice for Dickey…was it really a year ago?” She stared at the gutted kitchen, without so much as a countertop or cabinet or appliance, its pipes exposed.

“Sorry,” Wes said. “I thought it might not be such a good idea to meet at the house.”

“No, no. I’m fine.”

The three of us stood together in the middle of what had once been the kitchen, the candlelight flickering off our faces. Quita turned to me. “I did need to talk with Wesley about some of my property. But really, I wanted to see the house, too. I needed to see it. Dickey’s gone. The house we shared is gone. I have to remember that it’s all gone, now.”

I don’t know. There was something about the pause that lingered an extra beat, her delicate chin in the air. I could have sworn she was ready for her close-up. But then, perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps this was what it took for her to come to terms with her new lot in life.

“It’s all gone,” she repeated, her eyes misting a bit.

Yes, but, what were we sniffling about here? The house Quita moved into with Buster Dubin was much nicer than this old house had been, even before construction started. And Quita hadn’t wasted much time moving on to a new man with a new mansion. But don’t mind me. I can be horribly judgmental at times.

We stood there in silence. Well, of course, the woman had been through an awful lot in the past twelve months.

“I’m sorry about your loss,” I said to her. See. I could be nice. “Your husband died only a short time ago, I know.”

“Eleven months ago.” Quita looked at me and gave me a shy smile. “It was such a shock. So out of the blue. He was healthy. He was very healthy. And then, one night, he was…gone.”

“So sad,” I murmured. I had heard McBride had died in bed. With Quita. That had to be a shock. “How old was he?”

Quita glared at me, suddenly angry. “Yes. I know. He was seventy-five. Everyone talks about that.”

Wesley gave me a look which I took to mean “shut up already,” but I think people are too afraid of talking about feelings. Of course, Wes has on occasion suggested I am not afraid
enough
of these sorts of conversations, but so be it!

“I read about it in the papers. They said it was his heart.”

“Yes, yes, his heart!” Quita tossed off the words. “And, yes, Dickey had a heart condition. I know. You are thinking that I don’t want to face reality, and you know what? You are probably right.”