Hollywood Stuff (19 page)

“I figured Patrick Dryer was behind all the notes and the stunts. He was crazy. Jealous and crazy. But I didn’t think Lou would kill him,” said Jeb.

Jane opened her mouth to argue, but changed her mind. Jeb seemed to still be in truth-telling mode. Did he really believe that Lou Piccolo killed Patrick Dryer? If Patrick was behind everything else, if he was the crazy phantom writer that was tormenting Lou and Bix, and Lou killed him…that would end the notes and pranks. What about the mobile? They had found it in Bix’s hospital room closet late in the afternoon. Patrick was killed early in the morning. No reason he couldn’t have planted it there the night before. Skye was supposed to be keeping an eye on things, but Jane had watched her in action at the hospital. The nurses kept her busy at their station all the time to entertain them, to sign autographs, to regale them with stories of the glory days of
Southpaw and Lefty.
Right after they found the mobile, Jane checked out the sight lines of the room. Patrick Dryer could have popped in the night before and placed the mobile in the closet without being seen while Skye was down the hall. Bix was sound asleep. He was the most likely person to have had those advertising postcards for his new book. And he was a writer…he would have known how to make that phony blurb sound like a blurb. He had even cited another novel.

“Are you an Agatha Christie fan, Jeb?”

Jeb gave Jane a blank stare. He shrugged. “What’s she been in?” Then he smiled and winked.

So maybe he didn’t make the mobile. Jane saw Oh shaking hands with the policeman he had been talking to since his arrival. They exchanged business cards.

“Okay, so why did you steal the mobile?” Jane remembered one of the other reasons Tim didn’t trust Jeb. “And the scalpel?”

“I took the mobile because it seemed creepy and scary. I didn’t want Bix to see it. I thought it was probably some Patrick trick and if Patrick was dead, Bix didn’t need to know about it. She was getting spooked. So was Louise…everybody.” Jeb rubbed his eyes. “I took the scalpel because Skye said Lou had a gun. I thought he had already killed Patrick and I figured if Lou had snapped, he might come after me. He and I have never liked each other. It seems really stupid, but I saw it in the tray and I took it. Impulse.”

“I’m so sorry about your friend, Mr. Gleason,” said Oh. He had walked across the lawn, nodding to the neighbors, who smiled at him, assuming he was just another guest at this midnight gathering whom they hadn’t yet met.

“I’m sorry you had to get involved in this, Professor,” said Jeb. “Poor old Lou.”

Jane could see Jeb had slipped back into his L.A. version of hail-fellow-well-met persona.

“You certainly were involved in a long discussion with the police officer who was here,” said Jeb.

“ We traded some stories,” said Oh. “I feel terrible asking a favor now, Mr. Gleason, but I haven’t been able to get some of your book titles out of my mind. May I borrow one to take to my wife’s uncle’s home? I know I won’t be able to sleep tonight and I’m afraid the only books they have are silly popular novels. I would much prefer to lose myself in one of your research volumes.”

“Anything you want, Professor. Help yourself.”

Oh gave just the hint of a bow and walked into the house. Jane continued to be dazzled by how Oh immersed himself in a Japanese persona when he wanted to be trusted as a harmless academic.

The policeman who had been “exchanging stories” with Oh came up and asked Jeb if he could speak with him for a moment and Jane excused herself. When she stepped into the house to look for Oh, she found him apologizing profusely to Bobbette, who looked angry and near tears.

“I didn’t mean this as any kind of insult, I beg your pardon.” Oh was as close to being unnerved as Jane had ever seen him.

“On a night like this, you would ask such a question? What kind of rude person are you? Who are you? Why are you stealing this book from Mr. Jeb?”

“I assure you I am not stealing—”

“You see how it feels to be accused of something? Yo u understand how rude?”

Bobbette took Tim’s handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. She straightened her shoulders and picked up the tray of cookies she had been bringing outside when Oh apparently attacked her with his barrage of rude accusations.

Oh looked a bit ashamed. He shook his head at Jane’s smile and shrugged.

“I didn’t mean to be rude,” he assured Jane.

“Of course not,” said Jane.

“I simply asked her when she last dusted the bookshelves,” said Oh. “I hadn’t thought about it being a reflection on her housekeeping.”

Rick poked his head in the door and told Jane and Oh that everybody was getting ready to leave.The ambulance had taken Lou. Bix had called the Piccolo family back in New Jersey and left word with Lou’s sister, who would notify the rest of the relatives.

Skye and Louise and Bix were sitting on a chaise by the pool several feet away from where Lou had been sitting. They sat shoulder to shoulder to shoulder, holding each other upright, it appeared to Jane. The evening had certainly taken a turn. Bix, after her speech about Lou’s negligence of his health, had been mostly silent. Even while Jane was deep in conversation with Jeb, she had tried to keep an eye on everyone else. Skye and Louise alternately talked and cried. Until Louise and Skye joined her a few minutes ago, Bix sat by herself, with someone coming over to check on her every few minutes. Each time, she would wave whoever it was away. Rick and Greg talked and argued quietly. Jane was certain that she saw Rick refer to his notebook, which meant they were back to working on their script.

Except for a large man in a bathrobe, the neighbors had all left. Jane watched the man padding across the lawn adjoining the pool, saw him wince and draw his foot up in pain. He bent over and picked up something which he turned over in his hand. Jane looked around and noted that no one else was watching, so she approached him before he could locate Jeb and start toward him.

“Can I help? Are you okay?” asked Jane.

“Fine, I’m fine. I stubbed my toe on this. Dog toy or something. I don’t know. It was just by the table over there where the man had the heart attack, so maybe I should give it to Jeb. I can’t really see it very well. Came out without my glasses, but—”

“I’ll give it to Jeb,” said Jane. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Serves me right for coming out barefoot to be a gaper with all the other gapers,” he said, yawning.

Jane watched him pick his way through the grass to his house next door.

Tim and Oh were standing at the door to the guesthouse, so Jane went over to join them. Jeb had asked everyone to come back for a late breakfast so they could plan some kind of memorial service for Lou. Jane heard him tell Bix that they’d have to call the lawyer in the morning to figure out the next step for Bix Pix Flix. Skye and Louise told Jeb they’d spend the night with Bix. Rick and Greg walked to the driveway together.

“I never got that nightcap. Did you?” asked Tim, rummaging through the guesthouse kitchen cabinets. He poured vodka for Jane and himself. “Detective? Anything?”

Oh shook his head.

“Hey, what did you do to Bobbette anyway?” asked Tim. “She came up to me and told me you were an awful man and she warned me to stay away from you.”

“I removed this book from the bookshelf and noticed something unusual, so I asked her a simple question about which day she dusted the shelves and I fear I was in over my head before I knew what happened to me,” said Oh. Jane thought that might be the longest sentence she had ever heard him speak. Bobbette had clearly unnerved him.

“What did you retrieve from the neighbor, Mrs. Wheel?” Oh asked, happy to change the subject.

Jane took the object out of her pocket. Lou Piccolo’s leather cigar case.

“I’ll give it to Bix tomorrow,” said Jane.

“May I?” asked Oh, holding out his hand. He opened the hard leather case, which could hold three cigars. Only one was missing. Oh smelled the two cigars that remained in the case.

“Let’s not give this to Ms. Bixby yet. Put it somewhere safe here in the guesthouse, so if someone asks about it, you can say you simply forgot about it.”

“Why?” asked Tim. “Exploding cigars? We didn’t hear anything.”

Oh shook his head. “I have some reading to do tonight. We should discuss this in the morning. Clare’s aunt is holding on at the hospital. I spoke with her a few moments ago. I’ll come back in the morning, since I have to return the book to Mr. Gleason.”

Jane wanted to talk things out, to tell Oh and Tim what Jeb had told her. She realized there was more to discuss with Jeb—they hadn’t gotten to Heck. If Jeb was convinced that Patrick had been behind everything, Lou had killed him, then died of a guilt-induced heart attack, where did Heck fit in? Wa s he just a delusional man who jumped off the roof of his house? Or was Patrick involved in his death, too?

Oh took Jane’s hand. It was an unusual gesture. Twice in one night she was aware of physical communication between them—when they had run out together to find Lou Piccolo dead, and now as Oh held her hand and studied her face.

“I am tired, Mrs. Wheel. And at the risk of offending another woman tonight, I believe you are tired as well. Only this morning you were finding Mr. Dryer at the flea market, and now another death. It has been a long day and we both need to go to our beds, rest so we can make sense of it all tomorrow. Good night.”

Oh nodded good night to Tim and then he was off toward the driveway. He might be tired, but Jane saw him hold the book as if it were precious cargo. He was anxious to get home to read, to figure out something he probably already knew. Well, Jane was tired—exhausted, in fact. But she, too, had some figuring out to do. She abandoned her vodka and fished out a Coke from the back of the refrigerator. Caffeine and sugar were what she needed right now. She found the bound galley of Dryer’s novel,
The D Room,
under the dish towel where she had left it, and kissed Tim on the cheek.

“Going up to read in bed, Timmy boy.”

From upstairs, Jane heard him switch off the light. When she heard the door open, she looked out the bedroom window and watched Tim rap softly on the kitchen door of the main house. Bobbette opened it, wiping her hands on a dish towel. With her window open, Jane heard Tim say he couldn’t sleep so he had come over to help her with the dishes. Jane laughed out loud. Jeb Gleason could add one more worry to his list. If Tim Lowry did move to L.A., as he was threatening to do, Jeb would be advertising for a new housekeeper. Bobbette would be unpacking Tim’s vintage Louis Vuitton trunk within ten minutes of his arrival at his Silver Lake cottage.

“Move over, Belinda, I’ve got something else to read tonight,” Jane said, tossing her copy of
Hollywood Diary
on the floor next to her bed. Jane scooted down in the bed, plumped her pillows, and opened
The D Room
by Patrick Dryer. Normally, on a flea-market-murder-detecting day, Jane would have been more than ready for sleep, but tonight she was wide awake. Something about a second death? Alone in her room, slipping into sweats and a T-shirt for sleeping, Jane tried to sort out the events of the day…what had happened and what she had heard.

Lou had not struck Jane as a man who could drive to Pasadena from Ojai, stab Patrick Dryer with a letter opener, then coolly spend an hour spinning a mediocre alibi and background story for Jane and Tim in Bix’s hospital room. Why was that her first impression? She reminded herself that he was holding a gun on her when they were introduced…shakily, yes, but a gun nonetheless. When he and Skye had arrived with Bix earlier that night, Lou was solicitous of Bix, polite with Skye, but slightly removed from everyone else. He avoided Jeb entirely. Jane sensed an agreement to back away from the B Room meetings—whether out of respect for Bix or a general wariness after Patrick’s murder.

When Oh, Tim, and Jane had taken their dessert to the guesthouse and Lou had declined to join them in favor of a cigar, Jane was surprised he had not taken advantage of the opportunity to either explain his surreptitious exit from the hospital or to socialize with them, add his speculations to the discussion of Patrick Dryer’s murder. He had become so expansive when they spoke at the hospital, it surprised Jane that he would choose to sit alone after the events of the day. Trying to draw him out, Jane expressed surprise that someone as fit and healthy as he appeared to be was a smoker.

“Only these Padróns,” he had said, holding up his leather case. “I don’t smoke just any old cigar. “Those were the last words anyone heard from Lou Piccolo.

If I had just killed someone and wanted to make everyone I knew think I hadn’t, I wouldn’t sit outside of the group twiddling my thumbs and looking worried while they sat and watched a movie or played a game of trash-the-other-writers. No, I’d sit with them and talk about how horrible the murder was and try to flesh out my alibi, convince people to like me best, encourage them to trust me more. But then again, that’s me.

I forget. We weren’t talking about a literal murder. Not that night. Not yet.
The D Room
killed people, killed ideas, killed talent, and killed ambition, but for those crimes, none of the members of the group would ever stand before a judge. Unless you believe in heaven and a final judgment, those people will get off scot-free. It’s enough to make an atheist like me get religion. Or a gun.

If the narrator in Patrick Dryer’s novel was a thinly veiled Patrick Dryer, he sounded like one bitter Betty. Ironic that Dryer the novelist, in the first paragraph of his soon-to-be-published novel, gave a perfectly logical reason to believe that Lou Piccolo was not the one who stabbed Dryer the murder victim. Lou had done just what Dryer said a murderer would not do—remain aloof from those discussing the crime. And in the second paragraph? Dryer’s narrator revealed enough bile to make it very likely that if and when the murders began in this Hollywood noir novel, the first-person narrator would be high on the list of suspects. Instead, Patrick Dryer had become the number one victim.

Jane tried to turn off the monkey mind full of questions that ricocheted inside her skull so she could concentrate on Dryer’s novel. Why did Lou confess his writing—or lack of writing—secrets to Jane, then slip away like a thief with Bix? Did Louise pour her heart out to Jane about Heck’s illness and death because she sincerely needed to talk it out? Or did Jeb give Louise the assignment to deliver to Jane that piece of the puzzle? Why did Bix assess Lou’s fitness level so publicly, so immediately, and so incorrectly when they found him dead? And those were just the homegrown starters. Jane knew once the medical examiner filed his report, a whole new set of questions could begin. Detective Oh had also mentioned that both the LAPD and Detective Dooley, whom Jane had met over collectible autograph books and the fresh corpse of Patrick Dryer in Pasadena, would probably want to speak with her again. Jane closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and concentrated on page one. Patrick Dryer was going to have to be one hell of a mystery writer to take her away from the real-life mystery laid out before her.

Not so many blocks away, in a small but well-appointed house in the same Los Feliz area that Jeb Gleason called home, Bruce Oh looked in on his wife asleep in the guest room, retrieved his reading glasses from a worn leather briefcase, and repaired to the den next to his wife’s relative’s kitchen. He allowed himself a small sigh as he unfolded the reading glasses that Claire had recently purchased for him.

“These are for you,” she had said, placing them on top of his morning newspaper. “Wear them.”

Claire’s efficiency was a trait he had admired from their first meeting fifteen years earlier. She anticipated his needs and those of their household, and she took care of whatever needed to be done. He enjoyed the pleasant hum of the well-oiled machine that was their marriage. When she handed over the eyeglasses, however, the machine paused midwhirr. Oh felt the first glitch, heard the first clanging in the pipes.

If Claire, not a tea drinker herself, somehow knew when to replace the tin of strong black breakfast blend that he preferred, he admired her prescience. That Claire had noted he had begun holding the newspaper farther and farther away from his face and felt she could quickly remedy the situation with a pair of wire-framed spectacles with a 1.25 magnification troubled him. A precise man, it puzzled Oh that he could not point out exactly what bothered him about his wife and her presentation of the eyeglasses. Until tonight, he had settled for the fact that he was a human being, after all, and aging presented a universal human challenge. Most people, if literature and popular culture and the preponderance of ads for anti-aging creams and potions were accurate indications, were uncomfortable, at least at first, with their bodies getting older. Oh, a practitioner of Zen meditation since he was a boy, had been shocked when he realized he might have a visceral response to such a natural process, but he knew that this response would pass and acceptance would come.

But tonight he realized it was not the passing years that he feared or responded to in such an uncharacteristic manner. Oh accepted aging and the weakening of the eye muscles that led to the need for magnification. That was as logical and predictable as the seasons. It was Claire’s wordless acceptance of the process that gave him pause. In their fifteen years of marriage, he realized he had never seen her unprepared for what the day would bring. Even when she had been a suspect in the murder of a Chicago antiques dealer, she had combed her hair and applied her lipstick, matched her clothes with precision, and although she had behaved somewhat testily toward Mrs. Wheel at the time, she had essentially remained the soul of composure. Tonight when Mrs. Wheel blushed and became flustered over Lowry’s revelation that Jeb Gleason had been her college boyfriend, Oh realized that his wife’s gift of the magnifier eyeglasses, although he disliked wearing them, was not in and of itself the problem. With complete clarity, Oh reached the puzzling conclusion that the ever-so-slight discomfort, the smallest pebble in his shoe, was the fact that he had never seen his wife, Claire, blush.

Now that he had solved that puzzle, Oh adjusted the eyeglasses and opened the book he had borrowed from Jeb Gleason’s library. It was a large reference book. If anyone had noticed the title, he or she might have found it an odd choice for bedtime reading. Oh was interested in the book for two reasons. First, it was the only book on a rather dusty shelf that had recently been removed. Oh could tell this by the fact that the dust had parted into a trail where the book had been removed, then replaced. Also, the tops of the pages had been relatively clean compared to its neighboring volumes. This book had been opened and closed, scattering the accumulated dust, and there was a makeshift bookmark inserted between pages thirty-six and thirty-seven. Oh decided to begin his reading of
Death in the House: A Book of Common Poisons
where the last reader had left a blank index card as a bookmark, in the middle of chapter five.

…this causes vomiting and nausea, headaches, difficulty breathing, stomach pains, and seizures. Each of these symptoms can be traced back to excessive stimulation of cholinergic neurons. With organophosphates, acetylcholine builds up at synapses and…overstimulates the neurons. Because it is so similar to acetylcholine, and binds to…receptors, in excess produces the same overstimulation and toxicity.

Bruce Oh nodded.
The more it binds to the receptors, the more is released and…yes.
If one had been up at this still-dark morning hour to peer in at Oh, reading this borrowed book in his in-laws’ den, nodding and almost smiling, one might think he had found a fascinating novel, an inventive history, an inspiring biography. Or a clue.

Tim Lowry dried the fragile wineglasses that Bobbette hand-washed. She assured him that she needed no help and actually seemed confused that he insisted upon helping her.

“It’s a midwestern thing,” said Tim. “We insist on making ourselves useful no matter how little use the person we’re helping finds us to be.”

“Really?” asked Bobbette. “Doesn’t that actually make you more trouble than you’re worth?”

“Exactly,” said Tim. “We ingratiate ourselves with meaningless gestures so that we are virtually indispensable for absolutely nothing.”

Bobbette laughed and shook her head. She was charmed. Tim was delighted. He was winning.

From the moment he had stepped out of the airport terminal, following the limousine driver Bix had sent for him and Jane, he felt he had reached his place of destiny. He assessed the quality of the luggage of people returning home to L.A.—a full set of vintage Louis Vuitton sat on the curb, something he had been desperately searching for since he had found his orphan piece seven years ago cleaning out the attic of a Kankakee physician, and this set guarded by a limo driver who looked like Brad Pitt—and inhaled the smoggy air of excess. It filled his lungs and filled his heart. This was where he was meant to be.

Hadn’t he tried every scheme in the world to make Kanka-kee the hometown USA of his and Jane’s childhood? Hadn’t he tried to inject small-town charisma into the roots of this once-vibrant industrial town on the river? Yes, by God, he had done his part. To Tim Lowry, making Kankakee whole again had been a mission and he had given it his all. He had served it well, thank you very much, and now it was time off for good behavior. He was a gay man at peace with himself and he deserved to live in a city that appreciated his taste, his wit, and his talents. He had made money at every business he had started—his floral shop that had lifted Kankakee into the land above grocery store bouquets and mum plants, and T & T Sales, his house sale company, which was more of a public service, really, helping people sort through and get rid of their old stuff. Sure, Jane said he went into business in order to worm his way into the oldmonied houses and basements and attics in town, and yes, maybe it was a plus to have first dibs and all, but he priced goods fairly, he paid well, and if he made a buck or two turning around an early American fruitwood table that had belonged to someone’s grandmother and was now being used to hold an old television set on the back porch, well, that was just good business.

It wouldn’t be so easy to unearth the treasure in Hollywood. He would have competition. The collectors, the dealers, the stylists, the trendsetters who lived there already would, with their head-start knowledge of locations and custom, race him to the point of sale, display their own considerable charms, and whip out their generous checkbooks. It would be a fight, a struggle. Tim smiled to himself. It would be the challenge he had been missing. Jane, in Chicago, had her foes, her rivals, but Tim had pretty much outplayed most of the buyers and sellers in Kankakee County. He needed new territory to conquer. This train of thought filled him with pleasure and desire—new attics and basements—brightly colored California Pottery vs. the muted Midwestern Roseville. Mid-century modern furniture vs. farmhouse primitive. Yes, he was ready to move on. Westward ho. Wiping the glasses efficiently, he beamed his winning winner’s winningest smile on Bobbette, who had her back to him, carrying a tray into the pantry. He would hire her away from Jeb and she would keep his California bungalow clean and neat, help him wash his Bauer plates one at a time, and stack them on open shelves where round-bellied pitchers would line his kitchen.