A Corpse in a Teacup (25 page)

“So,” insisted Natasha. “Where is
it? Where is this good fortune? I look around me and I don’t see it. I want it now! You promised me.”

Tuesday rolled her eyes. And for this she wasn’t even getting paid.

On the way to his SUV,
Clipper put his arm around Tuesday’s shoulders and drew her to him. “It’s almost eleven. Let me take you home so you can try to get some sleep.”

“Do I look that bad?”

“You look good enough to eat with a spoon. But this has been a day. A good night’s sleep cures many ills.”

“Will it bring them home?”

“Try it, okay?” As he reached for his keys, he pulled out his harmonica and blew a few lines of a country and western song. Tuesday sank her forehead into his chest. She didn’t know the music, but she let the sweet, nostalgic tune sweep over her.

“I know a short cut,” he said. “I’ll have you home in fifteen minutes.”

“Impossible,” she answered. “I’ve driven this route for almost a year and I know every shortcut. Can’t be done in under twenty-seven minutes.”

“Watch me.”

“No driving over anybody’s lawn,” she said and buckled up. “And don’t rush on my account. You know I won’t sleep a wink until I know they are safe.”

For ten minutes they wound through streets, some well lighted, some dark, some familiar, some new to her. He turned a corner and at the end of the street they saw a bright streetlight overlooking a stop sign. A woman leaned against the pole. As they got closer and Clipper slowed for the stop, Tuesday stared, leaned over the dash to peer through the windshield.

“STOP!
” she yelled. Her hands flapped frantically, signaling him to pull over.

She
turned her head, gazed openmouthed at Clifford. “That’s my mother.”

Within minutes of Clipper ending his call to J
ameson, helicopters droned overhead, their spotlights sweeping over the neighborhood like gigantic Cyclops. Sirens screamed in the distance, the decibels climbing louder as they got closer. Suddenly, the blue, red and white lights of a dozen squad cars careened down the street and surrounded the SUV, armored SWAT team vehicles right behind. Residents streamed out of their houses to investigate, some shouting that their children were sleeping.

Tuesday and Tessa clutched each other, teary, disbelieving.

Without waiting for introductions, Clipper separated them. “Ma’am. Time is running out. Where are they? Where were they heading when you got out of the car? We need to know.”

The search continued through the night. Tessa explained their day. Brava promised a picnic with other cast members, a short break in Griffiths Park. Then she began behaving oddly, insisting they stop someplace else so they could have soup. She pulled out a gun and made them throw their phones out the window. Tessa, new to LA, had no idea where they’d driven, but often it was in circles. After dark, Brava slowed down. Tessa rushed the console in the front seat and unlocked the back doors. She fell out of the back seat, but by the time Holley realized the plan, Brava took off, the back door swinging open and she careened around a corner.

She didn’t know where she was or how long she’d been
standing by the streetlight. Thirty-minutes? An hour? She was in a state of shock. She was coming round and had decided to knock on doors for help just as Clipper and Tuesday arrived. Where was Brava? Who knows?

At the police station, t
he director, sobered by the latest development, answered all questions, but shook so badly he couldn’t hold the coffee cup that Detective Butel offered him in the interrogation room. The hefty detective was conducting Vitale’s interview while Jameson headed up the search for his wife and Holley.

Butel leaned back in his chair
, balancing on the back legs, rocking slightly, cleaning his fingernails while he waited for Vitale to answer his questions. Vitale had already insisted that they weren’t having marital or financial problems. He all but fainted when Butel showed him the loan documents, her funding of Marco’s investment in The Mulberry Cat. Jameson’s search warrant of the chef’s house had uncovered those. Clipper’s find. And no, he declared emphatically, she didn’t have mental health issues. Wasn’t on any meds. To which Butel had replied, “So she’s just having your typical bad day?”

Vitale was close to tears
, riffling through the papers linking his wife to the chef. By now Butel had told Vitale that they’d found the poisonous plants in the chef’s famed backyard garden. The death lilys. Tuesday’s brainstorm. Butel had told him that tissues from the deceased were, as they spoke, being spun in a special spectrometer and would show the cells laced with toxins from the deadly plant, toxins that, in humans, mimicked a cardiac arrest. So he might as well come clean with what he knew. He didn’t tell him it would take weeks for the results to come back from the lab.

Vitale exclaimed, “And you think I had something to do with the poison? With the deaths of those women? Preposterous.”

Butel held up his pocket nail file. “I got all night. Take your time. Where’d your wife get the gun?”

Vitale pleaded.
“I’ve told you. My wife doesn’t have a gun. She’s very anti-NRA. She wouldn’t let a firearm come within a mile of our house.”

Butel trimmed a corner of his thumb with his teeth, spit to the side. “We got a witness tells us otherwise.”

Butel sighed deeply. He rocked forward, slamming the front chair legs onto the tile floor with a smack that reverberated around the room. Vitale flinched, his hands shook violently, Butel’s intention.

“Now if you know something about this little joyride she took, and you’re withholding, well, I’d have to look it up in the book but I’m sure impeding a murder investigation has to be worth, oh, twenny, twenny-five years. Something like that.
And if you slipped the poison to any of these women, or something happens to Miss Holley Wood tonight, well, I’d say we have enough for special circumstances. You know what that means? A dose of poison administered by the state.”

Vitale folded his arms on the table, laid his head down on top of them. Muttered, “I don’t know anything, I don’t kn
ow what’s going on. I don’t know why she’d do something like this. She’s so supportive of my projects, the casts and crews. I don’t understand.”

Butel spoke to his balding head.
“I should tell you, Mr. Vitale, that as we speak, Marco is in another room considering his options as we ask him about his relationship with your wife. Anything you can tell us about that?”

Goren
was shaking his head as Jameson burst into the room. Without a preamble, she began firing questions at him. “You have any real estate in the area that might be vacant? No? How about your wife? Does she own anything under her own name? Anybody in her family, any close friends? A place where she could hide and think we won’t find her?”

Vitale looked like someone
awakened from a deep sleep by a bright light. Eyes popped open, confusion written all over his face. “No, no, I don’t think so. Only her father. He doesn’t own any vacant houses but he has a real estate office. The business is dead. He only goes there to get away from his wife. My opinion. Over in Montrose. But I don’t think she has a key or anything.”

Jameson had her iPad out. “Father’s phone number, address. Hurry up. I don’t have all night.”

Tuesday and Clipper sat in a small anteroom. Tuesday
had refused to go home and Clipper pulled strings, so they were allowed to wait where the news was likely to break. Two detectives Tuesday hadn’t seen before were questioning Tessa in another room. Tuesday was not allowed in but assured they were treating her mother with kid gloves. The door was open and they saw Jameson run out of the building. Clipper grabbed Tuesday’s hand. “Let’s go.”

They followed Jameson as far as the roadblock in Montrose. Clipper pleaded with the officers stringing up crime scene tape, but they could only watch as Jameson and several uniformed officers drew their weapons and crept up the street.

“Douse your lights sir.
” The officer’s voice was tight with urgency. “I urge to leave the scene. You’re safety is at risk.”

Clipper cajoled and pleaded but couldn’t get them any closer. Tuesday could barely breath
e from the tension. Jameson and her team disappeared into the shadows, a wall of armed officers blocked any view of the real estate office in the distance. Police moved around stealthily, whispering, giving hand signals. ROVER’s crackled on the officers’ shoulders. Another squad car arrived. Butel got out with his weapon drawn. The officer pointed to Jameson down the block.

Suddenly shots rang out, muffled as they ricocheted inside the real estate office, but distinctive. Jameson seemed to be holding her team back, reconnoitering outside. Then all was quiet for a moment. Tuesday broke down. “She dead. She’s been shot. Oh, Holley.”

Then there was a crash of glass shattering, wood splintering. Jameson was storming the office. Shouts now, indistinct, angry voices, terrified voices. A figure jumped through the large broken window, tall, dark hair streaming behind her. She ran very fast. Another figure ran after her, faster still. The bulky speed demon, Detective Butel.

Chaos now where a moment ago all had been quiet. On cue, several of t
he officers in front of Clipper’s car rushed forward. He held up his hand to Tuesday.

“Stay here,”
he said and tumbled out of his car to run after them. Other officers tried to stop him, but he pulled away, Tuesday unnoticed behind him.

They reached the real estate office,
brochures for long ago sold properties, graffiti and handbills hanging from the smashed windows. A policewoman pulled Tuesday away and whispered loudly, “What are you doing here? Who let her get this far?”

The front door
to the office was open. An officer, stepping carefully, swept a huge torch over the front room. Tuesday saw Jameson in the strobe-like bursts of light, then looked down at the floor and let out a bloodcurdling scream. “Holley! Oh, my god, Holley.”

Clipper pulled her back, both of them staring at the body on the floor, the blood-stained ponytail covering her face. Tuesday crumpled into
his arms.

Moments later the shrill ring of an ambulance and paramedic vehicle whined in the air.

Butel drove Tessa to the hospital himself. Jameson waited with Tuesday and Clipper. Tuesday ran into Tessa’s arms when she rounded the corridor.

“Oh mommy. She’s in surgery and they won’t tell us anything.”

Brava was in a second operating room. Nobody waited for news of her
except the police officer guarding her door, ready to officially arrest her when she woke up. She broke her arm and clavicle when Butel landed on her.

The sun was rising, coloring the hills behind Verdugo Hospital when the surgeon came into the waiting room asking, “Miss Wood’s family?”

Tuesday ran forward. “She has
no family here. Her mother’s in the south of France. I don’t know about anyone else. She’s my friend, my close friend.”

The surgeon took lip balm out of
the pocket of her lab coat and ran it over her lips. Her scrubs underneath had smears of blood on the front.

“Your
friend is very lucky. One bullet grazed her brain, but there shouldn’t be any permanent damage. It didn’t hit any vital structures and there was minimal bleeding. She’ll have a scar of course, but her hair, when it grows in, will cover that. Another bullet must have ricocheted off the wall or something and hit her in the foot. She’ll be on crutches and will need physical therapy, but as I said, she’s very lucky. Is she a ballet dancer?”

Tuesday shrugged. “I have no idea.”

“Well that career is over. I doubt she’ll get up on points again if she is, but don’t worry. She’ll still be able to boogie. But she’s going to need a lot of rest.”

Behind her, Tuesday heard footsteps coming into the room. “I can make sure that happens.”

Tuesday turned around. Roger stood there, looking as though he had not slept in years. “I heard about it on the news coming over from the beach. Can I see her?”

They all sat around two tables pulled together in the
Café, Tuesday, Clipper, Tessa, Natasha, Jameson and Butel. An attempt at breakfast had resulted in the preparing a pot of coffee, badly scrambled eggs and some stale French bread. The pastry delivery for the brunch menu was not due for another hour. Jameson was deep into her iPad, reading notes and taking notes.

“Motive?” she said. “That’s a tricky one. Marco isn’t admitting
much, trying to make a deal, but Brava’s opening up, blaming everybody but herself. The Vitale’s were heading for divorce court. He wanted out.”

Tuesday’s eyes opened in surprise.
“But Holley said she was so supportive him, they were so close.”

“This is Hollywood, girlfriend,” said Butel. “Everybody’s an actor.
You should have heard the song and dance he gave me about their wedded bliss.”

“So anyway,” Jameson cocked her head at Butel, “if I may continue, she wasn’t going to get much of a settlement
. They hadn’t been married very long. This is California. No longer wife friendly in divorce cases. So she decided if she wasn’t going to get anything, he wasn’t going to have anything left. So she devised a plan to sabotage his film company by offing the people close to him. Figured she’d get away with it if she made it look like they died of natural causes. She wouldn’t get caught, but the deaths would put a curse on Vitale and he’d be out of business. Ruined. That would teach him.”

Clipper cut in. “So she had something on Marco and he made the soup with the poiso
nous plants and she fed it to them. That’s bizarre.”

Jameson nodded.
“He owed her a lot of money. On top of that, love is blind. She told him they’d get married after her divorce. I guess they were going to live on love. He’s in debt up to his ears. But he’s a noted gardener. And he knows how to doctor the soup with poison.”

Natasha broke in. “The garden was what made his food outstanding. He grew a
lmost everything he served. He vas a genius with the green thumbs.”

Jameson said, “There you go. This plant
, the death lily, is easy to grow. It mimics wild onions. In the spring and summer it’s a problem for ranchers. They lose sheep and cows when it pops up in grazing pastures and hillsides. He figured it wouldn’t be noticed in his garden. Plus, he never let anyone go into his garden.”

Kanesha paused to drink her coffee. She had pushed aside the eggs
Tuesday had made for everyone. “Why these victims? Brava was jealous of Ariel, though we don’t have any evidence she was actually doing the down and dirty with the director. Maybe the wife saw the handwriting on the wall. He was playing around with the costumer, though. Of course, so was everyone else in this town, but it got out and she was humiliated. Zora? The assistant? She had the misfortune to just be your garden variety bitch and she got on Brava’s wrong side.

She sat back, closing the iPad, finishing up her narrative
. “Holley was on her list, but we think Marco had the hots for her and tried to scare her away from the project. Nobody else got warnings as far as we know. Brava would have gotten away with it if it weren’t for the cat. That’s what led us to the killers.”

Tuesday blurted out, “Vera was right!”

“What do you mean? Who’s Vera?”

“A psychic I know who said the killer was a cat. She said find the cat and you’ll find the killer. I didn’t know what she meant.”

Jameson looked at her disgustedly. “A psychic?”

Butel gave her a thumbs up.

Jameson continued. “The chef did tell us this. He made a batch of the deadly soup at home. Said he mixed it up with some he’d made for himself. Accidentally ate some and it made him sick before he realized his mistake, but it didn’t kill him.”

Tuesday said, “Did it ever. All over the kitchen.” Natasha made an ugly face, remembering him vomiting in her kitchen.

“Anyway, he came in one morning early. He had another kind of accident. He was rushing around before any of the staff showed up and he’d have to explain what he was doing there. Couldn’t say he was picking up some cream for his poisoned soup. He knocked over the cat and instead of just owning up to it, and letting the staff or the janitorial service clean it up, he swept it up himself. He was going to blame it on the earthquake. He was already juggling one dangerous female, he didn’t want to tangle with Natasha. He knew how she was about the cat.”

Natasha
growled, “And why shouldn’t I be angry? Do you know what that cat. . . “

Tuesday put two and two together
and interrupted Natasha’s tirade. “So the pieces scattered and that’s why I stepped on one and some pieces got stuck on his clothes and fell into the soup. Talk about coincidences.”

“And if your friend Clipper here hadn’t seen the sliver on your boot, he never would have recognized it at the autopsy. There is no way we would have made the connection to the
Café otherwise. The coroner would just have assumed she swallowed a foreign body by accident. Case closed.”

The front door opened and Rowena entered, a look of surprise on her face when she saw the group sitting over dirty dishes. She
said hello to Natasha, then introduced herself. “I’m Rowena, the sous chef.”

Everybody nodded hello.

“Natasha, if you’re busy, I can wait in the kitchen. You said to come in early to meet with you. I didn’t know what time you wanted me here.”

Natasha stood up. “What do you mean, you’re Rowena the sous chef. You will NEVER work as a sous chef in The Mulberry Cat Café again.”

Rowena blanched and seemed to crumble. She held onto the nearest chair. “Natasha, I assure you, I had no idea what Marco was doing. I swear. I had no part in those awful crimes.”

Natasha ordered, “Come over here.” Rowena obeyed and Natasha
pushed back her chair and stood up. She was easily half a foot taller than Rowena, imposing. She put her arm around Rowena’s shoulder. “This is no longer Rowena the sous chef. I vant to introduce Rowena, my new executive chef.