Brush With Death (33 page)

“What's he doing?” Helena asked. “Dancing? Boxing?”

“Maybe stretching?”
What a geek Russell is,
I thought. “You were saying about the O'Neill painting?”

“I wish I could follow one of his garden paths, enter a warmly lit cottage, and sit by the fire with a cup of tea. Do you remember the scene in
Mary Poppins
where the children and Bert the chimney sweep jump into a sidewalk chalk painting?”

I smiled. “It's my favorite part.”

Russell was now bobbing back and forth, though not to any discernible beat.

“My son died, you know,” Helena whispered.

“I know. I'm so sorry.”

We sat in silence. The truck's small cab started getting stuffy—and fragrant of eau de Dumpster—so I rolled down the window. I heard the muffled sound of someone crying for help. In the car up ahead, Russell's movements had slowed.

Something was wrong.

I leapt out of the truck and ran over to the Cadillac. Russell's body jerked and his face pressed up against the driver's window.

His eyes were full of terror.

Chapter 17

—Eric Fischl (1948- ), American painter and sculptor

I do not understand those who are offended by the sight of a nude body. Perhaps they have too many mirrors in their bathrooms.
—Georges LeFleur

“Unlock the door!” I yelled, jerking on the handle and banging on the window. “Russell, unlock the door!”

The driver's door wouldn't budge, so I tried the rear door, then ran around to the passenger's side. All locked. I pounded on the windows and yelled, but there was no response. Russell was no longer moving, though his eyes were wide open.

Helena stood on the sidewalk, wringing her hands.

“Do you have a cell phone?” I demanded.

She shook her head. I pushed her in the direction of the cemetery office. “Go get help! Call 911!
Now!
”

She stumbled off. My shouting had attracted the attention of one of the cemetery gardeners, a white-haired man who headed this way, pruning shears in hand. I looked around for something to break the glass with, saw nothing, and ran to my truck. Flinging my seat forward, I fumbled in the mess for the metal bar that formed the handle of the tire jack. I ran back to the Caddy and swung it against the passenger's-side window, hard. The heavy metal bar bounced off the safety glass.
Shit!

I took a deep breath and tried again, using all my strength, and this time the glass cracked and bent inward. Another swing shattered it into a thousand tiny pebbles. The gardener knocked away the remaining shards with his gloved hands and unlocked the door. I climbed in and felt something stab me in the hip.

“Russell! Can you hear me?”

Curly Top's face was red and swollen, and he was wheezing. I grabbed him by the shoulders and together the gardener and I dragged him across the seat. I knelt on the curb, holding Curly Top half in, half out of the car. The gardener took off his hat and swatted at the air while I loosened Russell's tie and started talking. I don't know what I said, but I was still nattering on when the paramedics arrived. The gardener drew me away and the paramedics laid Russell on the ground and began barking orders. I heard something that sounded like “epi push,” and the echo of sirens rang in my ears.

A young man with a sleek black ponytail instructed me to sit on the curb while he treated several small cuts on my hands, an abrasion on my brow, and scrapes on my knees. The paramedic's voice was low and soothing.

“Is Russell all right?” I asked.

“He's alive. Much longer and he wouldn't have been.”

“Was it a heart attack?”

“Looks like anaphylaxis. His medic alert bracelet says he's allergic to bee stings.”

“A bee sting did all that?”

“Lethal things can come in small packages.”

The police arrived as the paramedics loaded Curly Top into the ambulance and raced away toward Summit Medical Center. I described what had happened, and Helena and the gardener confirmed my story.

“He was stung repeatedly,” said a gray-faced cop in a wrinkled uniform. “Could be a bee got trapped. A paper wasp, now—they'll mess you up good if you're allergic. It may have been building its nest and got pissed off when the engine started.”

“I think you should call Detective Hucles,” I said. “This might be related to another case he's working on.”

“Hucles?” the cop asked. “He's been workin' twenty-four hours straight. We're a little shorthanded down at the station.”

“I just saw him a little bit ago. Really, I think he'd want to hear about this.”

The cop shrugged and walked off.

I sat in the cab of my truck, stunned and so weary I didn't care what I looked and smelled like. I hadn't seen Manny since our last less-than-friendly interaction, but he came over, offered me a Coke, and asked if I needed anything else. His gentle eyes were shadowed with worry. I thanked him, told him I was fine, then drifted off to sleep.

“Is this some kind of elaborate plan to spend time with me?” Hucles said, startling me awake.

“What? I . . . uh . . .” I surreptitiously wiped a little drool off the side of my mouth and pretended I hadn't been asleep.

He started asking questions. How did I know the victim? Did I know he was allergic to bees? Was I sure the car doors were locked when I arrived? How did I happen to be here?

“I don't understand how this could have happened,” I murmured.

“Sometimes bees try to nest under the hood of a car, then come in through the heating vents.”

“That's what the other guy said,” I replied, remembered something buzzing past me. “But Russell must have driven to work this morning, so the car had only been parked there for a day. And why didn't he just jump out?”

Hucles looked away. “The locks seem to be malfunctioning. It happens sometimes on older cars. He probably panicked. They found his Epi-pen under the seat. He must have dropped it when he was trying to use it.”

“Detective, this seems awfully coincidental. Could it have been on purpose?” I asked, hearing my voice waver. “Could someone have tried to kill Russell?”

“Here's an idea. Why don't you leave the detective work to me? It was good you called me in on this. I'll look into any connection between the incidents.”

I nodded.

“You can go for now, but I'm sure I'll have more questions for you. Here's my card again, just in case you think of anything else,” he said, and then his voice gentled. “Listen, is there anyone you want me to call to come get you?”

I shook my head. All I wanted to do was go home, have a stiff drink or ten, and crawl into bed.

The sun was setting by the time I pulled into the tiny lot behind my apartment building and squeezed into a space between my neighbors' nicer cars. Today had been the kind of day that made my third-floor location seem like a ridiculous assumption of health and well-being. I slogged slowly up the steps, pulling myself up by the sturdy oak banister. I unlocked my door, grateful to be home, tossed my keys in the little bowl on the hall table, and froze.

My apartment had been ransacked.

The futon mattress had been tossed on the floor, my bookshelves were emptied of books, and the area rug was heaped in a corner.

Fear, even anger, was muted. Mostly I felt numb.

I snatched up my keys and thundered down the stairs. If someone was still there, they could help themselves to my crappy TV, half a loaf of moldy bread, and a four-year-old tube of mascara. I would
not
risk another confrontation with a ghoul in a Halloween mask, and I couldn't bring myself to go through an interrogation with Hucles for the third time in the same day. There was nothing in that damned metal box worth any of this.

I hopped in my truck and sped to San Francisco, putting the bridge and the bay between me and the goings-on at the cemetery. The numbness wore off and I started fuming. I'd had it up to here with ghouls in masks and the mysterious secrets of the columbarium. I stopped by my studio, but it was quiet this evening. On the plus side, no one had tossed the place. On the downside, no one was around, not even Frank. Usually I relished the peace of my studio after-hours, but tonight I did not want to be alone. Still, I strapped on my apron, put in an old Pretenders CD, and tried to lose myself in painting. Art always relaxed me, but tonight I jumped at every sound, real or imagined.

I left by ten and drove around aimlessly, trying to decide where to go. I could join the gang at the club where Mary's band was playing, but I quailed at the thought of a raucous crowd and pounding music. Funny thing, somehow I wound up right down the street from my landlord's apartment. I didn't want to analyze it too closely, but Frank's place seemed synonymous with safety and security.

On the other hand, suppose he was entertaining A-list clients with an elegant catered dinner party? I imagined the clink of silver against fine china, the murmur of refined conversation, the glug-glug-glug of seventy-dollar wine being poured into crystal goblets. Frank would preside at one end of the table, handsome as ever in black tie. At the other end, his girlfriend, Ingrid, would be smiling, the consummate hostess. If I showed up in my disheveled state—my skirt was dirty, my blouse was torn, I was adorned with garbage drippings, and my hair was, as always, wild—I might not make the best of impressions.

While I debated, a car pulled out of a space at the curb. That decided it. If that wasn't divine intervention, I didn't know what was.

In case Frank was home alone, I should bring a peace offering. There was a great pizza place down the street and I couldn't remember the last time I had eaten, which just went to show how abnormal things had been lately. I ordered an extra-large thin crust with green peppers, mushrooms, and pepperoni, and used their tiny, dimly lit bathroom to wash up as best I could. I would smell like the cheapest institutional soap, but that was better than dirty Pampers.

The only other time I'd been to Frank's apartment we had entered from the parking garage, and he had used a key to access the elevator. This time I would have to deal with a doorman. On my own. Late at night. Looking a fright.

Remember, chérie,
I heard my grandfather whisper,
you are a LeFleur. LeFleurs have been guests in the world's finest homes. Never apologize for who you are.

I strode into the lobby, pizza box in hand. The fellow sitting behind the desk was of below-average height and above-average weight. His shiny brass name tag indicated his name was Darryl.

“Good evening, Darryl,” I said in an oh-so-refined tone. “Mr. Frank DeBenton, please.”

“Aah . . . Mr. DeBenton?” Darryl's thin hair was tucked under his cap, and he wore a red jacket that reminded me of Sergeant Pepper. “Aah . . . was he expecting you?”

“Certainly. I brought pizza.”

Darryl looked skeptical.

Do not be intimidated, chérie,
my grandfather continued. Hauteur
will succeed where
politesse
may fail.

“I'm in a hurry, Darryl.”

“Are you, uh, a friend?”

“Mr. DeBenton will not be amused to learn of your interest in his, shall we say, affairs.”

“Oh, aaah—” Darryl's rheumy blue eyes gave me the once-over, while he was apparently trying to reconcile my appearance with my attitude.

Do not give up,
ma petite.
Never be the first to blink.

“Darryl?” I said peremptorily.

Darryl picked up the phone and after a brief exchange said, “This way, ma'am,” and escorted me to the elevator, where he pressed the button for the tenth floor. “Have a good evening, ma'am.”

“Thank you, Darryl.” I smiled to myself as the doors closed but stopped when I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the gilt mirror some misanthrope had hung on the elevator's side wall. It was much larger than the one in the dim pizza parlor restroom, and despite my earlier efforts my hair looked totally out of control, my mascara was smudged, and my lipstick had smeared. My blouse was torn at the shoulder, and my black bra strap played peekaboo. My skirt was stained and one button had popped off. I looked like a hooker who'd been caught holding out on her pimp.

No wonder Darryl had been so worried. Doubtless I'd already triggered some new talk on the doorman gossip mill about J. Frank DeBenton's interesting taste in ladies of the evening. The world being what it was, I thought, his reputation would only be enhanced.

I did the best I could to fix the mascara and smooth my hair, but gave up by the time the elevator opened with a soft
ping.
I stepped into the hallway and noticed an open door at the end of the corridor. I walked toward it cautiously, balancing the pizza box on one hand.

I tapped on the door as I stepped into the foyer. “Frank?”

There was no reply. I felt a shiver of anticipation. What if Frank wasn't home? What if the masked ghouls had somehow tracked me here and were lying in wait? What if Frank lay in the bedroom in a puddle of blood? What if—

Frank stood next to the fireplace where flames were burning low. One hand rested on the mantelpiece, the other held a tumbler of amber liquid. He wore charcoal-gray wool pants and a pearly gray silk shirt, unbuttoned at the collar. It was a scene right out of
Vanity Fair.

“There you are. You okay, Frank?”

He watched me for a long moment before nodding.

“I hope you don't mind that I showed up like this. I mean, I know it's late but I brought pizza. . . .” I felt foolish, and my annoyance grew.
Gee, Frank, don't go out of your way to make me feel welcome.
“Why don't I just close the door?”