Christietown (10 page)

Lou was standing outside his house, smoking, when I pulled up.

He took one last drag on his cigarette, then tossed it onto the sidewalk and crushed it underfoot.

“Liz wouldn’t let me smoke inside the house,” he said, open
ing the car door for me. “I know it doesn’t matter anymore, but old habits die hard, you know?”

The Bermans lived in a modest English Tudor house in Carthay Circle, a middle-class enclave developed in the twen
ties in the shadow of Wilshire Boulevard’s Miracle Mile. I’d once seen a photograph of Norma Shearer on the red carpet at the Carthay Circle Theatre, where
Gone With the Wind
made its world premiere. She looked glamorous in an Adrian gown with big shoulders and a fur collar. David O. Selznick had originally cast her in the role of Scarlet O’Hara, but she received so many letters from fans who felt she was wrong for the part that she bowed out. In any case, the theater, an art deco masterpiece, was torn down in the sixties to make room for an office build
ing. I’d passed it on my way over. It already looked like a ruin.

The house smelled like old people.

“I think we could use some fresh air in here, don’t you?” I opened a louvered window. Through the narrow panes I could see the rotary sprinkler on the front lawn spinning in circles, spraying droplets of water everywhere.

“Sure,” said Lou. “Okay.”

I moved the newspaper—yesterday’s—and sat down on the couch, which was in dire need of reupholstering. The cushions were ripped and the stuffing was starting to come out.

“Can I get you anything?” Lou took a seat opposite me in a plastic chair that resembled a wedge of coconut.

“No, thank you,” I said with a smile. “Have you been all right?”

“Oh, sure,” he said, pressing the back of his hand against his unshaved cheek. Without the usual gel, his black hair looked coarse and unruly.

“That’s good to hear.”

He fingered an unlit cigarette then stood up, yanking at his gray sweats, which had lost their drawstring. He disappeared into the kitchen and came back out with a tray of cold cuts.

“Have some deli meats,” he said. “Somebody brought them over. I’ll never eat all this myself.”

He hovered over me as I made myself a pastrami on rye. Then, satisfied, he sank into a black globe chair on casters. Above him was a huge
Barbarella
poster. It looked like Jane Fonda was aiming her ray gun directly at his head.

“You have some great chairs,” I said, taking a bite of the sandwich. “Um, good.”

“Liz liked to go to the Rose Bowl flea market.”

“I go every once in a while,” I said. “When I remember.”

“Liz went religiously.”

“That’s how you find the good stuff,” I said, wiping my mouth.

“They think I killed her,” he said.

“I know.” I put my sandwich down.

“I didn’t do it,” he said.

“I know.”

“Did you hear the story about how we met?” It was the first time he’d smiled since I’d been there.

“No, tell me.”

A small black cat appeared and leapt onto his lap. “I was taking this drama class,” he said, scratching behind the cat’s ears. “I already knew how to dance, thought maybe I could make Broadway if I could act, too. Liz was in the same class. I never really noticed her. She was shy, never said much, not all that good-looking, not the kind you’d pick out of a crowd. One day we had to roll around on the floor and be animals. I was a lion—king of the jungle!—because I’m that kind of idiot.”

I laughed.

“Liz was a tabby cat. And she blew everyone away. She purred, she stretched, she licked her paws with her little pink tongue. Every guy in the room wanted her. But she picked me. I’m the one who taught her to dance. She wasn’t much technically, to be honest with you, but she knew how to throw herself into it. It was a gift, you know? When she waltzed, she was a Viennese princess. When she tangoed, she was a Latin spitfire.” He stopped and stood up. The cat hit the floor with a thump. “What the hell. It’s a good story, isn’t it?”

I nodded.

“Except for the ending. Good story, bad ending.” The cat shot out of the room, its nails skittering across the bare wooden floor.

“I wish it could’ve been different,” I whispered.

Lou finally lit the cigarette he’d been holding. He sucked hungrily, then blew out a ribbon of smoke. “I was okay last night. I read the paper, I watched some TV. I was fine until I saw this.”

He picked a piece of paper off the coffee table and handed it to me.

“From the desk of Liz,” it said at the top.

“It was a to-do list,” he said. “It was in the glove compart
ment of the car. All the things she meant to get done this week.” He stubbed out his cigarette, put his head in his hands. “Listen”—his voice was muffled—“could you just go now?”

I didn’t want to leave him like that, but he insisted.

On the way out, I ran into Wren, who was getting out of a white VW convertible. She was carrying two Ralph’s grocery bags and a pink bakery box dangling from a pretty ribbon.

How thoughtful she was. How big and sad her eyes were.

We said hello, then I got in my car and pulled away from the curb. I couldn’t find a good song on the radio, so I drove home in silence.

I spent the rest of the day in the kitchen, doing dishes, reor
ganizing the cupboards, and baking Gambino a conciliatory apple pie.

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3

he water was boiling.
Agatha had always felt that anything important one person had to say to another could be said in less time than it takes to make a pot of tea.

I love you, for example.

Or: I hate you.

Entire universes of meaning in a few short words. She admired such economy.

Not Rosie the ubiquitous chambermaid. Rosie didn’t under
stand economy.

This afternoon’s conversation came just as Agatha was attempt
ing to relax with a piece of the hotel’s good apple pie. It revolved around Rosie’s family woes, which were legion: a wayward cousin, a father with gout, an unwieldy tax bill, a cuckolded brother. After what seemed a decent interval, Agatha shooed the girl away. She was eager to settle down with the books she’d borrowed from the Messrs. W.H. Smith library in Parliament Street the day before. Among them were several adventure thrillers, a selection of myste
rie, and a book of romantic poetry by Charles Caverley entitled
Fly Leaves
. Not half an hour later, however, the latter volume slipped from her fingers as sleep overtook her.

She dreamed of the icicles on the front porch at Ashfield. When she was a small girl, she’d beg the gardener to break them off so she could pretend they were spears and she was a mighty warrior. She’d do battle until her spears melted and she was just Agatha again.

Upon waking, she bathed and dressed quickly, then made her way to the offices of the
Times
, which were almost ready to close for the day. She wanted to take out an advertisement. She inquired as to rates, then spent some time on the wording.

The clerk behind the desk peered at her shamelessly, finally commenting upon her resemblance to the missing novelist, Agatha Christie.

Paying him his fifteen shillings, she informed him that he had overstepped. Then she closed her purse and turned on her heel.

He ran after her, abashed. He hadn’t meant any harm. He was clearly mistaken. Why, he asked laughingly, would Agatha Christie have taken out an advertisement in the name of one Mrs. Theresa Neele of Capetown, South Africa?

Indeed, she murmured, turning her back on him once more. It was almost dark now, but she had to be certain he couldn’t see her eyes.

C
HAPTER
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ould you please stop yelling?” I begged my mother. “The
people in the parking lot can hear you, for god’s sake. Hold on.” I clicked over to Annie. “Honey, please don’t cry. Hang on a second.” I clicked back over to my mother. “I have a headache. I have to go.”

Before I could click back over to Annie, the elderly gentle
man sitting next to me touched my arm. “If you don’t mind my saying so, dear, you’re going to get indigestion that way. Take it from me. I’m the king of acid reflux.” He wiped some egg salad from his mouth, then asked for the check.

Monday, twelve noon. The lunch counter at Jan’s, on Beverly Boulevard. Waitresses with bouffant hairdos were serving patty melts and rice pudding to a stream of happy, busy people. I was busy but not happy, thanks to my ex-husband Richard, who’d apparently spent the night informing my nearest and dearest that I was a person of interest in a murder investigation and quite likely to face jail time.

I kept reminding my mother, when I could get a word in edgewise, that Richard was not to be trusted, but she wasn’t buying it. After all these years she was still enamored of him: Richard from the good family, Richard with the good edu
cation, Richard who looked like Cary Grant. She’d done his colors and his numbers and was well aware of what kind of head he had on his shoulders. Richard would never lie to her. I was another story.

Annie, who had a better grip on reality, let it go. She said how sorry she was about Liz. And that I shouldn’t get so upset. And that I should eat more tofu and whole grains. Before hang
ing up, we made a date for the six of us—Richard and Jackie, Gambino and me, Vincent and Annie—to meet at the baby store Thursday night to pick out a crib.

Call me psychic, but I predicted it wouldn’t go well.

In the meantime, I was on my way to Christietown. Ian’s assistant had left a message saying my check was ready and I could pick it up after two. That gave me just enough time to have a cup of coffee in peace. I couldn’t bear the thought of choking down more tea with a frantic Ian. Liz’s murder was all over the Sunday paper and still making headlines this morn
ing: “Mystery Cult Death!” “Slaying at Murdertown!” They made the place sound like Jonestown. Ian was going to be beside himself.

But everything seemed just ducky when I got there. A convoy of flatbed trucks and cement mixers made their way down the access road, sounding a rousing chorus of honking horns. Red-and-orange banners blew merrily in the breeze. The birds were chirping, the jonquils stood at attention. And lining the brick path up to the Vicarage were brand-new topi
ary rakes plunged headfirst into the mud, each with a handle in
the shape of a different murder weapon. Best of all, the parking lot was packed with Fords, Lincolns, and old Hondas with new paint jobs. I even saw a well-preserved Nash Rambler with a bumper sticker reading
WORLD’S SEXIEST GRANDPA
. I heaved a sigh of relief. These were Ian’s people.

Inside, it was quiet. Maybe everybody was out giving tours of the model homes. I walked to the reception desk and picked up a flyer promoting tomorrow’s big event, the first meeting of the Tuesday Night Club.

The Tuesday Night Club was Ian’s homage to Agatha Christie’s stories of the same name. In the earliest of these, Miss Marple—hoping to amuse her condescending young nephew—assembles a group of St. Mary Mead’s wittiest con
versationalists. The talk turns to crime. All are aficionados. They decide to meet until each of them has presented a mys
tery for the others to solve. Inevitably, four of the five miss the boat. The fifth is the estimable Miss Marple. After digress
ing about the idiosyncrasies of Inch’s Taxi Service, the benefits of camphorated oil for a cough, or the virtues of an upright armchair for those with rheumatic backs, Miss Marple blithely, infallibly, nails the culprit.