Gypped (5 page)

Even though Regan had already used the shower, she still had trouble figuring out which faucet was connected to which spray. There were nozzles everywhere. After a few minutes of trial and error, the water felt great. By 7:30 Regan was dressed and ready to leave. She’d chosen a pair of black dressy pants, a silk top, and high-heeled sandals.

She’d called for the car. When she got downstairs, the valet was pulling it into the driveway. He opened the driver’s door, and wished her a good night as she handed him a tip. Here we go, Regan thought, as she buckled her seat belt, then programmed the address into the GPS. Twenty-five minutes later she was turning into the driveway of the Scrumps mansion.

She didn’t know that she’d been followed.

I
n a small house set back from a rural road forty miles north of Los Angeles, Clarence and Petunia Hedges sat down to dinner. Both in their mid-fifties, they’d been married for thirty years. The first night they laid eyes on each other at a singles bar in San Diego, they knew they were made for each other. It takes one to know one. People with no moral compass, that is.

Petunia, a statuesque woman with blond highlighted hair, and a voice that on occasion tended toward grating, favored black stretch pants and boots and colorful tops. She wore big earrings and lots of jewelry.

“Pass the fries,” Clarence grunted, his eyes glued to the large television screen on the wall.

“They’re closer to your plate than mine,” Petunia remarked as she pushed the dish sideways until it grazed his hefty forearm. She picked up a bottle of ketchup, and started to do battle with it. “You didn’t want a vegetable, did you?”

Clarence knew better than to say yes. He shook his head, taking a bite of meat loaf. A big burly guy, his reddish hair was parted in a perfectly straight line, and combed into a style
befitting an altar boy. “Fries are enough of a vegetable for me. What’s for dessert?” His eyes never left the TV screen.

“Cake from a box.”

Clarence started clapping wildly. “Yes!” he cried, raising his arms in the air. “Way to go!” One of the San Francisco Giants had hit a home run.

Petunia rolled her eyes. The last time they had a romantic dinner was before cell phones were invented. But she was happy. Happy but restless to make more money.

Out in public this twosome gave the impression of being your average middle-aged couple. Clarence drove a truck, Petunia was a manicurist. They had raised their children in a San Diego suburb, and had moved north after their youngest graduated from college. With the kids gone, the time was ripe for Petunia to put her schemes in motion, far away from her nosy old neighbors. She had rented a PO box in a large post office half an hour away from their new home, and hoped that all the packages she received would not raise suspicions.

Working in the nail salon as a manicurist, Pet loved to listen to her clients’ problems, all the while honing her vast knowledge of the weaknesses of the human condition. Weaknesses she could seize upon. Tsk tsking, she applied polish with the precise skills of a surgeon, peppering the conversation with her standard remarks. “Such a shame.” “It’s just not right.” “Who needs a friend like that?” “I can tell you’re special.” “Someone like you deserves much better.”

She always got a good tip.

The best customers were the men and women from out of town. They didn’t worry about what they told Petunia because they figured they’d never see her again. Hint to those customers—the world keeps getting smaller.

“You should be a shrink,” a New Yorker said admiringly just
this afternoon. “I’ve never told a stranger so much personal information.”

Petunia sighed contentedly. “I’d never make it through medical school. I was born to do people’s nails and listen to their problems at the same time. I’m so grateful I found my calling.”

Cha ching!

Finally a commercial came on. Clarence turned his attention to his plate. “So how was your day?”

“Good. I went to the post office after work.”

“Yeah.”

“And I got a lot of great stuff from celebrities for the ‘fundraiser.’” She laughed. “If they only knew the fruits of their labor were going up on the Internet for sale. I’m telling you, I worked hard on that letter! And it looked so official.”

Clarence sipped his beer. “What kind of stuff did you get?”

“CDs, signed photos, books. Some of the celebrities wrote little notes wishing me luck and saying how wonderful I am for taking the time to raise money for needy children.”

“Oh, brother,” Clarence said. “Not that I care, but I look at it this way. It makes them feel good to think they’re donating for a worthy cause. Let’s leave it at that. Because it is a worthy cause!”

They both laughed and clinked their drinks. “To a worthy cause,” they said at the same time.

Petunia sipped her wine. “One thing I might keep for myself is a signed book from the author Nora Regan Reilly. No matter what, I definitely want to read it first.”

Clarence wasn’t listening. The commercial was over and the game was back on. “LET’S GO SAN FRANCISCO!” he bellowed. “LET’S GOOOO!”

A
pproaching the top of Zelda’s driveway, Regan could see that it looped into a wide circle on the side of the house. A valet signaled her to pull forward. When she reached him, she rolled down the window. “Not much room for parking, huh?”

“That’s why I’m here. We’re parking the cars on the street.”

“Oh. I didn’t see any out there.”

“We’re taking the first cars all the way down to the dead end while we have the time. In twenty minutes people will all be arriving all at once. We save the spaces nearer the house for those cars so we don’t keep people waiting as long.”

“Makes sense,” Regan said, putting the car into drive and securing the emergency brake. “How far down does the road go?”

“Maybe a quarter of a mile.”

“It looks like nothing but woods ahead. Are there are any other houses?”

“No, ma’am, no houses. You’re right about the woods. There’s a hiking trail just past the dead end. It’s a nice one. But people don’t really start their hikes there because the town has strict rules about parking on this street. We’ve got a permit for tonight.”

“I see,” Regan said, accepting the claim check. “Thanks.”

“You bet.”

As Regan followed the path that led to the front door, the valet drove her car down the driveway and turned left, then seemed to disappear. The woods beyond the lawn were thick and dark, blocking any view of the road.

Bright outside lights on the house illuminated the wild lawn and bushes. This place is certainly interesting, Regan thought. It’s obviously been here for years. And looks like it hasn’t changed much. I wonder what the parties in this house were like when it was first built. Was it a Hollywood scene? Now it looks as if it’s inhabited by ghosts.

She rang the bell.

A moment later Zelda opened a large, creaky front door. “Regan!”

“Zelda, great to see you.”

“Come on in!”

“Well, don’t you look like quite the hostess,” Regan noted as she stepped inside and pointed to Zelda’s floor-length black skirt, and low-cut red top. Zelda’s hair was pulled up, decorated with rhinestone hairpins. “You’re so festive.”

“Thanks. And you look fantastic. I’m so glad you’re here. Take off your coat. I want you to meet a couple from my old building before it gets too crowded.”

A young woman appeared and took Regan’s jacket. Regan smiled, then followed Zelda into the living room. The lights were low; candles were glowing. Soft music was playing on a stereo. Two men were sipping drinks, staring up at a portrait of a flapper.

“Curtis, Blair, say hello to my friend Regan Reilly.”

The men turned and greeted her. Curtis was tall with a short light brown beard and an earring in his left ear. Bald, and a bit
rounder, Blair was of average height. They were both wearing jackets and well pressed designer jeans.

“Nice to meet you,” Regan said.

“Regan and I were on a game show together, years ago,” Zelda said excitedly. “I can’t believe I ran into her today after all these years!”

“A game show?” Curtis asked incredulously. “Stop it!”

“Yes!” Zelda answered. “Can you believe it? Regan and I bonded during a very stressful situation.”

“Stressful?” Curtis gathered peanuts from a bowl on a side table and started to laugh.

“Of course it was stressful!” Zelda protested. “Who wants to make an idiot out of herself on national television?”

“Honey, that’s why I’d never go on
Jeopardy
. Never!” Curtis insisted. “With my luck all the categories would be about football.”

Blair affectionately put his hand on Curtis’s shoulder. He shook his head and guffawed. “Can you imagine?”

Regan laughed. “Well Zelda and I didn’t do so well on
Puzzling Words
.”

“Zelda’s payday was in her own backyard,” Blair remarked playfully, rolling his eyes. “We have an apartment on the floor above where Zelda lived when she struck it rich.” He turned to Curtis. “I knew we should have gotten the apartment downstairs. But would I have done something nice for that cranky old lady? Probably not.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Zelda said with a smile. “She was misunderstood.”

“Join the club,” Blair retorted.

Zelda turned to Regan. “These guys moved into my building a couple years after we were on that show.”

“Here comes another neighbor,” Curtis pronounced.

“Norman, come over and meet my friend Regan.”

They were introduced, and Zelda filled Regan in on Norman’s background. “We’re friends and now he’s working for me. He’s staying here with me this week. It’s fun to share this crazy place.”

“If you think we’re kicking ourselves about the money,” Blair said wickedly, “Norman is never going to get over it. He lived two doors down from Mrs. Moneybags.”

They were all amused, including Norman, although he didn’t seem to find it as funny as the others.

“I couldn’t stand her dog,” he said.

“Whatever happened to the dog?” Regan asked.

“He was very old and died a few weeks after the woman did,” Zelda said. “It was sad, but I think the dog’s heart was broken.”

“No more than Norman’s,” Curtis chuckled.

“That is sad,” Regan agreed. “Dogs get so attached to their owners.” She paused, then tried to lighten the air. “Well, if someone had to inherit the money, aren’t you glad it was your friend Zelda?”

Norman looked at Regan. “We’re thrilled for Zelda. But if we’d paid attention to her and helped her out. . . .”

Zelda put her hand on Norman’s elbow. “Let’s just have fun.”

Thankfully the doorbell rang. A group of men and women from Zelda’s yoga class all arrived at the same time.

“You didn’t all ride together?” Zelda asked, her eyes twinkling.

Kevin, the yoga teacher, answered, “Carmen has a seven-seat SUV.” He put his arm around a woman with long black hair. “She’s our designated driver. Right, Carmen?”

Carmen nodded. “Next time, you drive!”

“Well, come on in,” Zelda urged them, ever the gracious
hostess. She was working hard to make sure her guests felt welcome and had a good time.

Zelda introduced Regan to a young man who was getting his start directing horror movies. “Hey, Zelda, how long are you going to be living in this place? I want to film my next movie here.”

A variety of delicious hors d’oeuvres was passed. The conversation flowed. Zelda kept pulling Regan aside to meet new people.

“Regan, this is Rich Willowwood.”

“Hi, Rich.” Regan extended her hand to a young man with light brown hair who was wearing a suit.

The doorbell rang again. “Excuse me,” Zelda said, and hurried off.

“Hello,” Rich answered, looking bewildered. He was basically nondescript, and didn’t have the colorful personality that so many of Zelda’s other friends had.

He must be shy, Regan thought. He’s certainly more conservative than the rest of the crowd. She explained how she knew Zelda. “And you?” she asked.

“I’m her financial adviser,” he answered, grabbing a glass of champagne from a passing waiter.

“Oh,” Regan said. “Zelda obviously needs one.”

A young woman approached them and looked at Regan uneasily.