Death by Sarcasm (2 page)

Cops don’t have a clue, either. Too fucking stupid.

You’re the first bookend, Brent. Start off big, with one of the leaders. Sandwich a few of the sheep in between, then end big with the other bookmark.

The set-up and then the big punchline.

Who’s laughing now, asshole?

Who’s laughing now?

M
ary parked her Buick in front of Aunt Alice’s house. The Buick was just one of her cars. She had a Lexus when she needed to meet with clients or set up surveillance in the wealthier part of L.A. She also had a Honda Accord when she needed to blend in as an employee of a firm downtown. They were parked in the garage back at her office. When she needed something really expensive, say a Porsche or a Ferrari, she just rented it. But Mary used the old Buick for occasions that took her into the financially depressed sections of L.A.

The great thing about the Buick was that even though it was old, it didn’t have many miles and it had surprisingly smooth power. Still, she’d endured quite a bit of heckling for it. A woman just north of thirty driving a Buick. She’d heard it all. Was the trunk big enough for a full case of adult diapers? Had she gotten an AARP discount? What was the dual temperature control for – menopausal hot flashes?

The sad thing was, most of those jokes had been her own.

Now, the morning sun warmed her back as she stepped onto the porch of the small house in a quiet part of Santa Monica. Alice Parthum had lived there for forty years. She and her husband bought the house back when she was acting and doing comedy. Alice’s husband had died of cancer, an agonizing two-year battle. Alice had kept both the house and her husband’s last name. She was a Cooper, though, through and through.

While Alice’s career had never recovered, the southern California real estate market certainly had. Right now, Alice probably had the lowest property taxes in town. When, and if, Alice ever sold the place, she’d be a very wealthy woman.

Mary gave a quick knock, unlocked the door with her key, and walked inside.

Aunt Alice sat in the living room with the television off and a scrapbook in her lap. She was in a wheelchair, one arm in a cloth sling, and one leg in a brace. The older woman had been riding her motorized three wheeler when she’d hit a parked car and flipped over it, onto the hood. Mary had always been a frequent visitor to the house, but ever since the accident, she’d been stopping by every day.

Mary greeted her aunt. “Hey there Evel Knievel. Want me to line up some barrels outside? Go for the record?”

Alice shook her head. “Always a comment. Even now.” But a small smile peeked out from the corner of her mouth.

Mary gave her aunt a hug and took in the comforting scent she’d known since she was a kid: laundry detergent and a hint of garlic. Mary glanced at the scrapbook in Alice’s lap and she saw an old picture of Uncle Brent. Mary rubbed Alice’s back and her voice softened. “How are you holding up?” she said.

Alice sighed, shook her head, and flipped the page of the scrapbook.

“Want some lunch?” Mary said. “Or are you going to jump a canyon?”

Alice said nothing, just studied a picture in the scrapbook even more closely.

“How about I whip up a rump roast?” Mary said, heading to the kitchen. “Or a butt steak. Butt steak sound good?”

The smile on Aunt Alice had gotten a touch bigger now that Mary couldn’t see it.

“When did you first realize you enjoyed abusing the elderly?” she said.

“I don’t actually enjoy it,” Mary called from the kitchen. “It’s really more of a calling.”

Alice wheeled herself closer to the kitchen so neither one had to shout.

Mary took the box of Mac ‘n Cheese from the cupboard and ripped it open. “So I thought I’d start by searing some foie gras,” she said, then set a pot of water on the stove to boil. She set the dried pasta and packet of cheese on the counter. Mary detested Mac ‘n Cheese, had had it maybe twice in her whole life when she was a kid and went to a friend’s house – it was never served in her own.

Mary had tried in vain to convince Aunt Alice to let her make real macaroni and cheese, the old fashioned way with good cheese and really good pasta, but Aunt Alice insisted on the boxed crap for lunch. Old people just get into routines, Mary told herself when she finally gave up. They fall into routines, then they fall down stairs. It’s all a part of nature’s aging process. All part of God’s master plan.

“Don’t forget my vitamin,” Alice said.

Mary tipped a shot of Crown Royal into a small glass, added an ice cube and a splash of water, then brought it to Alice. Her aunt lifted the glass. “To Brent.”

Mary clinked an imaginary glass. “To Uncle Brent.”

“Butchered in an alley,” Alice said. “I keep waiting for the punchline.”

“He was probably waiting for one, too,” Mary said. “I imagine he was spouting off, making a joke out of it.”

The two remained in silence for a moment, both of them imagining Brent’s last moment.

“You can’t kill me yet!” Alice said, lowering her voice to do the impression of her brother. “I just plugged the meter!”

Mary smiled. “Wait, don’t kill me!” she said. “I have to find out who won the football game!”

Alice laughed softly.

“You’re going to kill me?” Alice said. “My wife’s been trying to bury me for years!”

“Don’t murder me,” Mary said. “If I’m later for dinner, my wife will kill me!”

They both laughed and then Alice drank down the last of her whiskey before speaking. “It just doesn’t make any sense to me. He could be a dick, we all know that. But why would anyone want to kill him? It just seems like a really, really bad joke.”

You have no idea how true that really is, Mary thought to herself.
Bust a gut.
Real, real funny.

“Let the police figure that out,” Mary said. “You focus on those parked cars.”

Alice shook her head. “I think Brent was getting funnier as he got older. I think the dementia improved his sense of humor.”

“Dementia?”

“Did I say dementia? Maybe I meant demented. I don’t know.”

Mary realized her aunt was having a senior moment while accusing another elderly person of having senior moments.

“His sense of timing needed help, too,” Alice said. “Remember that time at Gladys Fitwiler’s wedding? That horrible joke in front of the wedding party about the donkey show?”

“Ah, yes. A classic Cooper moment. Bestiality jokes involving the bride always go over so well at weddings,” Mary said.

“Mortifying,” Alice said. “And how the hell would he have known? He’d never been to Mexico.”

Mary went into the kitchen, drained the pasta and added the cheese packet. “Mmm, I learned how to do this from Emeril.”

Mary put the pasta on two plates and brought it into the dining room. She wheeled Alice into her spot and got them both glasses of iced tea.

For the first time, Alice spoke quietly. “Now I know that car was moving.”

Mary’s fork hovered above her macaroni.

“What car?” she said.

“The car I ran into. Or should I say, ran into me?”

Alice started eating her pasta, but Mary stared at the older woman.

“What do you mean it ran into you?” she said. “You never told me that.”

“Well the young officer made me feel like such a fool I didn’t think I should bring it up again. Dementia might be getting to me, too. You know, the other day I thought my neighbor’s shrub looked like Henry Kissinger…”

“Aunt Alice,” Mary said, her voice firm, but sharp. “Please tell me what happened.”

The old woman’s face wore a look of tired futility. “It’s like I told the young officer. I was riding my bike and saw the car. I was going to pull around it. I looked over my left shoulder to check my blind spot and then bam! I hit that darned thing. But there was no way
I
could have run into
it
, I’d looked over my shoulder when I was still a good fifteen feet away. That car backed up into
me
. And fast.”

Mary stared at her aunt.

“What?” the old woman said.

Mary didn’t answer, her mind sifting through the possibilities.

“I have to go,” Mary said, and started to clear her plate. “Set the alarm after I’ve gone, okay?”

“Wait,” Alice said. “You’re still going to give me a bath, right?”

“I was hoping you would remember,” Mary said. “Would you like the exfoliating botanicals today? Or perhaps the lavender pumice?”

“Can I have both?”

Mary looked at her evenly.

“Do I need to remind you how I feel about the elderly?”

P
hotographs don’t lie. They deliver the truth. The truth in all of its naked glory, Mary thought, studying the spread of snapshots showing a beautiful woman and a handsome man riding each other like Brahma bulls at the county rodeo.

“Well,” her client said. He was an entertainment attorney, a very prominent one. Mary had been referred to him by one of her other clients. The entertainment industry was very compact. She had broken into the circle of lucrative clientele on a quiet case of kidnapping, divorce style. Mary had brought her client’s child back safe and sound, all without the press even getting a whiff.

Now, she watched as her current client studied the pornographic images of his wife and best friend, waiting for him to absorb the photograph’s contents. Mary had been a private investigator for well over ten years. Initially, she had thought about becoming a police officer, but after her criminology degree she took a job working for a local investigative service. She found the work interesting and despite the sometimes tedious stakeouts, rarely boring. And since her time in the field, she’d seen it all. Including plenty of clients faced with a cheating spouse. They all reacted differently. It took some folks longer, some of the brave ones faced it right away. She sensed this guy wouldn’t waste time.

Her client gave a bitter smile. “She said she was taking night classes,” he said.

Mary nodded. “Well, she’s certainly studying anatomy right here,” she said, tapping one of the photos.

Her client went pale, and Mary silently cursed herself. It had just slipped out, but that was the problem. They were always slipping out. Besides, she had just been reminded of some infidelity in her own life. Jake and his boss. Mary had taken that about as well as this guy was taking it.

“You were highly recommended,” the man said. “Your discretion, loyalty and tenacity were called second to none.” His face was pale and an edge crept into his voice. “Your bedside manner, however, was not listed as one of your strong suits. I see why.”

A couple comments popped into her head, mostly about bedside manner, but this time, she didn’t let them slip out.

“I’m sorry,” she said. She couldn’t tell if he really believed she meant it, but she did. She just didn’t know how to tell him. Like her bedside manner, ‘opening up’ wasn’t one of her strong suits. “This probably won’t help, but you know it’s rarely about the spouse,” Mary said. “Usually they’re looking for something that’s lacking inside themselves.” Mary thought about what she’d just said. What was Jake lacking? Besides a fucking backbone.

“It’s okay,” her client said, looking again at the photographs. “How disgusting. Clive and I play basketball together.”

Clive clearly preferred going one-on-one with Beverly, but Mary didn’t offer that up for discussion. It was a rare moment of self-editing.

“I know it isn’t easy,” she said. It always went this way. Cuckolded spouses, both male and female, always focused on the friend or the neighbor or the co-worker. Rarely ever the cheating spouse. Probably to distract them from the depth of the true betrayal.

Her client stood, took out his checkbook and scribbled out a check. He ripped it off with a controlled fury and dropped it onto her desk.

“Thank you,” he said. “I trust you’ll save those if litigation becomes necessary.”

“Absolutely,” Mary said. Sometimes they wanted a copy of the pictures to brood over while getting shitfaced. Some couldn’t wait to get away from them.

Mary cleared her throat. “If you know of anyone looking for a private investigator, please feel free to recommend me.” She hated doing the sales pitch, but it was a necessity of the trade.

“Of course,” he said, and walked out the door.

Mary wondered. That had sounded a little sarcastic.

Mary locked the photographs in her safe, then drove directly to the Leg Pull. There was still just enough daylight for Mary to get a good look at the place. In the sunlight, the club looked like a hungover version of itself: pale, tired and vaguely ill.

She didn’t bother to go back to the alley for another look, nothing back there but bad endings. There was a part of her that wanted to wait, to get a little more perspective on the death of her uncle before she dove into the investigation. But that wasn’t good investigative work. So despite the fact that the anger and hurt were still raw inside of her, she forged ahead. There would be plenty of time for contemplation later.

A bored waitress told her where she could find the club’s owner/manager. She walked back to the office, her shoes occasionally making sticking sounds on the wood floor.

The door to the office was open and Mary saw a slim bald man with a pencil thin moustache. He had on silk pants, a wrinkled silk shirt and cologne that could double as a pesticide, which probably made a lot of sense in this dump.

There was a cheap desk sign, probably from Rite-Aid, letting visitors know the manager’s name was Cecil Fogerty. He reminded Mary of Al Pacino’s brother in The Godfather.

“What’s up Fredo?” she said.

He looked at her blankly.

“I’m Mary Cooper,” she said. “I want to talk to you about the murder last night.”

He looked her up and down, without shame.

“Cooper? Did you say your name’s Cooper?”

“You can hear.”

“What are you, Brent’s daughter?”

“I’m actually his pimp,” Mary said. “I want to find out who destroyed my property. They owe me at least three tricks’ worth.”