Immaculate Reception (10 page)

“I was wet. I told you. I just needed a towel.”

Neither she nor I felt like mentioning that there were plenty of towels already stocked in the tiny bathroom.

“What happened then?”

“I was as naked as the Lord made me, and I was headed down the tiny little hallway back to the bedroom when I heard someone knock at the door and then turn the handle, you know, to come on in. I turned around to see who it was and that little girl of Arlo's, what's her name, Jody, was in before you could say lickety-split.”

“Did you know what had happened to Brother Frank?” I asked. Trying to get Dottie to focus in her present state of intoxication was getting harder.

“Of course not! Do you honestly think I'd be planning to entertain a…a…corpse in the all-together?” she sputtered. “I should think not!”

“No. Right. So when did you find the body?”

“I didn't, sweetie. I never did see the poor dear man. Jody was going on about the show. She said I had to be back on stage to get notes.”

I was growing more impatient. “But what about Frank?”

“I mentioned I had a gentleman caller. Jody thought he'd better go. So she just sashayed back down the hall to tell him our time was up.”

“That's when Jody first saw the body,” I finished.

“And the girl was not cool. Oh, my, no. She let out a holler and I got quite upset. Everybody knows I've got delicate nerves. So I just reminded her to please keep her voice down. But she didn't. No, ma'am.

“She shouted at me not to go back into my bedroom. Can you imagine? It was the darnedest thing! I knew she was a good girl and she wouldn't go on upsetting my nerves with all that hollering if there hadn't a been a damn good reason. She told me, ‘Dottie, don't do nothin' 'til I get back!' So I just followed her advice to the letter. I backed myself up and found something in one of the cupboards to soothe me down.”

“You never saw the body? You didn't wonder what had happened to your gentleman caller?”

Dottie met my eyes with her steadiest stare. “I take direction,” she said with fierce pride. “You may ask Mr. Martin Scorsese if that ain't God's honest truth. I'm a professional, miss. I knew better than to fool around.”

“So you…”

“…sat still and waited,” she said proudly. “Oh. And sipped my drink in a ladylike manner.”

Well, hell's bells.

“And then we all came storming in,” I said, finishing
up her story from the point that I entered it along with a half dozen others.

“Exactly.”

“And you never got dressed because Jody told you not to do a thing and, well, you…,” I said with a dead serious face, “…take…direction.”

Listening to Dottie' s ever-drunker account of the night Brother Frank visited her trailer did seem to make sense, if one could accept the logic of an ego-saturated pretzel. At this point in the evening, I could.

“I think the men you heard arguing were inside your trailer, Dottie.”

“You do?” Her eyes were wide but I could tell she'd come to the same conclusion.

“Yes. What were they arguing about?”

“I haven't the foggiest idea of a notion,” Dottie said. “I wish I did.”

“Are you sure the only voices you heard were male?”

“That I know. Honey, I know the sound of men fightin' and I would know it in my sleep or under the shower.”

I sighed. It was late and I was tired. We had come to the end of the tale with almost no clues or insights.

“Dottie, I've got to go and see if I can figure some of these things out.”

“You were very clever, weren't you, about Bruno Huntley, that rascal?”

“Not really clever,” I protested.

“Bullflowers!” Dottie breathed eighty proof carbon dioxide on my face. “But the problem is that you are much too intoxipated to drife.”

“I'm better now,” I told her.

“Spend the night here,” she offered with her legendary generosity. “We'll have a pajama party.”

“At any other time I'd jump at the chance,” I told her, “but right now I have to get back home.”

Standing, I was happy to find that I was, indeed, a lot steadier on my feet than I had been earlier in the evening.
I had my doubts that Dottie would be able to make it upright.

I hadn't seen Carlos for hours so I figured I needed to make my own way home. In the nearest powder room, I found a telephone and paged Wesley, punching in Dottie Moss's unlisted number. It was after 2:30 a.m. and I wasn't sure how long ago the midnight show of
Gasp!
had let out.

Three minutes later the phone rang. I lunged at it, jumpy as its shrill ring jangled the clock-ticking silence.

“Wes?”

“Mad?”

“I need a ride home,” I told him. “Where are you?”

“Driving the teenagers back to the duplex,” Wes said. “They're dozing in the back seat.”

“Sweet,” I said, remembering the fun we'd had. Where had that pleasant evening gone?

“I'll swing by. No problemo,” Wes offered. “I'm on Sunset. I should be there in five minutes.”

“Great,” I said. This was working out perfectly. I needed to talk to Wes right away.

“Donald's movie was cool,” Wes informed me.

“Really? Good for him!”

“Not bad, for action-adventure. Pretty ironic, actually.”

This was extremely high praise coming from Wesley Westcott.

“I got quite a story out of Ms. Moss,” I said, lowering my voice in case the lady was close by.

“Can't wait to hear it,” Wes said, and then there was some break-up interference on the line.

“My cell phone…drop…later.”

He must have been driving through a bad patch of cellular stress. Before I could respond we were no longer connected.

I hung up the phone and dialed another number. A sleepy voice answered on the seventh or eighth ring. The man told me that he would go wake up Brother Xavier Jones. I regretted calling. I wasn't used to friends who lived in dormitories.

“Xavier. It's so late. Sorry.” This was awkward. “Uh, it's Madeline.”

“Maddie? What time is it?”

“After two,” I said, guilty.

“Is something wrong?”

“I know this sounds paranoid, but I feel you may be in danger.”

“Me?”

“Is it possible for you to sleep somewhere else tonight? Somewhere that no one would think to look for you? I'm worried.”

“You're so crazy,” he said warmly and I suddenly remembered that's what he used to say. “You don't need to worry about me.”

“I can't help it.” I heard the crunch of tires pulling onto the faux cobblestones out front. Wes must have arrived.

“What worries me is the sad news about Monsignor Picca,” Xavier said, sighing.

“Picca…” I had to think hard to try to place the name, so many hours and stories had drifted by since my visit with the old gentleman of St. Bede' s the Venerable.

“Yes,” Xavier said. And as the sound of sleep dropped away and his voice grew clearer, he said, “But, of course, you haven't heard yet. They found him this evening. His cat was yowling. When they opened his office door they discovered him lying on the floor. I'm sorry to break this bad news to you, Maddie. But the monsignor is dead.”

“T
he monsignor you met this morning?”

“I'm totally, totally creeped,” I said to Wesley, talking low so as not to wake the sleeping passengers in the back of the van.

Wes was driving fast, zooming eastward on Sunset past the dark campus of UCLA.

“What happened?”

“They're not exactly sure. He collapsed and then his heart failed. Xavier said the old man died in his office.”

“The office you met him in this morning?”

“Don't you think I get it? Two religious men are dead and they died right after they spent time with me.”

“Aw, honey,” Wes said. “This stinks.”

Wes thought about it all for a few minutes. I trust Wes's logical brain. I waited.

“Here's the part that doesn't add up,” he said finally. “Frank is a young Jesuit from the barrio. Brand new to his order. Now what does he have in common with an old parish priest from the suburbs? One's close to twenty and the other's closer to eighty.”

“I'm worried about Xavier. Maybe it's all about him.”

“You think the first time they got the wrong victim? Like some gangbanger was really after Xavier, but got confused.”

“Well, no. No gangbanger fits in my scenario. No gangbanger I ever heard of would kill a guy this way, would
they? I mean, they don't stop in for a
visit
, they just like to
drive-by
.”

“Brother Frank's death doesn't have that gang-slaying
je ne se quoi
,” Wesley agreed. “But the man who confessed…”

“I know!” I said, exasperated to the point of laughter. “But we can't get distracted by the facts.”

Just then, our quiet consultation was abruptly shattered by a ripping loud snore emanating from the seats behind us. I shot a look over my shoulder and saw Donald curled up on the back seat. Sound asleep, he looked about fourteen years old, with his head peacefully resting in Holly's lap. It was the second grinding snore that made me look up. Holly, sitting straight with her head thrown back, was generating a lot of noise.

“I've been thinking, Mad, maybe this has some connection to the pope's breakfast,” Wes said, slowly.

“That's a thought,” I agreed.

“You should have called the police this afternoon, like I told you when those creeps grabbed you.”

“If I'd gotten their license number,” I said, “but I was too…” I shook my head. It was too late to regret everything after the fact. I'd been shaking. I'd been shocked. I was disappointed in myself.

“I know. I know,” Wes said. “But you've got to talk to them now.”

The police. We weren't their biggest fans. And to be honest, in the past they hadn't been all that impressed with me either. They had no interest in my collection of instincts and anecdotes and gut feelings. They frowned on gossip. They had little faith in the logic of gestalt. I found them pathetically left-brained and hideously rule-driven. But perhaps I was still angry over some disagreements we'd had in the past.

“Look,” I said, “what really happened? A guy yelled at me. No big.”

Wes gave me that look.

“But if it makes you feel better,” I continued, “I'll tell
the cops all about it. Believe me, they'll yawn.”

Wes had driven Sunset all the way across town and was now making the familiar left under the Hollywood Freeway overpass, that would take us up Cahuenga and into my section of Whitley Heights.

As he turned onto my cul-de-sac and pulled up in front of my house I was jogged awake by something that seemed oddly out of the ordinary.

Parked in front of my garage was Arlo's white Saab convertible. When Arlo was working on a script he rarely dropped by. What was he doing here?

As a caterer, I was used to late parties and on many occasions I found myself shifting to an up-all-night, asleep-all-day cycle. But Arlo was more of a regular bedtime wimp.

“Look who's here,” I remarked.

“And he's not the only one,” Wes said. He gestured for me to look out the van window. Sitting on the steps that lead up the hill to my house was Lieutenant Chuck Honnett of the LAPD.

“I told you I'd be reporting to the police,” I said, virtuously. Since I apparently had no choice. “And the time would be?” I asked.

“According to the digital on our trusty Town & Country,” Wes informed me, “it is three-twelve.”

“It's lucky I'm a night person.”

“See ya later.” Wes said. “and tell all your admirers that a lady needs her beauty sleep.” He kissed me on the forehead before I grabbed my shoulder bag and hopped down out of the van.

“Hey, sister,” Honnett said, drawling like he was leaning on a rail in Texas instead of sitting on a curb in Hollywood. He gave me that regulation cop stare, his clear blue eyes squinting at me as I approached. I doubted much about my wild hair or my lack of lipstick or the cling of my knit dress escaped him, but I had passed the point in the evening where I gave a damn.

After a long moment his face softened a touch. “Your
boyfriend upstairs suggested I wait for you out here. Friendly guy, huh?”

Lieutenant Chuck Honnett and I had met a few months earlier and I still wasn't quite sure what I thought of him. It was complicated. He's a detective, a policeman, which I do not like at all. I am uncomfortable around authority. I was born that way.

But Honnett's got something, I had to admit. There's the physical thing. A look. He's tall and lean and rough-faced. He's got good thick hair with some gray showing in the brown. He's got a gravelly voice and a mocking kind of humor. He's smart. He could take care of himself in trouble. And perhaps, most appealing, the man has no problem handling my sarcasm.

I stood there in front of him, stretching my arms behind my head after the long drive. He watched. I knew he liked what he saw but he'd never give it up.

There are plenty of other things that make a relationship with Honnett complicated. One being I'm still involved with Arlo. And while Arlo and I may not be a perfect match, we've been hooked up for a long time. I hate to think about things like this. So mostly I don't.

Honnett moved over on the step, making room.

Half the time I don't really know if I'm attracted to Honnett or if I'd just like to piss off Arlo. A while back, Chuck and I tried to go out. We didn't get through dinner before his beeper went off and he had to take charge of some crime scene. We never got around to trying to finish a meal together after that.

“Haven't seen you in a while,” I said, sitting next to him on the steps.

“Yeah, well, you know. Been busy.”

“Sure,” I said, laughing at how clichéd everything sounds after 3 a.m.

“I'm working on a case,” he said.

“I figured.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“I've been wondering when someone was going to ask
me about Brother Frank's death. It sure took you long enough. After all, I was the one who found the Ace Award that probably killed him.”

“Come again?”

“In Dottie Moss's dressing room trailer. I told the fools not to move the poor man's body, but no one would listen to me.”

Nobody ever listens. This was actually a leitmotif that ran though my life. I sighed.

“Very interesting. But I'm not working on any case that features a Brother Frank. So all of your squirrelly Ace Awards and bodies that have been moved are not my problem. For which I am thankful. My fellow's name is Picca. Remember him?”

“So is it true? The monsignor was killed?”

“Slow down. No one said ‘killed.' The priest had a heart condition. For all we know it was natural causes. But you know how it is. Folks were upset. Some questions were raised at his parish. A witness came forward to say she overheard shouting coming from the monsignor' s office before he died, but no one could tell me who was doing the shouting. So right now we are checking it out.”

“At three in the morning.” These police types liked to keep their cards close to their chest. It was like taking a crowbar to a clam.

I started again. “Look, that's what I'm trying to tell you. Another man was killed and there was
shouting
in that case, too.” This certainly would capture Honnett's attention.

“Madeline, why is it you seem to find yourself involved with so many dead men?”

“Nothing is penetrating, is it? You simply don't have any interest in what I know.” I hate this part. I always hate this part. I don't want to go on about women's lib and which gender is ignored, mocked, and shut out of the conversation. Let's just say that the chip that was forming on my shoulder had jumped to such proportions that even the lieutenant noticed.

Honnett took out his little notebook. “I'm writing it down, okay?”

“Okay,” I said, trying to stay calm.

“But you're not telling me much, are you?” He glanced back at his notebook. “Monsignor Benecio Picca, age eighty-seven. We looked at the monsignor' s daily calendar and guess whose name we found?”

“I went to see him this morning for a friend,” I said. “But that's not important.”

“You don't think so?” Honnett asked, sounding sorely put out. “Then what exactly do you think is important? What is this whole thing about, in your opinion?”

“I think this whole thing is about the pope.”

Chuck Honnett stopped writing and looked up at me, reassessing. “Have you been drinking?”

“Not recently.”

“The
pope
, you say.” Honnett couldn't help himself. He let out a little laugh and then caught it. I amuse the hell out of him.

I gave him a sidelong stare just to let him know I got it. “The pope,” I repeated, patiently, like I'm the grownup waiting for the youngster to settle down. I liked that. “You know he's coming to Los Angeles, right?”

“Sure.”

“Wes and I are working on the pope's welcome party—the big one at the Otis Mayfield Pavilion.”

“Yeah. I've read about it. Before mass at Dodger Stadium.”

“Right. Today some maniac grabbed me in the monsignor's parking lot and told me to drop out of doing the event.”

“Hold on,” he interrupted. “There was a maniac involved here somewhere? Why didn't you mention him before?”

“I, well…” I suddenly realized why I don't like to be questioned. I hate feeling on the defensive, like a child who's got to answer for everything. “Sorry.”

We had passed a small hurdle and we both knew it. In
a gentler tone, Honnett suggested, “Tell me about this maniac.”

“Some very angry guy. He was upset about the pope thing. He said back out of the event or I'd be sorry. His buddy held on to me so I could hear better.”

“Did you report it?” Honnett asked, sounding like the cop he was. He was taking notes, which removed a bit of the romantic overtones I'd been imagining.

“No. Sorry.”

Honnett eyed me, like he'd wanted to start a lecture.

I turned my palms upwards and shrugged, “I should have. Wes told me to.”

Honnett let it go. “So who the hell was this guy—a competitor?”

“Maybe some kind of fanatic.”

“A religious catering fanatic,” Honnett repeated, and stared at me.

Since we had found ourselves communicating in a civilized fashion, for once, Honnett stopped short of hooting. I could feel him hold one back. Instead, he showed off his sensitive side and said, “Right. Well, let's leave that theory to one side, for a minute. Who else have you been rubbing the wrong way?”

“You?” I suggested.

Chuck Honnett had the kind of male chemistry that mingled well with late-night rendezvous under halogen lampposts.

“Well, much as I like to sit and chat with you about the weird things you've got going on, we haven't really touched on the subject at hand.”

“What subject?”

“Picca,” he said softly, patiently.

I told him everything I could think of, the whole convoluted mess; how kind Monsignor Picca had seemed, the killing on the Warner Bros. lot, the odd connection between the two deaths and my old fiancé. I dropped my head into my hands and continued, knowing I was not making any
sense. “See, it seems to have something to do with me or Xavier, but I can't figure out what.”

I knew Honnett wanted to touch me. Put his arm around me. I could feel it. The air seemed thick with possibilities and matted with confusion and early-morning stillness and hormones.

“Madeline…” Honnett started to say, his breath close to my hair.

A door opened somewhere.

“Honnett.” I looked into his eyes, waiting. If there was going to be a move, it was important that he make it.

“That you down there, Mad?”

The last voice was Arlo's. He stood at the top of the landing, a thin young man in an oversize
THE TRUTH IS OUT THERE
T-shirt and white boxers.