Authors: Susan Kandel

Christietown (14 page)

slipped back into the Blue Boar and took my seat as

unobtrusively as I could.

“You okay?” whispered Dot.

Not really. As if Dov wasn’t bad enough, the “While You Were Out” slips were a wash. Ian’s mother was as bad as mine, calling day and night. His shirts were ready at the dry cleaner’s. His gym membership was about to expire. The Agatha Christie memorabilia he was interested in would be available after two on Friday at a store on Sunset Boulevard.

“Cece?” Dot’s voice was low. “Where were you all this time?”

I pointed to my tummy.

“You’re pregnant!” she exclaimed. “How wonderful!”

All heads turned my way.

“I’m not—“

“Congratulations!” said an elderly woman, clapping her hands.

The burly man wagged his finger and said, “You should be sitting down, young lady.”

Dot said, “That is so adorable. You and your—”

“I am not pregnant!” I broke in. Then, in a quieter voice, “I have indigestion.”

Everyone looked disappointed, and vaguely disgusted.

“I think that about wraps it up,” said Ian, scowling at me. “See everybody next week. And thank you for coming. We will be having many more such events. Concerts, performances, book groups. Life at Christietown will never be dull, I assure you!”

Dot stood up and linked arms with a large, middle-aged woman standing next to her. She reminded me of a Slavic Jackie Collins. Naturally, she, too, was wearing a warm-up suit, only hers was fully loaded: fringe, studs, designer insig
nia, shoulder pads. Her frosted mane complemented her pale snakeskin boots.

“No worries, dear,” said the woman, taking big steps toward me. “There’ll be other babies. Let me introduce myself. I’m Silvana Holtzman. Formerly of Farmer’s Insurance, currently self-employed. And you’re Cece.” She stuck out her hand. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to shake it or admire her nails, which were long and bejeweled. I shook—carefully. “You and Dot are coming to my place for a nightcap, and I’m not taking no for an answer.”

The theme of the evening.

“Cece?” queried Dot. “Do we have time?”

I owed her. We headed outside, where Ian, juggling a copy of
Burke’s Peerage
and a Lladro figurine of an English bulldog, cut us off at the pass. I knew that he was desperate to get Dot back to the office, so I took him aside and told him she wasn’t the type to go for the hard sell.

“Horses for courses,” he said stoically.

“You win some, you lose some?” I asked.

“More or less.”

The man was nothing if not a realist. I promised I’d work on her, and that we’d talk in the morning. Once he left, I gave the ladies the go-ahead. The whole way there, they had their heads together like teenagers. Occasionally, a giggle erupted into the night.

“Ridgeway Lane, Otterbourne Road, de Bellefort Avenue.” Dot was reading off street signs. “Why, those are all the names of characters from
Death on the Nile
.”

“What a memorable movie!” exclaimed Silvana. “My second husband and I made love in the back row of the theater on East 86th Street in New York City. We’d just come from the King Tut show at the Met.”

“Mum’s the word,” said Dot, cracking them both up.

“Anthony Powell was the costume designer,” I said, trying to keep it clean. “He had Lois Chiles wearing a pair of shoes with diamond heels that came from a millionaire’s private col
lection and Bette Davis in a pair of reptile shoes made from the tiny scales of twenty-six python skins.”

“Python is cheap. Like my second husband,” Silvana said, tossing her hair. “Not to mention Larry. The burly man in the green warm-up suit?” She rolled her eyes, which were gorgeous. Aquamarine. “We had a thing for a few weeks. But he believes you can get more than one use out of a paper plate. Disgusting. Here we are, darlings. Home sweet home!”

We stopped in front of one of the modest, cookie-cutter residences of Phase 1. These had gabled roofs, attached single-car garages, rows of scraggly impatiens lining the faux-brick paths, and brass door knockers shaped like tabby cats. Silvana, however, was no conformist: her house had a tin
Santa sleigh on the lawn and billowy crimson-colored cur
tains in the window.

“Has Ian seen your curtains?” I asked her, remembering the memo I’d come across the other day in his office.

“Oh, Ian Schmian,” she said with a wave of her hand. “Dov and I have an understanding.”

Before I could press her for details, she led Dot and me inside and seated us both on a strange red velvet settee, with tufts, mahogany scrolling, and a high, asymmetrical back.

“It’s a fainting couch,” she explained, turning on various light fixtures. All the bulbs were pink. “You don’t see them much anymore. In the old days, ladies used them when they wore corsets because they couldn’t bend at the waist.”

I could see the continuing relevance of the fainting couch. Silvana’s warm-up suit was so tight I was surprised she could bend anywhere.

“I love your aesthetic,” said Dot, who hadn’t struck me as a devotee of the bordello look.

“I like a room to exude sexuality.” Silvana picked up a remote control and clicked it. Flames filled the fireplace. “Instant romance. You, me, a bearskin rug? My first husband had no taste at all for that sort of thing, more’s the pity. Impotent! But you should see the Seligmans go at it. They’re around the corner, on Medenham Wells? Old people. He was a jeweler, went bankrupt. She makes her own bagels. They never close the drapes. So what’ll it be? Champagne cocktails? Digestives?”

Dot and I both chose champagne, which Silvana served in margarita glasses embossed with red chili peppers. She poured herself some Bailey’s Irish Cream, dropped three ice cubes into the tumbler, and topped it off with a voluptuous mound of whipped cream, which she consumed accordingly.

Silvana was a gossip. Maybe she could shed some light on the situation. “You know men,” I said.

She licked some whipped cream off her upper lip by way of response.

“What do you think of Ian?”

“Ian?” Silvana looked surprised. “I don’t think anything of Ian. Befuddled?”

That was the problem. He was one way on the outside, but nobody knew what he was like on the inside.

“Is he really related to Agatha Christie?” Dot asked.

“What do you think?” Silvana snorted.

“Do you think Christietown is the big success he’d hoped?” I asked.

“How am I supposed to know?” In the mirrored-tile fire
place, I saw the reflection of a dozen Silvanas dropping ice cubes into drinks.

“You’re savvy,” I tried. “A businesswoman, someone who’s been around the block. At least that’s how it looks to me. Am I right?”

Her eyes met mine. “Why are you asking?”

“I’m asking because I brought Dot here, and I don’t want her to get involved in any shaky financial situations.”

Dot started to say something but, to her credit, didn’t.

Silvana was silent for a minute. “Have you been talking to Dov?” she finally asked, setting her drink down on the gold
leaf-rimmed coffee table. Dot gave a start at the sound of glass hitting glass.

“Sorry, darling,” said Silvana.

“Dov and I chatted earlier,” I said, not untruthfully.

“Dov’s the one who’s in trouble.”

Now we were getting somewhere. “How so?”

Her hands flew up to her heart. “His lady friend left. It about killed him. I’m telling you, a person needs a liability policy for love.”

Great. Now I had the story of Dov’s love life from an insur
ance perspective. I excused myself to go to the bathroom, which had a white fur toilet-seat cover and excellent lighting over the sink. I looked about twenty-five years old. No wonder Silvana seemed so confident. But I had a feeling she knew more than she was saying.

“Cece? Everything okay?” Dot called out. Somewhere in the back of her mind she still thought I was having a difficult pregnancy.

“Fine!” I turned on the faucet, then sat on the edge of the tub to go through the “While You Were Out” slips again. In addition to the mother and the dry cleaner and the memo
rabilia and the gym, Dov had called twice, wanting to know the second time why Ian hadn’t called him back the first. That message was dated yesterday. Then there was something from a Dr. R. that read “Failure to Perform, 1200/3800, A.V. East Kern W.P.” Between that and the Viagra, it looked like Ian had personal issues I was extremely sorry I knew about. Why would a doctor leave a private message like that with a sec
retary? Tacky. Of course, this was all completely pointless. I wasn’t going to find out anything about Liz’s death this way. I turned off the faucet and hit the lights. I needed to get Dot home, I needed to mind my own business, I needed to believe Gambino when he told me none of this was my fault. Only I didn’t believe him, so where did that leave me?

I came out to find Dot and Silvana huddled over a lobster, which appeared to be living in the kitchen sink. Silvana said it reminded her of her second husband, the one who was cheap,
not the one who didn’t like sex. The second husband did like sex, a lot.

“Isn’t he virile? I bought him three days ago, but I can’t bring myself to eat him,” she said. “I keep telling myself he’s taking the waters.”

“He must be dying,” I said. “Are you feeding him?” I was immediately sorry I’d asked because Silvana got defensive about her new pet, at which point even Dot started to lose patience with her. Which made me think of my pets. They’d probably destroyed the house by now. We had to go.

On the drive home, Dot worked on Jackie’s cousin’s baby boy’s hat, then dozed off. I was a little worried she might stab herself with the knitting needles if we hit a bump. Then the needles fell off her lap onto the floor and I stopped worrying. Dot talked in her sleep, mostly mumbo-jumbo. But at one point, I did make out, “Give me a nice two-pounder, with extra drawn butter.”

She was amusing, that Dot.

C
HAPTER
2
1

little after eight the next morning, Gambino and I
grabbed our
L.A. Times
and walked up the street to Hugo’s, a breakfast spot favored by Hollywood screenwriters who eat mung beans. Others are also welcome. Hugo’s has philoden
drons in pots, nice waitresses, good southern exposure, and a vast number of choices when it comes to oolongs, which are teas. Both of us ordered bacon and eggs. We’re L.A. transplants. Our lives are consecrated to keeping it real.