Deadly Dozen: 12 Mysteries/Thrillers (72 page)

Lee dragged her from one end of the ship to the other, schmoozing and networking and courting the talent who in the past had grumbled, no matter how slight, about his or her current agent.

A heavyset woman in a black Chanel pants suit shrieked when she saw Lee, placed both hands on the sides of Lee’s head, and kissed her soundly on the ear. The woman raved about Lee’s dress and shoes.

“The bitch,” Lee said moments later when the woman was out of earshot. “That’s Constance, Johnny’s agent. She never fails to dig her fat fingers into my hair when she does that kissy-kiss thing of hers. That’s no accident. Even the most Neanderthal man knows you don’t mess with the hair. She’s an evil bitch and I’m going to do everything in my power to steal Johnny away from her.”

They filled their plates from buffet tables serving an array of delicacies consisting of mounds of beluga caviar, whole Australian lobsters, imported cheeses, and desserts. Rich food. Fine wine. Piper skipped her usual martini and stuck with champagne instead. Good champagne was hard to turn down. She had learned long ago to not mix her poison. No longer was she the drinker she used to be. Waking up in the morning with a relatively clear head had its undeniable advantages.

Throughout the evening, she kept an eye on VanRaven, hoping for a chance to catch him alone or at least without the usual mob surrounding him. There was no point in kidding herself. She was no different than any of the other wannabe deal makers hanging around him, paying tribute to the man and his latest brilliant film. Piper wanted him to know she had reentered the business. That she thought all his films were beyond brilliant. That working with him again was her dream of dreams.

The speeches, the presentation of the cast and crew jackets and gifts came and went. By midnight, the party neared its peak. She knew from past wrap parties that it would soon be a drunken revelry. In the ship’s theater, on a continuous loop, ran a goody reel—outtakes and hysterical bloopers caught on film—shown in the hopes of dissolving any lingering hostility among the cast and crew.

A few minutes into the goody reel, she spotted VanRaven seated in the front row talking with a man who looked enough like Detective Bower to be a twin. VanRaven left his seat and approached her, a huge grin spreading across his face. “Piper, it’s so good to see you again. I’d hoped we’d have a chance to chat, but I’m afraid I have to leave. Welcome back. I think I might have something for you. I’ll call next week.”

“That’s great, Tommy. Thank you,” she gushed and watched him exit the theater.

When she looked back at the man who’d been sitting with VanRaven, the seat was empty.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Luke’s truck rattled to a stop in the driveway, waking her. She groaned, rolled out of bed, and dressed while the coffee brewed. A knock on the glass of the door made her jump. She peeped through the blinds. Luke stood on the deck, a broad smile on his face.

“So what did you think?” he asked when she opened the door.

She stared at him, her mind a blank.

“The screenplay.”

“The screenplay? Oh, the
screenplay
.
Your
screenplay. Of course. Luke, I loved it. I think it’s good enough to be optioned.”

“I’m not ready to go that route yet. I only showed it to you because you asked to see it.” He looked behind her, glancing around inside her place. “Where is it?”

Her stomach tightened. “I don’t have it. I gave it to Lee Sikes to read. She was here yesterday. She spoke to you in the yard.”

The smile disappeared. “Why would you give it to her?”

“She’s a talent agent. A very good one.”

“You gave my screenplay to someone in the business?”

“Yes. Isn’t that what you wanted? It’s what every screenwriter wants.”

“No. Goddammit, no!” He slammed the side of his fist against the stucco wall. His face grew a deep shade of red. “I’m not every screenwriter. You … you shouldn’t have done that. God, I can’t believe this.”

“I’m sorry. Lee came in just as I finished it. It was so good, I had to tell her about it. I didn’t realize—Luke, I’m sorry.”

“Get it back.” He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply. “Can you … can you get it back?”

“Sure. I’ll call her right now and tell her not to read it. That you’re not ready.”

Luke‘s face relaxed, the redness vanished. He smiled. “Thanks.” He touched her arm. His fingers felt heavy, damp. “So you liked it?”

She nodded. She no longer wanted to discuss it with him. His ugly reaction to her giving it to Lee had been unexpected and troubling. As was his instant change in mood. She had never known a writer to get angry about someone going out on a limb to champion them. Then again, writers were a curious breed and anything was possible.

The phone rang. She excused herself, hoping Luke would allow her some privacy and leave. He moved away from the door, but remained on the deck, pacing.

Belle’s voice, tinny and strained started right in with, “Piper, I’m so glad I caught you in.”

“What time is it there?” Piper asked.

“It’s late. But I couldn’t sleep until I got some answers.”

“Answers to what?”

“Is Luke still working on the house?”

“Yes, in fact, he’s here right now, on the deck. Do you want to talk with him?”

“He’s there now? Can he hear you?”

Piper saw him leaning on the rail, looking out over the hillside. The door was still open. She moved to the far side of the house, out of voice range but not out of sight. Her stomach began to burn, and it wasn’t from last night’s rich food or champagne. “What’s wrong?”

“I was curious when no invoices for the house repairs were going to our accountant. That’s not like Luke to work from his own funds. So I rang him. The landlady at the boarding house where he lives says he took off the day of the earthquake and hasn’t come back. Today she received a check in the mail for two months rent and a postcard from Florida, saying he was taking a long holiday. My question is, if Luke’s in Florida, who the hell’s working on the house?”

Piper glanced out the door. Luke was pacing again. “Belle, what does your handyman look like?”

“Short, thin, hairy all over expect for his head. Is that your fella?”

She felt her knees go weak and had to brace herself against the bookshelf. “No.”

“Put him on. I want to talk to this bloke. I want to know what the hell he’s doing at my house. Why he’s impersonating our handyman.”

Luke, or whoever he was, crossed the deck and started down the stairs.

“He went downstairs. Look, I don’t know who he is or what he wants, but I don’t think we should let him know we’re on to him just yet.”

“You’re right. Call the police. Now.”

This man knew his stuff. Knew his way around a construction project, knew how to turn a screwdriver and pound a nail. If what Belle said was true, he was working for nothing. Why would he do that?

Belle said, “Call the police.”

“I will.”

“I want a full report, Piper. I don’t like this.”

“Neither do I.” Piper hung up and crossed the room to the door to close and lock it.

Luke popped his head in before she reached the door. She jumped, startled because she hadn’t heard his footsteps on the stairs.

“Hey, pretty lady, can you give me a hand for a sec?” he asked, grabbing the door and pushing it open.

She nodded, quickly moving out onto the deck. She prayed he couldn’t see her heart pounding beneath her cotton top. She felt safer outside in the bright sunlight. Having him inside the guesthouse with only the one door for escape unnerved her. She hurried down the steps with Luke behind her. At the bottom, she turned to him and blurted out, “Who are you?”

He was picking dried mortar from his fingers.

“Who the hell are you?” she repeated.

He looked directly into her eyes. Calmly, as if he knew he would be saying these words sooner than later, he said, “I’m a cop. My name is Arnold Copeland.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a wallet. He flipped it open, revealing a gold shield and ID.

“A cop?” she said. “I don’t understand.”

“Undercover. I wanted to tell you from the start, but my superiors thought it best for all concerned if we kept the operation a covert one.”

“What operation?”

“I’m with the L.A. Financial Crimes Division, Fraud section. We’re investigating elder estate abuse.”

“Sybil Squire?”

“Let’s move away from the property. Never know who might be listening.” He guided her to the shade of the Vogt’s back door. She sat in a padded chair, still damp with morning dew. Luke, or Arnold, took another chair, turning it to face her and sat down. “Yes, your neighbor, Sybil Squire. Fraud and extortion for starters.”

“My god, are you working with Detective Bower on the housekeeper’s murder?”

“Bower? Never heard of him.”

“He was here the day you were replacing the Vogt’s window.” She pointed upward. “He waved at you.”

“Don’t know him. I’m not with homicide. FCD is a different division.”

“But you’re investigating the caregivers next door?”

He nodded. “We received a call from the bank advising us of some unusual transactions regarding Mrs. Squire’s account. That’s the first thing we look out for.”

“And have you found any criminal activity?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss it with you. Sorry, Piper. That’s why I had to keep you in the dark.”

“How did you—christ, Luke, why the handyman impersonation?”

“A stakeout was our best bet and with the Vogts in the Orient, it occurred to us that their handyman was the most likely candidate to impersonate. The earthquake couldn’t have come at a better time. It worked in our favor. We had to act fast.”

“But—” she had dozens of questions. Luke cut her off.

“We hope to have it wrapped up in a day or two. In the meantime, I’m going to have to ask you to let us handle this without your intervention. We don’t want them getting wise and doing something rash, if you get my meaning?”

By rash, he meant hurting Sybil, maybe killing her. The thought sickened her. But what he was telling her gave her a sense of relief. At last, someone else who believed Sybil was a victim. She sat up straight, pressing her palms down on the top of her knees and exhaled.

“Your friend, the one who was here yesterday, what does she know about the people next door?” he asked.

“She hasn’t met them.”

“Good, let’s keep it that way.”

After the former handyman, now undercover cop, went back to repairing the chimney, she looked up the telephone number for the Los Angeles Police Department and dialed. She asked to speak to Officer Arnold Copeland and was transferred to the Elder Abuse Unit. “Detective Copeland is in the field,” a female voice said. “Would you care to leave a message on his voicemail?” Piper declined and hung up.

That night she called Belle and Mick and filled them in.

#

The next day life looked good again. Fog and rain had brought out the sharp, medicinal fragrance of a camphor tree. Piper breathed it in, remembering sick days as a kid, her grandmother slathering Vick’s on her chest to break up the tightness. Closing her eyes, she inhaled the mentholated vapors, feeling the healing coolness seep deep into her lungs.

She missed Nana so much. Tomorrow was her birthday. She would’ve been seventy-five. Two things always reminded her of Nana. Camphor and clover. She thought back to that afternoon in the park with Nana long ago. A ten-year-old Piper had asked about the fire that killed her family.
“I had taken your mother to the dentist that day. We returned home to find it in flames. I tried to go inside, but people held me back, telling me it was too late … that they were … gone,” Nana said as they lay on their bellies in the grass, their faces inches from the ground, probing meticulously through a patch of sweet-smelling clover. “Then, from the smoke and cinders, I saw your granddad and… and our two little ones, clinging to him. I saw them float like angels up from the roof of the house…up to heaven. Everyone said I was hallucinating, but I know what I saw, Piper. I saw them. I did.”

“Were they angels, Nana?”

“Yes, honey, they were angels. My guardian angels. Ah ha!” Nana rolled onto her side holding up a four-leaf clover. “Make a wish, Pipsqueak.”

Piper had wished for Nana’s angels to be happy in heaven.

The crank and whine of the city trash truck working its way up the hill brought her back to the present. It was their pickup day. The trash barrel overflowed with the cleanup from the quake. She rolled the large plastic receptacle down the driveway to the street and placed it alongside the Squire’s receptacle that, like every trash container on the block, was filled to the brim. She paused and stared at the receptacle.

She glanced around. Except for the waste employees going about their work two doors down, there was no one else within sight. She lifted the lid and peeked inside. In among the many crumbled cigarette packs, butts, and empty scotch bottles, she saw what looked like a bloody rag and tissues. There were also patches of orange fur, strands floated up and around her, sticking to her clothes and in her hair.