A Clause for Murder Page 5

&ldquoSkiing in August? Besides, a big mess like this isn&rsquot like her,&rdquo Arlene said.

  Too bad it was exactly like me. &ldquoMaybe she couldn&rsquot find her passport. Or a decent spiked dog collar for her latest boy toy.&rdquo

  &ldquoLook at this,&rdquo Arlene gasped, hovering over an open drawer from an antique desk right out of Versailles. &ldquoIt&rsquos a pink slip for her BMW. Sirhan Spector,&rdquo she read. &ldquoIt says here that he&rsquos the car&rsquos owner.&rdquo

  I peered over Arlene&rsquos shoulder. &ldquoShe doesn&rsquot even own her car? That&rsquos weird.&rdquo Then I spied her answering machine. &ldquoIt&rsquos the same model as mine,&rdquo I said, my finger poised above the message button.

  Arlene shrugged. &ldquoGo ahead. I won&rsquot tell.&rdquo

  My gloved finger slid onto the button. After several seconds, we heard a man&rsquos voice. &ldquoYo, Sydney Louise, where ya been? The boss is really pissed. Says he&rsquos tired of this act. Says ya better get your butt down here right away or else. Says you owe him.&rdquo

  &ldquoWho&rsquos Sydney Louise?&rdquo I asked.

  &ldquoA wrong number?&rdquo Arlene guessed.

  Next we heard, &ldquoHi, Courtney, it&rsquos Bart. Remember me? Call me if you get a chance.&rdquo

  &ldquoSounds like another admirer,&rdquo I said, eyeing the room with its dramatic pink tufted satin headboard and matching quilt. Grabbing several paperbacks off the night table, I read the titles aloud. &ldquoHow to Build a Real Estate Empire. How to Build a Personal Fortune.&rdquo And, &ldquoIs He Mr. Right? A Guide to Marrying a Billionaire.&rdquo

  &ldquoDoesn&rsquot she have enough money?&rdquo I asked, gazing around the room which looked professionally decorated, from the deeply hued paint to the carefully arranged artwork and plants. Not that the decor indicated anything about Courtney herself. She hadn&rsquot displayed a single family photo or any other personal mementos.

  Arlene paused from digging through papers on Courtney&rsquos desk and headed toward one of two walk-in closets. &ldquoA girl like her never has enough.&rdquo

  &ldquoMaybe she needs men she can relate to. Guys too loaded to be fortune hunters,&rdquo I said, as Arlene disappeared inside.

  At least Ken wasn&rsquot rich. Not yet, anyway. Of course his potential to become wealthy was nothing to sneer at. But would Courtney bother with him if she could find someone richer? It was hard to gauge what her tastes in men were. As far as I could tell, she preferred men who belonged to someone else.

  &ldquoYou should see this,&rdquo Arlene called from inside the closet. I trailed after her. Inside, Arlene and I gaped at the contents like two Sherpa guides finding a centerfold of Miss April on the summit of Mt. Everest.

  &ldquoI&rsquove never seen so many shoes outside of Nordstrom&rsquos,&rdquo I gasped, picking up a Manolo Blahnik. &ldquoJust one pair of these and Sofia and I&rsquod be eating gruel for a month.&rdquo

  &ldquoLook at all of these.&rdquo Arlene reached for one of a half-dozen luxurious furs.

  &ldquoPoor animals. I knew there was a reason I hated her.&rdquo

  &ldquoShe lived like a queen,&rdquo Arlene said, stroking a full-length mink coat.

  &ldquoShe&rsquos probably still living like one&mdashwherever she is.&rdquo For some reason I felt nervous again, like I expected to see Courtney&rsquos face peering out from a dress bag beside one of her lavish evening gowns. After all, something weird had happened. The girl with everything had disappeared, abandoning her car on an isolated road, and her undies in the john of some crummy nightclub. So that the words dead and murdered were on everybody&rsquos mind. And secretly, I bet there were people rejoicing. Not that anyone deserved to die, not even Courtney. But if I had to sing the lyrics that kept running through my head, they&rsquod sound a lot like, &ldquoDing dong, the bitch is dead ...&rdquo

  Opening a black lacquered chest the size of a coffin in the opposite closet, I peered down at a startling collection of masks and costumes. Little Bo Peep, Lady Godiva, and Cat Woman. &ldquoHow many costume balls do you think people in San Diego have each year?&rdquo I called to Arlene.

  She joined me wearing a mink coat, though it barely fit over her arms and wouldn&rsquot close in front. &ldquoNot this many,&rdquo she said, pawing through the trunk and pulling out a black leather garter belt.

  &ldquoOutside of a costume shop or a theater company, who would own this many disguises?&rdquo I asked, cracking a black plastic whip across Courtney&rsquos bed.

  &ldquoSomeone who likes to give pain and humiliation.&rdquo

  &ldquoThat&rsquos our Courtney.&rdquo

  &ldquoUnless they were for auditions,&rdquo Arlene said.

  &ldquoYou mean, Courtney wanted to be an actress?&rdquo I held up a costume. &ldquoI guess she&rsquos not bad looking,&rdquo I conceded grudgingly.

  &ldquoMaybe we should dig through her bank statements. They&rsquod tell us something.&rdquo Arlene said, peeling off the mink and tossing it on the bed before she dragged out a black fox jacket.

  &ldquoGo ahead.&rdquo I began sifting through the drawer in Courtney&rsquos night table, a major junk nest at my house and no disappointment here either. Maybe I&rsquod uncover whatever Courtney had planned to show me.

  And there they were, nude photos of Courtney.

  In one, she stood naked clutching the arm of a little silver-haired man in a tuxedo. The two posed as if they were on their way to a charity dinner. On closer inspection Courtney wasn&rsquot totally naked since she had on a tight black leather choker, black six-inch heels, and earrings that fell to her shoulders. She looked terrific, too. Even her fake boobs were impressive. Big but not grotesque. Beside her, the silver-haired man grinned proudly like he&rsquod just snared an African rhino.

  The next photo showed Courtney in heavy dark eye makeup, a black Cleopatra wig, and a bright pink sleeveless caftan with a neckline deeper than the Nile. A gold serpent embraced her arm. Courtney seemed to have had numerous personas. The sexy young socialite who showed up at our monthly functions in animal prints. The charity-board officer who chaired important benefit luncheons. A lusty young bombshell who liked to use whips and chains. And a mystery woman who worked at a nightclub.

  Digging further, I found more pictures. Including an old one of Ken and me taken at the beach right after we got serious two years ago. A picture he&rsquod given me. Turning it over, I read the note he&rsquod written.

  To my favorite girls, Betsy and Sofia. All my love, Ken.

  Not exactly Shakespeare but the words had always meant a lot to me.

  So why and when had Courtney stolen the photo? I tried to recall the last time Courtney had even been in my condo and couldn&rsquot remember. Curious as to what else of mine she&rsquod taken, not excluding Ken, I continued digging. There were pens, pencils, a hash pipe, memo pads, condoms&mdashvital in Courtney&rsquos world, and a lip gloss case. Opening the lip gloss case, I expected neat rows of colorful shiny lipstick squares, standard equipment for a bed-dweller like Courtney, whose dates probably expected acrobatic sex and a good box spring. No doubt she did quick repair jobs while her lover clutched his heart and sucked air into his lungs after a demanding screw.

  But inside I found something much more shocking than lip gloss.

  5

  Inside the lip gloss case was a tiny telephone book&mdashin black lizard, no less. A book small enough to fit in the palm of my hand yet big enough to break hearts.

  &ldquoWhat&rsquos that?&rdquo Arlene asked, coming out of the closet wearing a tall fur hat that made her look a lot like Joseph Stalin.

  &ldquoA phone book. I think.&rdquo

  Arlene reached for it. But before she or I could glance at page one, the door bell rang three times in rapid succession. Urgent pounding followed.

  &ldquoShit!&rdquo Arlene gasped, her eyes wide.

  &ldquoThe police?&rdquo I hissed.

  The bell rang again. Heads spinning, we searched for a hiding place. At last, we dove under the antique bed. Luckily, the bed stood a foot above the ground. A heartbeat later, we heard the front door o
pen, footsteps, then voices.

  &ldquoI going to kill her,&rdquo a woman in a heavy Spanish accent snarled. &ldquoJuan, watch thee door.&rdquo

  &ldquoMother, she isn&rsquot here.&rdquo

  &ldquoHow do you know? She no lock her door. That puta! That daughter of a whore! Look what a pig she live like. To think, your father would treat us like this for her, that dirty slut!&rdquo

  &ldquoCalm down, Mother.&rdquo

  &ldquoI no calm down. Never! I cut off her tits. Then we will see how she make thee trouble for me and thee other mujeres.&rdquo

  From under the bed I smelled perfume&mdasha rich, musky scent. The woman wore extremely high heels, had slim ankles, and moved rapidly.

  &ldquoBery well. Thee cow is not here. I catch her later. Then, I make her sorry.&rdquo

  &ldquoWhat about Papa? He was guilty, too.&rdquo

  Arlene and I heard a loud slap.

  &ldquoNever criticize your Papa. He is a saint. A good man. But this woman is a demon with breasts. No man can resist her. Come. I will make your father a special dinner. Something he like bery much.&rdquo We heard footsteps, then the door shutting. Arlene and I exchanged looks. We waited several seconds and then rolled out from under the bed.

  &ldquoI hope she really isn&rsquot a demon with breasts,&rdquo I said, thinking what a woman like that could do to a man like Ken.

  Two minutes later, we finished putting everything back and were out the door. Before I could start my car engine, I was skimming through Courtney&rsquos book. Most of the pages were empty. But when I reached the &ldquoB&rsquos,&rdquo my heart sank. Ken Blanchard was listed next to his phone number and a large zero written in red ink. Was this what Courtney had meant to show me? If so, what did it mean?

  &ldquoWhat is that?&rdquo Arlene asked.

  &ldquoSome kind of phone book. There are phone numbers but no street addresses. And other numbers written in red.&rdquo I showed her the contents.

  &ldquoWow. That is so fucking pathetic. I expected the Manhattan yellow pages including all five boroughs.&rdquo

  &ldquoIt has nine names&mdashall guys, of course. And there&rsquos one that&rsquos been crossed out.&rdquo I handed Arlene the tiny book then headed into traffic on Torrey Pines Road.

  Arlene stared down at a page. &ldquoIt&rsquos like a secret rating system. Like this guy Bill has a fifty-nine hundred by his name. Which could be his age or an anatomical dimension. So how come Ken has a zero beside his?&rdquo

  &ldquoTrust me, that&rsquos an incorrect dimension.&rdquo

  &ldquoCan&rsquot be too difficult to figure out,&rdquo Arlene said. &ldquoMaybe Courtney&rsquos rich and beautiful, but she&rsquos no phi beta kappa. Why don&rsquot we head to my house, order a pizza, and figure this out?&rdquo

  So early that evening, after we stuffed ourselves with pizza, we faced Courtney&rsquos little black book.

  &ldquoIf you&rsquore too jittery, I&rsquoll make the first call,&rdquo Charlene said, picking up the lizard book and reaching for the phone.

  &ldquoNo, no, I&rsquoll do it. I just hope we don&rsquot antagonize a serial killer.&rdquo

  &ldquoRelax, my phone has caller ID blocked. Besides, there&rsquos this.&rdquo Reaching inside her purse, Arlene pulled out a tiny gun.

  I stared, frightened. &ldquoWhat&rsquos that for?&rdquo

  &ldquoI found it in Courtney&rsquos closet. It&rsquos a twenty-two, a pea shooter. But it&rsquos still lethal.&rdquo

  &ldquoYou stole it?&rdquo

  &ldquoWhy not? You took her lizard book.&rdquo

  &ldquoYeah, but what if she killed someone with that thing? If the police found the gun here, you&rsquod be blamed&mdash&rdquo

  Arlene made a face. &ldquoIf, if, if.&rdquo

  &ldquoIs it loaded?&rdquo

  &ldquoI took out the bullets.&rdquo

  &ldquoYou&rsquore sure?&rdquo

  &ldquoCome to think of it, I was out with cramps the day my platoon learned about weapons.&rdquo

  &ldquoToo bad,&rdquo I said, reaching for the gun. It felt heavy and dangerous. I pictured Sofia finding it. &ldquoMaybe someone threatened her, and she had to carry it for protection.&rdquo

  &ldquoMaybe,&rdquo Arlene said, sticking the gun inside a table drawer before dropping back down beside me on her large family room sectional.

  I thumbed through Courtney&rsquos book looking for a good name. But like Shakespeare said, what can you tell by a name? &ldquoOkay. Eddy Post, Sirhan Spector ... wait a second. There&rsquos a Miguel Tranquillo. It&rsquos the only Hispanic name in here. He could be that crazy woman&rsquos husband.&rdquo

  &ldquoJust call someone. Anyone.&rdquo

  &ldquoOkay, okay.&rdquo I took several cleansing breaths and punched in the number for Miguel Tranquillo. Five rings later, a little girl answered, though it was hard to hear with all the pots and pans banging in the background. It sounded as if I&rsquod reached a kitchen.

  &ldquoHello, I mean, hola. Is Miguel there?&rdquo I asked.

  &ldquoMama. It&rsquos a woman for Papa.&rdquo

  &ldquoNo, little girl, wait!&rdquo

  &ldquoPapa? Did you say Papa?&rdquo a woman growled.

  I heard the phone being grabbed. &ldquoWho is this?&rdquo a women with a foreign accent snarled.

  &ldquoSorry to bother you at dinner time. I wonder if I could speak to Miguel Tranquillo. We discussed his buying some health insurance recently and&mdash&rdquo

  &ldquoDon&rsquot lie to me you dirty puta! I been watching you and my husband for months. And you are going to be bery sorry when I find you.&rdquo

  &ldquoNo, no, you don&rsquot understand. I&rsquom not Courtney Farrow. I&rsquom trying to find her&mdash&rdquo

  &ldquoI no let you suck him dry like thee sponge. Till thee man and his family stand in thee street selling chewing gum.&rdquo

  &ldquoBut Mama,&rdquo the little girl said.

  I heard a loud slap, a child crying, and finally a woman&rsquos irate, &ldquoI murder you for this!&rdquo

  I hung up. Letting out my breath, I leaned back on the sofa and took a long pull on my beer. &ldquoI hate Courtney Farrow. Somehow, no matter where she is, she&rsquos still screwing up my life.&rdquo

  &ldquoWhat happened?&rdquo

  &ldquoMrs. Tranquillo seemed to think I was Courtney. And she wants to murder me. I&rsquom pretty sure she was the one at Courtney&rsquos condo. I recognized her threats.&rdquo

  &ldquoWhat about her husband?&rdquo Arlene asked.

  &ldquoDidn&rsquot sound like he was around.&rdquo

  &ldquoMaybe Miguel Tranquillo&rsquos with Courtney. Maybe they ran away together.&rdquo

  &ldquoMaybe,&rdquo I said, thumbing through the book. &ldquoOkay, the next guy is ... Bart Miller. Isn&rsquot he the guy who left a message on her answering machine?&rdquo

  &ldquoWhat&rsquos his red number?&rdquo Arlene asked.

  &ldquoEighty-five. Whatever that means.&rdquo

  &ldquoWhat was Miguel Tranquillo&rsquos?&rdquo

  I flipped back to the end of Courtney&rsquos book. &ldquoEighty-six hundred.&rdquo

  &ldquoMoney?&rdquo

  &ldquoCould be, but what for?&rdquo

  Arlene abruptly stood. &ldquoBe right back.&rdquo Dashing out, she returned a moment later holding another phone.

  Taking a deep breath, I punched in Bart&rsquos number, determined to keep up my momentum. It was an old solution to my hatred of cold calling people to find prospective insurance customers. The idea was to limit the time between calls so that you kept up a rhythm and grew indifferent to the rejection.

  Beside me, Arlene held the phone in one hand and a double shot of bourbon in the other. My hands shook as I listened to Arlene&rsquos breathing and the phone ringing. Seconds later, Bart himself answered. He sounded so pleased to hear from me that I repeated my reason for calling.

  &ldquo... and Courtney&rsquos been missing for almost a week. So the police are checking out everyone,&rdquo I said, anxious to see if Bart slammed down his phone or got defensive.

  Instead he chirped, &ldquoThat&rsquos weird. Wish I could hel
p. But it&rsquos been about four months since we broke up.&rdquo

  &ldquoBut you did call her recently.&rdquo

  A moment of silence passed. &ldquoHow do you know?&rdquo

  Damn. &ldquoShe mentioned it, several times.&rdquo

  &ldquoLook, I wish I could hang out and talk but I have an appointment.&rdquo

  &ldquoOh, well, nice talking to you.&rdquo I hung up.

  &ldquoWhat do you think?&rdquo Arlene asked.

  &ldquoNice but evasive. He seemed in a real hurry to get off the phone.&rdquo I thumbed through the lizard book again. &ldquoThat leaves Sirhan Spector, that guy Duke from the party, Davy, Eddy, Bill, Tommy, the one that&rsquos been crossed out, and&mdash&rdquo

  &ldquoKen,&rdquo Arlene said.

  &ldquoAnd Ken.&rdquo I hated being reminded.

  &ldquoWant me to call him?&rdquo she asked, like she wanted to carve out his spleen with the jagged lid of a tuna can.

  &ldquoNo. I&rsquoll ask him next time I see him. If I ever see him again.&rdquo

  &ldquoYou&rsquoll hear from him. What about Tommy? You&rsquore certainly on speaking terms with him. You invited him to our party,&rdquo Arlene said.

  &ldquoNot really. I emailed the guys I invited. Besides, he reported Courtney missing. I feel weird about calling him.&rdquo

  &ldquoCome to think of it, I can&rsquot even remember Tommy talking to her. And she flirted with plenty of guys that night,&rdquo Arlene said.

  &ldquoMaybe she wanted to make him jealous. Or they talked when we weren&rsquot around.&rdquo

  &ldquoMaybe. But we should definitely find out what he knows.&rdquo

  Fortunately or unfortunately, Tommy didn&rsquot pick up his phone. I hung up before leaving him a message. At which point, I quit for the evening.

  I left before eight. The sun hung low above the mountains to the west. Being early, I decided a fast trip to the mall by my condo would take my mind off Courtney and Ken. Besides, I felt like splurging. A wealthy client had left a message asking me to drop by for more life insurance.

  I spent an hour looking at clothes a college kid would like which wouldn&rsquot look too ridiculous on a ten-year-old. This is how Sofia sees herself: Ten preparing for her first job interview. I picked out jeans, tops, beads, cologne, and kiddy nail polish. So that if Courtney Farrow got strangled with her own thong between seven and nine-thirty, I&rsquod have an alibi.