Sympathy for the Devil (14 page)

W
esley was waiting for me upstairs when I got home. As I walked up the stairs, I could hear the closing theme from the eleven o'clock news on Channel 7.

“Trying to bring back the Bo Peep look?” Wes asked, gazing up.

I kicked off the white Keds. “You'll get the full, uncensored report,” I said, circling the living room sofa wearily and walking out to my bedroom. “But first, talk to me while I change.”

The red print dress that had served me so well landed in a heap not too terribly far from the hamper basket. I sighed and pulled on a pair of comfortable white leggings and a long white T-shirt. I could hear only the muffled sounds of commercials coming from the living room's television set. Wes wasn't taking commands well, as usual.

When I finally came back to the living room, Wes was gone. An instant later, I heard the motor from the dumbwaiter in the dining room and I walked back in there, curious. The mechanism grew louder as it labored to rise with its load, and then after a pleasant ding, it went silent. I opened the door to the dumbwaiter, which was ingeniously disguised among other identical cabinets built into the wall of bookcases, and found a tray set out with prosciutto and melon, sliced fresh pears, a lovely ripe brie that had been baked in puff pastry dough, and a bowl of strawberries dipped in bittersweet chocolate. Alongside was a two-liter
bottle of Diet Coke in an ice bucket and a couple of goblets. Wes's little welcome home gift.

Wes bounded upstairs and grabbed the tray while I took the ice bucket and we picked up our conversation as we trekked back into the living room where the comfortable seating was.

“I sure hope you aren't the murderer, Wesley. I would really miss you.”

Gratefully, I started in on my late night snack and between bites, filled him in on all the grisly details of my day. The long version, as requested.

Wesley's a great audience. As always, he loves the element of gossip. And just to annoy me, he wondered what I was going to do with a cop who had the hots for me. Perhaps it might somehow be used to his advantage? I laughed and poured another glass of soda.

Wes's other comments were not made in jest. He was upset, to put it mildly, about the two guys chasing me. He kept repeating, “Madeline, this is getting too real.”

But when I finally got most of the story told, he was just as baffled as I was about why anyone would shoot at me.

“What about Bru, Jr.?” Wes suggested. “If he found out you were listed in his daddy's will, perhaps he was trying to eliminate anyone diluting his inheritance.”

“But I didn't get anything he would have wanted. And, besides, his biggest threat was Lily. If he was sending goons to eliminate people, why wasn't she attacked?”

It couldn't have been anyone we know. So we kept finding our way back to Hirsh.

“Hirsh could be connected to crime figures,” Wes said.

“That's not what he looked like. And the name ‘Hirsh'?”

“Sure,” he continued. “Maybe Bruno was in trouble with the mob. Then you show up at Hirsh's house, talking about the party where maybe they had a contract out on Huntley. They get edgy, so they send some goons to shake you up.”

“And that girl who played the gypsy fortune teller? Her
license plate led me to Hirsh. So how was she involved?”

Wesley thought. “Mafia princess?”

“Way too movie-of-the-week.”

I didn't know what to think. And my mind kept puzzling over the other revelation the day had brought: the whole Carmen-Bruno deal.

“Why would Carmen have had an affair with Bruno? She may be a little bit passive and, okay, not the greatest brain in the western hemisphere, but she doesn't seem like the type to cheat on her husband. Don't you think? She just never struck me as the tough, two-timing type at all.”

“You think you are so cynical,” Wes said, laughing. “You think you're so jaded. And then there's lyin' and cheatin' and murder all around you, and you just can't believe anyone you know could really do anything bad, can you?”

“I just want everyone to be happy,” I said grumpily.

“Maybe Carmen was happy with Bruno.”

“Hardly. And look at things now. Carmen is a crying mess. So is Graydon for that matter. Bruno winds up dead. If Bruno was cheating on Lily then she's in for a world of pain when it comes to light as I'm sure it will. Bru, Jr. and Gray are going nuts because their dad left them nothing in his will, not even the goddamn pots and pans.”

“Ahh. We're back to the Curse of Los Feliz.”

“Wes, I'm serious here. The family will try to prove Lily was a whore just to get at Bruno's money. That's more pain ahead. And don't forget, the cops want your head on a platter…”

“What kind of platter?” Wes interrupted.

“Would you be satisfied with Limoges?”

“French. Nice.”

I ignored him and continued. “And some violent madman with the mafia or who-knows-what behind him is after me for making a Sunday visit. Can it get much worse?”

“You can add that we have somehow lost our three biggest parties this week and cancellations are starting to roll in for Thanksgiving. Strangely, folks seem unwilling to
consume food made by the caterers who were involved in a notorious celebrity poisoning.”

“Didn't you point out we did a brunch today and absolutely no one died?”

“That we know of,” Wes amended. “So add financial ruin to your list of unhappiness.”

“Done.” I sat there munching a slice of pear. Wes and I looked at each other.

“I guess I should mention that you received a fax earlier today. I picked it up from the office downstairs when I came over this evening.”

“From Lizzie?”

“Right. It's a copy of the autopsy report.”

“What did it say?”

Wes picked up the flimsy fax sheets that were lying on a nearby side table and started to skim through them.

“Lots of stuff about the temperatures of various organs, which seems dumb since there were hundreds of witnesses to establish the time of death.”

“What else?”

“Toxicology report on the contents of his stomach indicates Bruno tested positive for strychnine.”

“No surprise, I guess.”

“You know, strychnine is an odd poison for someone to use, actually.” Wes seemed lost in thought.

“Why?”

“In days of old, strychnine was useful for eliminating vermin. But it's been outlawed for almost twenty years.”

“How come?”

“Too fatal. Everything from pets to livestock to kids were getting themselves killed. Especially at farms where they'd mix the strychnine with oats. All sorts of tragic accidents would happen.”

“So you can't buy it today? I didn't know that.”

“The only way you'd find it is if someone had some old rat poison laying around the barn for years.”

“Wes. The Huntleys had all that ivy on their hillside. And remember the rat we saw in the kitchen? Let's say
they had some old poison around for their rat problem, maybe left over from years ago, sitting in their gardener's shed.”

“Maybe. But don't you think old Bruno would notice a couple of handfuls of oats floating around the top of his brandy?”

“Right. Well then…” I shook my head. “So that's a dead-end. If the poison was really put into the brandy, like I think, it must have been in some purer form. Hey, who uses the straight form of strychnine, anyway?”

“Well…” Wes stopped to think. “Strychnine is sometimes used by drug dealers to cut cocaine.”

“Now,
there's
a reason to just say no.”

“Let's say a dealer wants to make more money on a kilo of pure cocaine. All he has to do is mix it with some other cheap white powder, and he's suddenly got 1.25 kilos to sell. They use lots of things for filler. I hear that powdered baby formula is so popular with drug dealers that in some neighborhoods, the supermarkets can't keep the formula on their shelves.”

“Lovely. So why would they use something as deadly as strychnine?”

“Cutting cocaine with baby formula or powdered milk can bulk up the product, but it also dilutes the rush. And a noticeably weaker product brings down the price. On the other hand, I've read that cutting cocaine with strychnine gives the system a jolt.”

“At the very least,” I murmured, nibbling the chocolate off a strawberry. “But isn't that just too dangerous?”

“I once heard that when kids overdose on cocaine, the emergency room doctors are always on the lookout for strychnine poisoning.”

“The things you know,” I marveled. “Well, should we change our theory? Could it be that Bruno was a coke head? Did he accidentally overdose on strychnine-laced cocaine?”

Wes tapped the fax. “Test for cocaine negative.”

“Hmm. What about our Mr. Hirsh? Maybe he's involved in drugs. He's got that look.”

“You mean unidentified white powder in his mustache?”

I had to smile. “You know what I mean. Too young, too rich, and too creepy.”

“So what do you figure? Hirsh and Bruno are involved in a big drug deal. It goes south, so Hirsh gets this young woman to come to the party, dress up as a soothsayer, and pop some strychnine, which he just happens to have lying around his lab, into Bruno's drink?”

I held my tired head in my hands. “This is not working out.”

Wes continued, “Bruno's the one who invited the soothsayer woman to the party. And at the very last minute. So how could this guy Hirsh know about it enough in advance to plan the murder? And how could Ms. Gypsy get the strychnine into the Armagnac?”

“She had the keys, remember?”

“True. But how could she know Bruno's odd habit of taking that special drink in the evenings?”

“Well…”

“Or where Bruno kept his special bottle locked up?”

“Ah…”

“It doesn't hold together,” Wes concluded.

“You are definitely not trying hard enough to pin this on someone we don't know!”

Wes frowned. “You know, Madeline, another thought struck me. Strychnine has a bitter taste. So why didn't Bruno spit it out when he tasted his brandy?”

Just then some odds and ends fell in place. “I suspect that Bruno may have lost his sense of taste.”

“Really?”

“In all the years I've known him, I can't remember him ever really enjoying food.”

“So you finally agree with me? The man had no taste!”

I smiled a tired smile.

“Time for me to go,” Wes said, pulling himself up from the deep armchair.

I gave him a hug and reached out for the autopsy report as he left.

Back in my bed, under my covers I could barely resist the urge to shut my eyes, but before I turned out the light, I glanced quickly through the lightly printed pages. It was all medical jargon. I wouldn't understand a thing until I went through it carefully, word by word. That would have to wait until morning, I thought. Who could follow it with a brain half-asleep? The words danced on the page, making no sense. I pulled myself back to consciousness and gave one more half-hearted try at understanding the medicalese.

The word my eyes fell on was one that I did understand. There! I could comprehend this damn report, I exulted, as I slammed it down on my dresser and turned off the light. “…vasectomy…” I know what that medical term means. “Subject had vasectomy performed approx. fifteen years ago.” That was easy enough to understand.

But, hold on. Wait a minute! Something was terribly wrong. How had a man with a fifteen-year-old vasectomy produced a four-year-old son?

I
had slept fitfully, tossing the quilts and pillows onto the floor, waking often to find out why it was so cold. Each time, it took longer to drift back to sleep, too many questions, swirling into nervous patterns, keeping me semi-awake.

I must have drifted off because once again I awoke with a start. This was ridiculous. I decided just to get up no matter what the time. I checked my watch. It was after nine. Apparently all that wakefulness during the night had been followed by a deep dreamless sleep.

Thoughts of Bruno and Carmen and Bruno and Lily and Bruno and “his backup”—me—kept me confused during my quick shower. I wrapped a thick terrycloth towel around myself and padded barefoot to my bedroom. The message machine was winking the number 5 from under yesterday's red flowered dress. I must have missed it last night.

I don't know about everyone else, but I get a small thrill of pleasure when I discover I've got phone messages. Maybe someone wonderful has life-shakingly good news. Phone machines bring out the optimist in me.

Pushing the buttons, I listened to the tape rewind and then click. The first message was from Arlo at 6:06 yesterday evening: “I'm completely exhausted. I hate my job. I hate this script. I hate television. I'd like to just end my life. Say, do you have any leftovers from that Huntley party? Don't call me. I may be dead. See ya.”

I smiled. It was a typical Sunday night call from Arlo. He could get way too involved in the problems of writing sitcoms.

Message number two came in at 7:10. “Hello. This is Lily Huntley. Sorry to bother you, Madeline, but I didn't know who to call. I've asked Maria to box up the cookware for you. You know, the copper pots that Bruno wanted you to have. Shall I have someone bring them by?

“Oh, and something else. The older Huntley boys came over a little while ago with a court order demanding to take blood samples from Lewis and myself. Can you believe they got a judge to move on a Sunday? Anyway, I didn't see any reason to resist. After all, they seem to be implying that Lewis is not Bruno's son, and I happen to know that is absolutely absurd. So let them spend their money and prove I'm right.

“But then I got to thinking…Is this a mistake? I just really value your opinion. You see, Bruno usually made all the…Well, now I feel silly for even mentioning it. Sorry to waste your time.

“I'll have the pots delivered. Have a nice evening.”

I stopped searching for my black and white gingham-checked shirt and replayed the message from Lily. Poor thing. What was she going on about? She had to know that Bruno had a vasectomy. I mean the scars from those things are visible, aren't they? So whose baby did she think Lewis was?

I thought of calling her right then, but there were still three messages left unheard from who knows whom? Could be a call from the Clintons. Chelsea's fallen in love with her psych professor at Stanford. They're thinking a lavish White House wedding. What about a champagne breakfast for twenty-five hundred to follow the ceremony? Could we possibly do the first family this personal favor and fly to Washington and take charge?

Hiding between several empty dry cleaning bags hanging in my living room closet, I found the shirt I was looking
for. Coming back to the machine, I played the next message.

It was from 7:24. “This is Wes. Where are you? I gotta hear if you inherited the earth! I'm coming over.”

Wes. Not exactly the hoped-for first couple requiring party tips.

I was zipping into a pair of black denim shorts. It seemed appropriate for November in L.A.

The next message was from the Whitley Heights Association. I listened to it as I looked under my bed for my low-cut black boots. They were still fighting the good fight to get better sound walls put up between my house and the Hollywood Freeway. Could I make food for the next meeting?

My thrills-per-message possibilities were dwindling. Such are the perils of high phone machine expectations.

My boots were gone, I remembered. I opened the closet in my bedroom and found a pair of sneakers that were still almost white. I tied them, folding the white athletic socks down as the fifth message played. It had been left at 9:25 this morning. I must have just missed the call when I'd stepped into the shower.

“This is Chuck Honnett. Got a few pieces to the puzzle. First, we found the bottle of brandy. That fancy Armagnac stuff was in a cut crystal decanter in the liquor cabinet like you said. We took it, and the lab is going over it today.

“Second, well, I probably shouldn't tell you this, but according to the autopsy report, which is currently under seal, the stomach contents did contain brandy. It's not official or anything. But, for my money that's one you got right. So, well…Thanks. If there's any more you can tell me about the shooting yesterday, call me.”

That was it. I was right about the Armagnac. I knew it!

I still had to leave a witty message for Arlo and call back Lily, but I decided they could wait until after I'd gotten something together for breakfast. I walked down the stairs and almost made it to the kitchen when I heard the doorbell.

In my driveway was a blue van. Standing at the door
was Lily. Behind her, stacking up boxes and returning to the van to get more, was a man in his thirties. He looked familiar. He was dark and boyishly handsome, like an overage jock. He wore jeans and a plaid flannel shirt.

Lily saw me staring at him and made a quick introduction. “Madeline, haven't you met Don Dana? He's a runner at Bruno's company. He's worked for us for years.”

In T.V., a runner is an entry-level job. He's the slave who picks up the producer's chopped salad from La Scala Presto and makes the torturous drive to the deep Valley at rush hour to deliver a script to an actress they're trying to interest in a part, even though everyone knows she'll never do it. Because it's so tough to break into the business, these lowly runners jobs are often filled by kids hired right out of prestigious film schools. It usually takes these kids about six months of getting lunch for people less talented than they are until they either find a way to claw themselves up to the next Hollywood rung or move back to Cleveland to work at Dad's optical boutique. Don, however, looked like he'd been making a career of it.

“Donnie's being a sweetheart and helping me these days.”

A “sweetheart,” was he?

“Hey, cool shirt,” I said, as Don came to the front steps with another box.

“It's Armani! As in Giorgio. Flannel shirt for probably two hundred bucks. Ain't that a trip?” Don asked.

In a flash I could place it. It was an exact replica of the pale shirt I'd seen little Babalu Huntley wearing the morning of the party.

Lily spoke up. “Isn't it nice? I got one for Lewis and one for Bruno, but Bruno hated the colors. Too soft, he said. Anyway, I thought Donnie might like it.”

I noticed the pile of boxes.

“Why don't you come on in,” I offered. “Just follow me.” Don carried some boxes to the kitchen and left to get more. It would be a number of bulky trips before all the pots and pans made it into the house. While we waited, I
offered Lily some fresh-squeezed orange juice.

“Did I interrupt your breakfast?” she asked.

“Join me.” I rummaged in the Traulsen and found some of the salmon I'd cured for the brunch the day before.

With Lily sipping juice, and Don going back out to the van to lock up, and me toasting bagels under the broiler, I asked, “Did you know that Bruno had a vasectomy?”

“What?” She looked totally blank.

“Bruno had gotten a vasectomy. More than fifteen years ago. Didn't you know?”

“No…” Lily looked puzzled. “I don't think that's possible.”

“Lily, I like you, but it's time to be straight. You said there's a paternity issue that may get stirred up. Only, I'm not certain you've been telling me the truth here…”

“But I am!”

“…not that it's any of my business,” I finished, “because it's really not.”

“Look, Madeline, I am telling you the truth. I simply don't know what you're talking about. If someone gave you the impression that Bruno had a vasectomy, well they obviously made a mistake.”

If she was lying, she was a damn good liar.

“Maybe,” she suggested delicately, “years ago, in a romantic situation, Bruno may have told some woman that he had a vasectomy. For whatever reason.” I could see that this was painful for her. She went on. “But that doesn't mean it's true. I have a son, don't I?”

“The coroner spotted it. He's a doctor Lily, and he examined Bruno's body. It's no mistake.”

She looked ready to cry. When you have a baby with someone other than your husband, the jig is kind of up when people know your husband was incapable of impregnating you. Her breathing seemed to get shallow and she whispered, “If I tell you something, will you swear not to tell another soul?”

Lily continued, not waiting for my promise. “I don't see how any of this is connected. And this is very personal, of
course. But I'm trying to think how everything happened when I was trying to get pregnant. See, I had trouble.

“After trying for maybe six months, my doctor thought that we should take Bruno's age into consideration and get more aggressive about getting me pregnant. She said ordinarily, a woman my age, she'd suggest we just keep trying the old-fashioned way for another year or so. But with Bruno being so much older, having a child as soon as possible was important. So he could have more time with our child.”

I nodded.

“My doctor suggested we try insemination. That way she could time my cycle and at just exactly the right moment we could try for conception. I don't know how much background you have on these infertility procedures, but it's become rather clinical.”

“So I've heard.”

“Well, I told Bruno about it and eventually he agreed. These procedures can certainly intrude upon one's own private, intimate moments of marriage. All of a sudden you're keeping charts and taking temperatures. And your husband is giving samples into a test tube! At first, Bruno absolutely refused. But then, after a while, he suddenly seemed fine about it.”

“He was?”

“Yes. No one knows about this, because I would never want to imply that somehow Bruno's sperm were not what they should be. You see, part of the procedure is to take the semen and ‘wash' it somehow so that only the most vigorous sperm survive.

“When it came time for me to ovulate, I went to my doctor's office with Bruno. He had already provided her with the semen about a week earlier so it could be washed. He held my hand while the procedure was being performed. And then I had to wait there awhile so it could have the best chance to take. Three weeks later, I found out I was pregnant.”

“Lily, if the report from the coroner is true and Bruno
had a vasectomy, then it can't have been Bruno's sperm. You do understand that, don't you?”

“What are you trying to tell me?” She really looked shocked. “That my husband conned me into believing that we could have a baby together? And that he went so far as to sneak somebody else's sperm to my doctor to trick me into thinking I'd had his own child? No!”

“I know it sounds bad when you put it like that. Maybe Bruno didn't want to let you down. So maybe he went a little overboard trying to give you what you wanted the most?” Shit, I could make Jack the Ripper sound misunderstood.

“So you're saying that Lewis is not Bruno's son?” She had a steely look in her pale eyes. Like tears that are not allowed to fall, so they sort of freeze in place.

“Maybe not exactly Bruno's biological son, but…”

“So what's going to happen when they do those horrid blood tests? What's going to happen when they try to match my baby up to Bruno?” She started to look frantic and I wished there was something I could do.

“It doesn't mean that you cheated on Bruno.”

“But that's what they'll say! And Lewis will be left with nothing. Nothing! Not a father to help him grow up. Not even the legacy that Bruno talked about in his will. He won't have Bruno's genes! It's all the fault of that wretched Bru, Jr. He'll never try to understand what really happened.”

Oh, brother. Lily had just discovered her husband's unthinkable trickery and manipulation, but she had already shifted the blame elsewhere. How did people like Bruno get away with these things?

Lily's voice got tighter and still higher. “Little Lewis will lose the money and the company and the land! My baby won't even have a home to live in. Bru, Jr. will see to that.” Red patches had appeared on Lily's pale cheeks. As she worked herself up in anger, one tear escaped its prison behind her eyelids.

“You don't know that,” I said. “But perhaps you should
see your attorney. Maybe that's the wisest thing. Sometimes knowing the road ahead gives you a chance to prepare.”

Lily stood up and straightened her pink dress. “Well, thank you, Madeline. Donnie will drive me home. He's waiting in the van.” And she was gone.

I sat down to finish my cured salmon and bagel.

Now what, I wondered, was all this with Donnie?