Grave Endings (8 page)

“If he killed that woman,” Roland said when we were alone, “and I'm not saying he did . . . If he killed her, he tried to make up for it with good deeds.”

My heart hammered in my chest. “Do you think Randy killed her, Mr. Creeley?”

He examined his hands, as if they held the answer. Then he rubbed them on his knees. “Randy was troubled the last few months,” he said in a low voice that made me lean closer so that I could hear him. “He said it was something from his past he couldn't fix. It filled him with despair—
his
word. I told him to talk to someone. I was afraid if he didn't, he'd start doing drugs again. See, I think part of the reason he used drugs and liquor was so he wouldn't have to think about what happened.”

“So you think he killed her.” It wasn't the answer I'd come for, but it was an answer.

“The police think so. They came here to talk to Trina.

Randy told them he'd been with her the night that woman was killed. Trina said that was so, but she would've said anything to help him, she loved him that much.”

I was confused. From what Connors had told me, the police had linked Randy to Aggie's murder through the locket they'd found in his possession
after
he'd overdosed. “Was this recently?”

Creeley looked at me as though I'd asked him if the Earth was flat. “Not unless you consider six years ago recent.”

“The police questioned Randy six years ago about Aggie Lasher's murder?” I stared at him. “But why would they think Randy killed this woman? He didn't even know her.”

“I don't know where you got your information. Of course Randy knew her. He was working at the same place she was. I forget the name.”

My chest felt as though someone had stomped on it. “Rachel's Tent?”

Creeley nodded. “Randy was a handyman and driver. He did other stuff there, too. He liked her a lot, you know. He told Trina all about her. But I guess something went wrong.”

thirteen

MUSSO & FRANK GRILL IS THE OLDEST RESTAURANT IN Hollywood, a legendary Rat Pack hangout that, unlike the Brown Derby and Romanoff's, has survived shifting economies and continues to be a favorite with screen-writers, actors, and other celebrities.

The restaurant is a block from Frederick's and just west of Cherokee. I parked my Acura up the street—I should probably claim a permanent spot, I thought— and passed through the back into the dimly lit front room (there is no front entrance) five minutes before noon. The few times I've been here I've come for inspiration and literary osmosis—F. Scott Fitzgerald ate (and drank) here, as did Raymond Chandler (he wrote
The
Big Sleep
here), Dorothy Parker, Ernest Hemingway, and others, including Charlie Chaplin, who liked the martinis. That was the draw, along with the Postum, and the coffee that comes in small, individual pots, and the possibility of spotting a famous screenwriter creating magic on a laptop—David Mamet, maybe, or Anthony Minghella or Callie Khouri, none of whom I ever actually saw.

Today my mood was dark and I wasn't interested in stargazing. In any case, I didn't recognize any of the occupants of the high-sided red leather booths along the black wood-paneled wall to my right, or anyone seated along the bar facing the opposite wall and a brick fireplace large enough to grill a steer.

“I'm meeting a friend,” I told the red-jacketed waiter who approached, menu in hand. I had scanned the diners but hadn't spotted Trina.

“Perhaps your friend is in our other room,” he said, beckoning me to follow him to a far wider dining area where I saw a large mirrored bar on the left wall, but no Trina.

“Can I offer you something while you wait?” the waiter asked.

“Iced tea would be great, thanks.”

I chose a booth instead of one of the small square tables in the center of the room. I generally carry a paperback mystery in my purse to keep me from becoming antsy while I'm waiting, but I didn't need a diversion. I was trying to digest what Creeley had told me.

Aggie had known Randy.

They'd worked together at Rachel's Tent.

He'd liked her “a lot.”

I have to admit that my first reaction to Creeley's revelation had smacked of self-absorption: I was Aggie's best friend. We'd shared everything—our hurts, our successes, our hopes, our fantasies, the intimate details of our lives. Why hadn't she told me about Randy?

Maybe there had been nothing to tell. Maybe Aggie hadn't been aware that Randy liked her—and what, after all, did
like
mean? It wasn't necessarily romantic. But if it was? And if Aggie hadn't reciprocated, which of course she hadn't, if she'd rebuffed his advances, if she'd angered an ex-convict who did drugs and drank?

It had occurred to me, as I left the Creeleys' Culver City home and drove to Hollywood, barely aware of my surroundings or Bobby Darin, who was crooning “Dream Lover” on my favorite oldies station, that this connection between Randy and Aggie was the other evidence Connors had alluded to. It explained why he'd refused to share the information with me, why the police were certain that Randy had killed Aggie, why Porter had been so irritable and evasive, why he'd wanted me gone.

Why he'd hedged when I'd asked him where Randy had been working around the time that Aggie had been murdered.

Rachel's Tent.

Wilshire had screwed up. Maybe Porter was nervous that if I discovered the truth, I would make it public: The LAPD had let a killer slip through its fingers six years ago. And what if he'd killed again?

If I phoned Porter, which I had no intention of doing, he'd inform me in his snide way that Randy'd had an alibi. Some alibi, I'd tell him, his sister who adores him and obviously lied for him.

Yesterday I'd wanted to talk to Trina to confirm my suspicion that Randy hadn't killed Aggie. Now I wanted to find out why he had.
He told Trina about her,
his father had said.

I wondered if Aggie's parents were aware that Aggie had known her killer.

And I still didn't understand about Trina's locket. That was another thing I hoped she could explain.

It was five after twelve, not terribly late, but Trina had asked me to be prompt. I waited a few minutes before I retrieved the number she'd used when she'd contacted me last night. I placed the call, let it ring, and left a message.

Maybe she'd set me up, pretended to be anxious, pulled a fast one on the nosy reporter. Maybe acting ran in the family.

I finished my iced tea, declined a refill, and after another five minutes paid my tab and left.

Jonnie recognized me when I entered Frederick's. There was a wariness in her kohl-lined hazel eyes that hadn't been there yesterday, and I suspected that whatever Trina had told her about me hadn't been complimentary.

“She's not here,” Jonnie said when I asked for Trina. “She phoned and said she had to help with funeral arrangements for her brother.”

So Trina hadn't been playing me. I felt better but wondered why she hadn't phoned to cancel our meeting. I checked my cell phone again but found no messages.

Maybe she'd been overwhelmed with family and hadn't had a chance to phone. Or maybe she'd changed her mind about talking to me, just as she had yesterday afternoon.

When the truck backfired. I replayed the scene in my head, saw her jump at the sound, saw her sudden pallor, the fear that hadn't registered because I'd been staring at her locket. The nervousness in her voice when she'd phoned last night and told me she had to talk to me, it was important.

Feeling somewhat anxious myself, I returned to Musso & Frank. Trina hadn't showed.

“Would you like to leave a message in case your friend shows?” the waiter offered.

“No, thanks.”

Still thinking about Trina, I chugged halfway up the block to my Acura and was grateful to learn that it hadn't been decorated this time. I decided to pay Gloria Lamont another visit.

Someone was having a yard sale on the apartment building's patch of lawn. The seller, in his mid-to-late twenties with a two-day stubble on his chin and bleached blond hair cut in a severe buzz that from a distance had made me think he'd done a Bruce Willis, was wearing baggy tan cargo pants with enough pockets to store a small wardrobe, a skintight black sweater that revealed his ribs, and several earrings in his left ear. He was slouched in a green-and-white-webbed beach chair surrounded by a six-pack of Budweiser and assorted junk. Books, a toaster, rolled-up posters, a stack of framed artwork, a Starbucks mug, shirts, DVDs, videocassettes, a piece of twisted metal I couldn't figure out. His eyes were shut, his head was bobbing to music only he could hear through black earphones the size of Frisbees.

“Slow day, huh,” I said.

His eyes flickered open, a deep brown with long, thick, dark lashes that were wasted on a guy and that my double-action lengthening mascara doesn't come close to achieving.

“Kind of.” He took a swig from a can of beer.

“I'm Molly. What's your name?”

“Mike.” He squinted at me with one eye. “You were here the other day, right? Asking about Randy. I saw you.”

“Funny, I didn't see
you.
”

He grinned. “I'm the Invisible Man.”

“Or maybe you saw me when you opened your door to listen in on my conversation with Mrs. Lamont.”

“A guy dies in your building, you kind of want to know what's going on.” He took another swig of beer. “So are you a private detective or something? Your card didn't say.”

At least he'd kept it. “Reporter.”

“So you ask questions. Randy's dad asked me a whole lot. Wanted to know if his son was doing drugs. The cops asked, too.”

“Was he?”

Mike shrugged.

“When did you last see Randy?” I asked.

“That's another thing the cops asked. Why do you want to know?”

“Just curious.”

He smiled. “
How
curious?”

I could see where this was going. “What's the going rate for curiosity these days?”

“Ordinarily it might be free, but my unemployment just ran out, and my agent hasn't phoned to tell me I'm costarring with Tom Cruise in his next film. Plus business has been slow, like you said.” He nodded toward the lawn.

“How much?”

“Twenty dollars. I'll throw in something from my fine collection of wares.”

I could hardly contain my joy. “First I need to know what I'm buying.”

“More than what I told the cops.”

I took a twenty from my wallet and handed it to him. “Tell me about Randy.”

He folded the bill and tucked it into one of the large pockets on his pants. “We weren't best buds, but he'd invite me over to watch a game. You saw his TV, right? Cool, huh? We'd swap DVDs and stuff, grab a beer once in a while, shoot the breeze. Not so much lately, though. Lately he was one serious dude. He was an actor, too, did you know that?” When I nodded, Mike said, “We griped about the business, how hard it is to get a break nowadays.”

I wasn't interested in hearing Mike's career woes and had a feeling I'd thrown out twenty dollars. “So you didn't know him well?”

“Well enough to know he was carrying around major guilt. He killed a woman.” Mike watched me to make sure I was properly impressed.

After talking to Roland Creeley, I wasn't surprised, but the words went through me like an electric shock. “What makes you think so?”

“We had drinks one night. He was wasted and told me. He said he was going to hell for what he'd done, so he might as well enjoy himself. I think that's why he overdosed. He couldn't take the guilt, especially since he was into all this twelve-step stuff. You're supposed to make amends, right? But how can you make amends for taking someone's life?”

That was a good question. “When did he tell you all this?”

“I moved here three years ago. I'd say this happened about a year later.”

“And you never told the police?”

Mike snickered. “Tell them what? That a guy who was so drunk he couldn't stand straight told me he killed some woman years ago? I didn't even believe him. I thought it was the liquor. But the other day the cops were here, asking questions about a woman they think he killed six years ago, so I guess he really did it.” Mike sounded awed more than shaken. “Turns out he was into some kinky stuff, too.”

“Did Randy say why he killed this woman?” This was what I'd wanted to know all these years. Not just who, but why.

Mike shook his head. “He was crying, said he loved her, that he didn't mean for her to die, that things just got out of control. And now he's dead, too. Strange, huh?” He crushed the beer can. “His girlfriend found the body. The way she was screaming, you'd think someone was trying to kill
her.
”

“What's she like?”

“Doreen? She seemed nice enough. Pretty, too, if you like tall, skinny women with spiky black hair, which I guess Randy did. He met her about five months ago, I think at one of his twelve-step meetings. I don't think Doreen was into it like Randy, though. I think she was using. That's just my take, I could be wrong.” Mike shrugged.

I didn't know what else to ask, so I thanked him and entered the building.

Gloria looked as weary as she had the other day and not much happier to see me. She was wearing another black sweater, this one with a puppy design.

“I didn't hear from Doreen, if that's why you're here,” she told me. “Too late for her now, 'cause I cleared everything out of the apartment, and the cleaning crew is comin' tomorrow.”

“Actually, I wanted to ask you about Randy's other girlfriends. Did he ever talk to you about them?”

“
Brag
is more like it, honey. He had a new one every couple of weeks. He'd bring them by, make sure I'd meet them. ‘What do you think, Mrs. Lamont?' he'd ask me later. Sometimes I thought he was playin' me, you know? Other times I thought, well, he doesn't have no momma, he's got to talk to somebody and maybe that's me.”

“I was wondering if there was somebody he liked who didn't like him back, and he was upset about it. Maybe he told you about it.” I didn't know why I was asking these questions, what answers I was hoping for. “It would be someone from around seven years ago.”

“Seven years?” The manager snorted. “I can't hardly remember what I was doin' seven
months
ago, never mind what Randy was up to seven years ago, 'cept that it prob'ly wasn't somethin' he'd be proud to tell anyone, including me.”

Probably not. “By the way, have you heard from Trina?” I asked.

“Not since last night. She came by, but her daddy and stepmomma were here, so she left kind of quick. I got the feeling Trina doesn't like her. I can't say's I blame her. She has a mean face, that woman.”

I thanked Gloria and left her standing in her doorway, her face scrunched in concentration.

“Hey, you forgot to choose your bonus,” Mike said when I emerged from the building. “From my sale items,” he added when I gave him a blank look.

“That's okay.” I glanced at the junk-strewn lawn. That's when I noticed a bit of colorful print fabric peeking out from under a gray Old Navy sweatshirt. Crouching, I yanked on the sleeve and pulled out a Hawaiian print shirt.

“I saw this in Randy's closet yesterday,” I said.

“I didn't
steal
it.” Mike sounded offended. “Randy's dad took what he wanted. The manager said I could have what was left, she was going to give the rest to Goodwill. I did her a favor, cleaning out some of the junk.”

I looked around. “What else did you take?”

He pointed to his left. “There wasn't much left. A couple of books, a few heavy-metal CDs, some shirts, a few chipped plates and cups, some videocassettes, DVDs. The dad wanted the movie posters, but his old lady said no. I kept the better ones for myself.”