Not A Girl Detective (28 page)

“Actually, Rick, I have a house in mind already.”

“You’ve been checking the listings yourself?” he

asked, appalled.

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“The house isn’t actually listed yet. A friend of mine has this friend who is about to inherit the house. It’s amazing. I was there several years ago for a cocktail party and I said to my husband, ‘Lazlo, I was meant to live here,’ and Lazlo being Lazlo agreed. So when my

friend said his friend was planning to sell in the very near future, I thought I’d better jump on it.”

Rick was hanging on to my every word. It was a real

estate broker’s fever dream. “Let me see if I have this right. Your friend’s friend isn’t working with anyone.”

“No,” I said, shaking my head.

“And you’re not working with anyone.”

“No.”

He couldn’t speak.

“That’s right, Rick. I see a big fat double commission in your future.”

He tried to control himself, but I swear he was shak-

ing. “So how shall we proceed, Patricia? And shall we get your husband on the phone?”

“He’s at the hospital.”

“Is he ill?”

“Oh, no. Dr. Canarski’s a brain surgeon.”

“Wow. Yes. Okay. My feeling is that if we approach

your friend’s friend with an attractive offer—short es-crow period, good terms, forgo the inspection—it’s in the bag. Termites are not much of a problem around

here, which is why I say that about the inspection.”

“The thing is—”

“Yes?”

“It’s been a while since I’ve been there, and there’s one thing I’m a little hazy on.”

“Cold feet,” he said, smiling knowingly. “Happens

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to the best of us. But not to worry. You can always

make cosmetic changes once you’re in. There are ex-

cellent service people in the area. I’d be happy to make recommendations.”

“It’s nothing like that. It’s the approach to the house.

I can’t remember how isolated it is. I don’t want something that’s smack in the middle of a bunch of people.

Lazlo and I like privacy. So I was thinking—”

“Yes?”

“I was thinking we could take a drive up there, say,

right now, so I could have a quick peek. It’s only about five minutes from here.”

“I’m game, Pat.”

“It’s Patricia.”

“Patricia.”

“Okay, then.”

“Do you remember the name of the street?”

“Cypress.”

“Ooh, baby. Cypress.” He approved of Cypress.

I followed Rick out to his immaculate black Lexus. I

slid into the back, which was equipped with a box of

tissues and this month’s
Town and Country
.

“I have mints, if you’d like one,” he said as he turned off Palm Canyon and headed up into the hills.

“No, thanks.”

“So who is this friend’s friend?”

“His name is Jake,” I replied, closing my window.

The sun was starting to go down and there was a chill in the air.

“No matter how hot it gets during the day, the eve-

nings are cool,” Rick said. “That’s the high desert for you.”

We passed the house with the golf ball–shaped mail-

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box. Then the one with the Rolls-Royce golf cart

parked out front. “I think you turn left here.”

“Right you are.”

So far, so good. I didn’t see any police officers cruising around, and if there were any at the top of the hill, they’d be looking for a woman in a weather-beaten

Camry, not a Realtor and his client in a Lexus.

Rick closed his window suddenly. “Patricia,” he said

in a low voice.

“Yes?”

“We’re not headed where I think we’re headed, are

we?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ll take that mint now.”

“Are we going to the Edgar Edwards house?”

“You can pull over right here. This is fine.” I could see up the pebbled drive. It looked like an ordinary house—

not ordinary ordinary, but untainted. Stainless. A person would never know that a week and a half ago it had been the scene of a crime. The yellow tape was gone.

Rick turned around to confront me. “I don’t know

what to say here, Patricia. I feel somewhat misled.

We’re talking the disposition of Edgar Edwards’s es-

tate.” He shook his head. “The man’s a murder victim.

The house is going to be tied up for some time. I think my involvement may be a bit premature.”

“Sorry to interrupt, Rick, but I have to go to the

bathroom.”

“What?”

“You wait right here, okay? I’m just going to run up

to the house for a second.”

“Absolutely not. We’ll be back at the office in five

minutes.” He started up the engine.

I swung open the door.

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“What are you doing?” he shouted. “Are you crazy?”

“I can’t wait five minutes.”

“Oh, my god. I’m going to lose my license. I don’t

think you should go in there. It isn’t legal!”

“I’ll be out in a second. I promise.”

I ran up the driveway. My heart was thumping in my

chest. The blood was pounding in my ears. I tried not to dwell upon what I was doing. I racked my brain for the useful information I’d gleaned from the complimentary copy of
Palm Springs Life
on my dresser at the Wyndham.

In the nineteenth century a smallpox epidemic killed

thousands of the Agua Caliente Indians.

Their ancestral homeland was the training ground for

General Patton’s troops as they prepared to invade

North Africa.

There is a life-size bronze statue of Sonny Bono at

the end of Palm Canyon Drive and you can sit on

Sonny’s lap if you want to.

Is it considered breaking and entering if you were

originally given a key, which I was?

The front door was locked so I went around to the

back gate, past the swimming pool, glittering in the dying light, and to the glass doors that led into Edgar’s bedroom.

They slid right open.

I walked in and looked around. The mirrored closets

were empty. The shelves vacant. The bed still looked

like it had been carved out of rock. Had anyone slept in it since that night?

I’ll bet Lasarow and Dunphy set this whole thing up,

I suddenly thought. Dropped a hint about the painting knowing I’d run over here to find it. I slunk toward the N O T

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front window. Pressing my body flat against the paneled wall, I peered out at the street. Rick was still there, all alone, no police car in sight. I sighed. Another paranoiac delusion. They had no reason to try and trip me up. They didn’t like me and I can’t say I blamed them. Not that I was unlikable, but I did keep turning up like a bad

penny. I was probably the one making
them
paranoid.

Now what exactly had they said? They’d found the

painting all ripped up in the trash can in the service porch.

I had to hurry. I really didn’t want Rick to lose his license.

I raced down the breezeway toward the kitchen.

Ouch. There were pebbles in my shoe. But I couldn’t

think about comfort at this particular moment. I

smelled something bitter in the air. Ammonia. Had

there been a cleaning crew here? Who would’ve author-

ized that? Not Lasarow. Not Jake, obviously. Mitchell would have been the one. Shit. The first thing a cleaning crew would have done was take the trash out.

Sure enough, when I lifted the lid off the can in the service porch it was empty. Not a single ball of dryer lint. Back in the kitchen, I opened the doors of the cabinet under the sink. Empty, too. Scrubbed clean.

I was too late.

If only I had known earlier. If only I had thought to call Dunphy and Lasarow. If I had just come out and

asked them. They didn’t consider it evidence. They

would have told me. But I hadn’t even thought of doing that. I was too busy with Peter Frampton and fingerprints and art history and other idiot pursuits. Why

couldn’t I ever be logical? Flying by the seat of your pants isn’t always the best course.

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Then something dawned on me. The trash doesn’t

get picked up every day, or even every other day. Javier only takes the cans forward on Wednesdays. Once a

week. It could be the same story in Palm Springs. And depending on which day the cleanup people had shown

up, I might still be in luck.

I ran out the same way I came in, heading for the

storage shed at the rear of the garden, behind the

garage. It seemed the logical place to stow the big cans.

And there they were. My last chance. Blue is for recyclables. Green is for grass. Black is for destroyed paintings. I threw back the top of the black can.

There, at the very bottom, sprawling and oozing like

sea urchins or some other slimy underwater creatures, were three medium-size Hefty bags.

So far, so good.

I thought everyone knew you had to twist-tie them. It stunk to high heaven. I tipped the can over on its side to jostle things around a little, hoping the garbage would sort of make itself visible for my perusal, but when are things ever easy? I got down on my knees. Maybe I

could find some gloves back in the kitchen? No time.

Maybe I could poke around with a broom handle? No

broom handle. The hell with it. I pushed up my sleeves and thrust my hands way down into the soupy dregs: paper towels, coffee grounds, stained filters, orange peels, watermelon rinds, sticky clumps of seeds, candy wrappers, paper, tiny bits of glass (thanks, Bridget). Rick would be long gone by now, which was probably for the best. I’d call him from L.A. and apologize. I tossed several cans of cat food to the side. I didn’t know Edgar had a cat. Please, god, no cat litter. Some empty rolls of toilet paper. The smell was really getting to me now.

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Some larger cardboard rolls, for gift wrap. I never

threw those things out. You can affix tape to one end and fish out things that fall behind your headboard.

Then something bright caught my eye. I reached

down, past some disgusting table scrapings, and pulled it out. A longish piece of wood, painted gold, with

something red hanging off the end of it, like a flag.

This was it.

This was what was left.

The gold was the gold of the frame. The red was the

red of the drapery Grace Horton had sprawled across,

on that long-ago day she was painted nude by Russell

Tandy.

What a shame. What a waste. Edgar would’ve been

devastated to have seen his painting end up like this.

But something was wrong. I wiped my hands on my

dress and then rubbed the fluttery piece of canvas between my fingers.

This wasn’t a painting.

When I looked at it closely, I could see the tiny pixels that made up the image.

This was a digital reproduction.

What had been shredded was not the original, but a

copy.

I slumped on the floor, at a loss. Was this another one of Edward’s practical jokes? Had there ever been a

painting of Grace Horton? I knew there had been. I

knew what I had seen that day in the blue bedroom.

But had I seen what was there, or what I thought I

was going to see?

3 2

Iwas on my way out when I noticed a black van

pull up behind Rick’s Lexus. I was hoping it would be somebody’s pool cleaner or a plumber with one of

those long metal snakes. The cable company would’ve

been fine, too, but no such luck. Painted in white letters on the back of the van were the words “Hi-Tek Protective Svc, Palm Desert, CA.”

This wasn’t necessarily cause for alarm, I said to myself as I dove for cover behind a large boulder. In fact, it looked like business as usual. This was a wealthy

neighborhood, and wealthy people like to know who’s

in the general vicinity of their stuff. These private security guys get paid to make their hourly rounds and ask questions if somebody’s not where he’s supposed to be.

Then they move on.

I poked my head out a little so I could see what was

happening. Rick and the driver of the van, a good-

looking fellow in khaki bermudas, were deep in conversation. Actually, they seemed to be striking up a

friendship. There was more talking, some laughing, a

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few meaningful glances, then they swapped cards.

Well, good for Rick. But bad for me.

After a fifteen-minute farewell scene, the security

guy hopped back into his van and pulled in front of

Rick, signaling out the window for him to follow,

which he did. I emerged from my hiding place non-

plussed. What had happened to Rick’s professional-

ism? He was never going to advance in his career like this. What about that double commission looming on

the distant horizon? Not that there was one, but he

didn’t know that.

I guess money is money and love is love. It kind of

warmed the heart. I might have even choked up a little if the walk back down to the Wyndham hadn’t been

quite so long.

I HAD PLANNED ON sleeping like a baby in my $159 ho-

tel room, but I was interrupted by a four A.M. phone call from Lael, who was bubbling over with news of her

new veterinarian. Apparently a late-afternoon appointment to remedy her dog Flea’s eczema had turned into

a night of passion.

“In the office?” I asked. My vet’s office, with its pee-stained linoleum, was about the least romantic spot on earth.