A Clause for Murder Page 10

  Except tonight, after hoofing around the floor with Bart and the rest of the worst fraternity in the county, I craved a double-double with fries. We ate in Arlene&rsquos SUV, soothed by the glorious California night air and the hum of the freeway.

  &ldquoBy the way, you were great at those line dances. Where&rsquod you learn all of them?&rdquo I said.

  Sighing deeply, her mood flipped from hungry to depressed in the blink of an eye. &ldquoEric loved country-western dancing. So I bought a video and practiced.&rdquo

  &ldquoThat&rsquos fantastic. How come you never mentioned it before?&rdquo

  She shrugged and stared out the window, her large dark eyes red with tears. Finishing her soda, she asked, &ldquoHow&rsquore things with Ken?&rdquo

  &ldquoOkay, I guess. I&rsquom playing it cool this time.&rdquo

  Sticking a limp fry in her mouth, Arlene chewed slowly. &ldquoDid you ask how his name got in Courtney&rsquos little book?&rdquo

  &ldquoHe insisted they never even had a cup of coffee together.&rdquo

  &ldquoMaybe that&rsquos what the zero means. No dates. Nada.&rdquo

  &ldquoBut if the number next to Bart&rsquos name is for a charitable donation, it means Ken wouldn&rsquot kick in a few bucks for a worthy cause. And Ken&rsquos incredibly generous. Unless Ms. Farrow only accepted money from men she slept with.&rdquo

  &ldquoDoesn&rsquot figure she was a hooker for the March of Dimes,&rdquo Arlene concluded.

  &ldquoYeah. I don&rsquot see her pressing people for money for a worthy cause. Unless that worthy cause had her name on it.&rdquo

  &ldquoBut she was always missing meetings because she had to attend some charity ball. Or she was stressed because she had to fetch her jewels from the bank vault for some big social event,&rdquo Arlene added.

  &ldquoLies, no doubt. She was probably hustling customers down at Dancin&rsquo Beauties.&rdquo

  &ldquoWhatever she was doing, guys fell for her like bricks. Good-looking guys with decent jobs. Not that she gave a shit about any of &rsquoem. You and me, all we need is one decent person. Just one. And she had dozens.&rdquo

  Arlene was going deep, a bad sign. She often spiraled down into a black depression which took her days to climb out of.

  &ldquoAt least we have friends,&rdquo I said, to cheer her up. &ldquoPeople we can count on. So if Ken or Eric turns out to be a jerk, we can call a friend. But no one liked Courtney.&rdquo

  &ldquoOh, yeah? How about Tommy? Or Bart, or that married Mexican guy, and every other schmuck in her book? I bet most of them were nuts about her.&rdquo

  &ldquoOne of them was nuts enough to kill her.&rdquo

  &infin&infin&infin

  Courtney&rsquos memorial service was a grim little affair held a few days later at Belcher&rsquos funeral parlor. A pastor, hired for the occasion, rhapsodized about what a kind, generous woman Courtney had been, convincing me he&rsquod never met the dear departed. Or she&rsquod blown his headlights out. He praised Courtney&rsquos good deeds and charitable endeavors, though he never actually listed any. He referred to her many friends, even though Lisa, Tabitha, Arlene, and I were the only friends seated in the pews, except for Courtney&rsquos Aunt Perdith who&rsquod flown in from Omaha. She sat alone in a back pew and stared stoically up at the pulpit. The legions of men who&rsquod supposedly loved Courtney hadn&rsquot bothered to pay their respects. No one from Dancin&rsquo Beauties or her lizard book had shown up either. Not even Tommy.

  &ldquoWhere is everyone?&rdquo Lisa whispered.

  &ldquoMaybe her other friends haven&rsquot heard about it,&rdquo Arlene said.

  &ldquoAre you nuts?&rdquo Lisa hissed. &ldquoI&rsquove seen pictures of that charred La Jolla garage more times than I&rsquove seen my own bathroom. And I&rsquove had morning sickness for a week.&rdquo

  &ldquoSorry to hear that,&rdquo I murmured.

  &ldquoWhat about her family in Greenwich, Newport, and Long Island?&rdquo

  &ldquoBetter ask her aunt,&rdquo Lisa whispered.

  After Courtney&rsquos memorial service, Aunt Perdith joined the three of us at a small Italian restaurant in Little Italy, near the airport.

  &ldquoIt was a terrible shock for all of us,&rdquo Lisa murmured to Aunt Perdith, who gnawed on a buttered role and stared into space.

  &ldquoYes, she was so ... young,&rdquo Tabitha offered.

  Aunt Perdith shrugged then studied a wall poster of the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

  Aunt Perdith looked like a sparrow with the mange. Frail under a dark brown dress, hook-nosed, with beady nervous eyes, thin wispy hair, and stained buck teeth, she seemed reluctant to say anything about Courtney. And she certainly wasn&rsquot wringing her hands, shredding soaked tissues, or pummeling the ground shrieking why. In fact, she hadn&rsquot wept at all from what I saw. Nor did she ramble on about all her warm memories of Courtney. This was weird considering she became Courtney&rsquos guardian after Courtney&rsquos parents died when Courtney was thirteen&mdashthe only bit of history Aunt Perdith did share. Which didn&rsquot fit in with anything Courtney had told people. But maybe if you&rsquod raised the bad seed, you wouldn&rsquot bother to wax on about how great she&rsquod been. Not that anyone referred to Courtney in anything but positive terms. Like when Lisa called Courtney considerate. And Tabitha referred to Courtney as a loving friend. Or when Arlene told Aunt Perdith how much we&rsquod all miss Courtney.

  To which Aunt Perdith replied, &ldquoI hope they have strawberry ice cream for dessert.&rdquo

  &ldquoI hope so, too,&rdquo Lisa said, shooting my friends and me a confused look.

  We chewed, we sipped, we swallowed, our eyes speaking volumes in the midst of a suffocating silence. I felt overwhelmed by Courtney&rsquos death, even though I&rsquod detested her. I guess because death is so unfathomable. And because while we were shoveling down pasta, the forensic experts were probably weighing Courtney&rsquos spleen and liver&mdashproviding they could find them.

  I kept hearing Detective Raines&rsquo description yesterday when I called him to ask when we could expect a death certificate for insurance purposes, and he&rsquod said Courtney was burnt beyond anything imaginable. How if it weren&rsquot for her being missing and their finding her wallet nearby, they wouldn&rsquot have a clue about the dead body. They were trying to find her dental records but hadn&rsquot located her dentist yet.

  And suddenly, I couldn&rsquot make up another lie. I suppose I could&rsquove repeated what Andy the bartender from Dancin&rsquo Beauties said about Courtney being a good stripper. But Aunt Perdith might not find the comment comforting. Rising, I shot Lisa and Arlene meaningful looks before excusing myself and hurrying back to the ladies room, my second trip in twenty minutes. This time, Lisa and Arlene followed.

  &ldquoI refuse to cook up another nice thing to say about Courtney,&rdquo I said, from inside a stall. &ldquoIt&rsquos too uncomfortable. According

  to the police, she went after four guys I dated&mdashand those are just the ones we know about. That girl was determined to ruin my life, and I&rsquom just not a good enough liar to keep this up.&rdquo

  &ldquoYeah, I feel like such a hypocrite,&rdquo Arlene added, exiting from a stall.

  &ldquoHang on for a few more minutes,&rdquo Lisa insisted. &ldquoThe poor woman will be leaving soon.&rdquo

  Washing my hands at the sink, I said, &ldquoI just hope Aunt Perdith doesn&rsquot expect her insurance benefits right away. Detective Raines said it might take weeks or even months till this mess is cleared up.&rdquo

  Lisa opened the door to leave. &ldquoComing?&rdquo

  &ldquoBe right there,&rdquo Arlene said, shooting me a fierce look.

  Shrugging, Lisa left.

  &ldquoDid you send the book back?&rdquo Arlene demanded.

  &ldquoNot yet. I have to decide where to mail it from, so they can&rsquot trace it back to me. I mean, what if I send it back from Chula Vista and they discover I had an appointment there.&rdquo

  Her dark brows shot up. &ldquoBut we already agreed to get rid of it.&rdquo

  &ldquoLet&rsquos talk
about this later.&rdquo Before she could protest, I shot out of the bathroom and hurried back to my seat, anxious to avoid more questions. I&rsquod meant to send the book to the police. But what if the Marlboro man didn&rsquot like the idea? What if he came after me? Or Sofia?

  Courtney&rsquos memorial lunch finally ended.

  &ldquoCould one of you drop me off at my motel?&rdquo Aunt Perdith asked.

  &ldquoBe happy to,&rdquo I said, hoping Aunt Perdith would open up about Courtney on the drive home.

  Outside, a cool breeze blew in from the bay bringing a heavy fog with it. But at least the September heat had loosened its grip on the county. As Aunt Perdith and I crossed the street to my car, I pictured the day I&rsquod met Courtney Farrow. A day just like this. I&rsquod signed Courtney up for a good medical plan then sold her a half-million dollar life insurance policy. To me, it was a triumph to insure a healthy, young, single woman. I&rsquod given her my usual spiel about her being covered when she had kids later on, in case she developed a grave medical condition that made it tough for her to get coverage. Then I penciled out her monthly premiums praying she didn&rsquot find the figure too outrageous.

  Instead, she&rsquod laughed at the amount. &ldquoI spend more than this every month on face creams.&rdquo

  Naming a beneficiary had been Courtney&rsquos only stumbling block. &ldquoI could leave it to my dear Aunt Perdith. Not that she needs the money,&rdquo Courtney had assured me. &ldquoShe and I have always been close. The poor dear moved to some awful little Midwestern city years ago after a bad love affair with a famous New York politician. She was desperate to escape all the gossip and social events which would&rsquove thrown her lover and her together.&rdquo

  Back then I never doubted that Courtney lived off of a juicy trust fund and had a family dripping in dough. But after meeting Aunt Perdith and the crew at Dancin&rsquo Beauties, I wondered if any of her stories were true.

  &ldquoSure appreciate this,&rdquo Aunt Perdith said, sliding in beside me, clutching her ratty black pocketbook as if someone meant to steal it.

  &ldquoIt&rsquos my pleasure. Courtney talked a lot about you,&rdquo I said, as I merged into the freeway traffic heading north.

  &ldquoCan&rsquot imagine why. What could she possibly have to say about me?&rdquo

  &ldquoWell ... she told me what an interesting life you&rsquove had.&rdquo

  She stared at me, her lips tightly pressed together, her eyes like an angry bird&rsquos. &ldquoShe what?&rdquo

  &ldquoAnd I wondered if before this tragedy, she called you or wrote about any worries she had.&rdquo

  &ldquoNever. Haven&rsquot gotten a letter from Courtney in nine years. Not a blessed word.&rdquo

  The news added to my suspicions &ldquoBut she must&rsquove phoned or&mdash&rdquo

  &ldquoNothing like that either.&rdquo Her tone was final. Her face now resembled an angry gargoyle.

  Twenty minutes later, I let her out at a modest motel on Hotel Circle, which is around the corner from my condo and loaded with a variety of hotels and motels.

  Afterward, heading to my office, I couldn&rsquot help wondering how this little old woman with her big nose, wispy hair, and cheap purse could possibly be the glamour girl who&rsquod delighted in double martinis at the Stork Club and afternoons at a quiet East Side hotel with a famous politician for a clandestine affair. In fact, I couldn&rsquot imagine her bedding down with Howdy Doody let alone a dashing Mayor Lindsey or whomever Courtney had meant. Because Aunt Perdith looked like the kind of woman who showered in a heavy robe. It would be like finding out my own mother, Mrs. Ida Ross, nee Ida Bernstein, the very same woman whose major joys in life included watching TV, reading murder mysteries, and baking pies, had once given Robert Redford a lap dance. Yeah, right.

  That night, as macaroni and cheese bubbled in my oven&mdasha no fail hit with Sofia&mdashI donned gloves and a shower cap. Then I dug out the lizard book from my most recent hiding place, an old empty box of laundry detergent, where I&rsquod moved it this morning. I gently withdrew the tiny book from its Ziploc bag and placed it on a paper towel on my dining room table. I quickly copied the first names and red numbers on a legal pad.

  Bart&mdash85

  Bill&mdash5900

  Davy&mdash312

  Duke&mdash2500

  Eddy&mdash1500

  Miguel&mdash8600

  Sirhan&mdash180

  Tommy&mdash3800

  Ken&mdash0

  I finally reached the ink blot, that mysterious crossed out name. But no matter how I tried, I couldn&rsquot discover what it said. In fact, it was a lot like trying to decipher a Rorschach test. To me the shape resembled male genitals. Or a city skyline. Eventually I brought in Sofia&rsquos study lamp and a powerful magnifying glass. Neither of these helped. In the middle of scrutinizing that black blob, I heard soft footsteps and rustling outside my door. Standing, I watched as someone began fiddling with the locks. Heart pounding, I watched the door handle move. My mouth dried up. My hands shook. I managed to find my cell phone in my purse. After dragging it out, I backed into my kitchen. I imagined the Marlboro man out there&mdashan economy-sized bottle of canola oil in one hand, a Zippo lighter in the other. Frantic, I grabbed a bread knife, a carving knife, and my rolling pin. Then I braced myself against the cabinet. At last I barked, &ldquoWho is it?&rdquo

  &ldquoWho do you think?&rdquo Sofia shouted impatiently. &ldquoAnd why do we have so many stupid locks on the door?&rdquo

  &ldquoWait a second, wait a second.&rdquo I unlatched the last lock and the chain, then opened the door. &ldquoAre you okay?&rdquo

  &ldquoWhy wouldn&rsquot I be?&rdquo Taking a good look at me, she scrunched up her face in disgust. &ldquoMother, why&rsquore you dressed like that? And what&rsquos with the knife?&rdquo

  &ldquoOh.&rdquo I pulled off the shower cap and latex gloves. &ldquoI was cleaning the stove.&rdquo

  She studied me not quite trusting my answer. &ldquoWell, what&rsquos with all the new door locks? Who&rsquore you expecting?&rdquo

  &ldquoGuess I got a little carried away,&rdquo I explained, reluctant to scare Sofia.

  &ldquoNever mind. I&rsquom going to my room. I just found out that one of my friends is wearing a &lsquoC&rsquo cup. I&rsquom going to get a boob job if it&rsquos the last thing I do.&rdquo

  &ldquoBut you&rsquore only ten. What&rsquos the rush?&rdquo

  Sofia&rsquos door slammed ending the conversation, as my phone rang.

  Shuffling over, I lifted the receiver. &ldquoHello?&rdquo I said, staring at the door to Sofia&rsquos room, wondering if we needed family counseling.

  &ldquoSend it back,&rdquo a hoarse voice hissed. &ldquoSend it back or you&rsquoll be sorry.&rdquo A sharp click ended the call. And any hope of my getting a decent night&rsquos sleep.

  9

  &ldquoBetsy, it&rsquos me,&rdquo Tabitha whispered over my cell phone the following Monday, a little before noon. &ldquoHave you got a minute?&rdquo

  &ldquoSure, I&rsquom just having my lunch,&rdquo I said, sucking on a vile protein shake that tasted like chalk while my office colleagues chomped on burgers, fries, and pizza. &ldquoWhy&rsquore you whispering? What&rsquos the trouble?&rdquo

  &ldquoDid you ever hear of Dr. Davy Spunkhoffer?&rdquo Tabitha asked.

  &ldquoDavy Spunkhoffer,&rdquo I repeated. &ldquoI don&rsquot think so.&rdquo Then I remembered: A name right out of Courtney&rsquos poisonous little book.

  &ldquoHe helped me get over Spade. Remember Spade?&rdquo Tabitha said.

  &ldquoThe one who gave you herpes and a black eye?&rdquo

  &ldquoExactly. Look, I&rsquom at the downtown courthouse covering this case for my paper, but I can be in Mission Valley in twenty minutes. Can you meet me somewhere?&rdquo

  &ldquoHow about the Cheesecake Factory?&rdquo There went my diet.

  Fifteen minutes later, Tabitha slid into a booth across from me looking every bit the reporter in a boring navy suit and matching low-heeled pumps. Gone were the multiple earrings, black-leather ensemble, spiked hair, and outrageous
eye makeup she wore for socializing. Tabitha ordered a slice of praline cheesecake while I sank my gums into black coffee, determined to be good.

  After shoveling in a huge bite of cake, she began her story. &ldquoAbout ten months ago, after one of our monthly meetings, I was pulling out of Lisa&rsquos driveway when Courtney pounded on my window. She acted all chummy and insisted we have a drink. So we met at a bar. That&rsquos when she asked me if I knew a good shrink. So I gave her Spunkhoffer&rsquos number.&rdquo

  &ldquoYou didn&rsquot even wheedle out a few facts?&rdquo

  &ldquoWhat am I, a moron? I would&rsquove taken shorthand with my lip pencil if she&rsquod been willing. She refused to open up. Maybe that&rsquos why she wanted a shrink. Maybe she had something so dark she couldn&rsquot share it with anyone but a professional. Anyway, she saw him twice a week for four months. Which couldn&rsquot have been cheap, because he&rsquos no discount doctor. But since Courtney never had to pinch pennies, I figured his fees wouldn&rsquot shock her.&rdquo

  &ldquoPlus she got some coverage from the policy I sold her,&rdquo I said. &ldquoBy the way, what does he charge&mdashout of curiosity?&rdquo I might need him after Ken dumped me again.

  &ldquoThree hundred an hour. But that&rsquos not the point. He could&rsquove charged her a million an hour. Because she never paid him. She preferred to blackmail him.&rdquo

  I almost fell off my chair. &ldquoOver what? Who told you this?&rdquo

  &ldquoHe did.&rdquo

  &ldquoWhat about doctor confidentiality and all that? Isn&rsquot it unethical to&mdash &rdquo

  &ldquoListen,&rdquo Tabitha hissed, glancing at neighboring tables. &ldquoAbout a month ago, right before our leftover party, he mentioned it during my appointment. He seemed very upset. He figured since I&rsquom a reporter and I&rsquod referred Courtney to him, he could tell me about her threats. He never once exposed the reason for her visits. Just her bill. How she threatened to accuse him of seducing her if he made a stink about the money.&rdquo