Death of the Office Witch (19 page)

Was Maurice studying the flower arrangement on the table in front of them now? Would Charlie ever trust anybody again?

19

Maurice Lavender brought Ellen Maxwell to Richard's party that night, and they made a stunning couple. They looked like money, expensively preserved. Or perhaps they were talent. Heads turned trying to identify which. Ellen, of course, they knew they'd seen, but many couldn't place her.

It was Richard Morse, however, who stole the show, greeting his guests with Cyndi Seagal on his arm. Cyndi was the agency's hottest name at the moment, and Charlie decided he'd try to convince Ursa Major and the money to consider her for
Alpine Tunnel's
female lead. Cyndi had cropped black hair and large black eyes and the cutest nose doctors could build. She'd sprouted breasts since her last picture. They crowded up against each other in the slit of a snazzy white metallic number that ended just below her navel and accentuated her tininess elsewhere. She could look mischievous, helpless, angry, and sexually vulnerable. That pretty much summed up what she'd need for most of the work out there for female leads.

Charlie could not afford to sprout breasts and restricted her cleavage to the back of her dress, a shimmery emerald green thing she'd brought with her from New York. It left her spine exposed to the chill wind a change of weather had decided to inflict the moment it discerned what she would be wearing.

Everybody was there and nobody was there. What did Richard expect, calling up a dressy party this late and on a week night? Charlie recognized the
Hollywood Reporter
and
Variety
and maybe the
L.A. Times
, but what would there be to report? No network or syndicated gossip types that she could see. The only money and entertainment law there was that already committed to
Alpine Tunnel
, the only studio brass Ursa Major, the only stars other than tiny Cyndi—aging Congdon and Morse soap types or up-and-coming unknowns.

Was Richard Morse that desperate to cover up Mary Ann's disappearance? Did that mean he was behind it, and maybe Gloria's death as well? Panic can lead to bad moves, and this sure looked like desperation to Charlie. And desperation in Hollywood invited sharks, feeding frenzies, and a sudden retreat of the money fish. But Mary Ann wasn't even Congdon and Morse's client.

Charlie even had to work to keep from suspecting Edward Esterhazie of masterminding not only all her trouble at home (it wasn't Charlie's fault he belonged to the yacht club and had a live-in housekeeper) but the trouble with Gloria Tuschman and Mary Ann Leffler as well. Pretty soon she'd turn on him for giving her stomach cancer. Calm down, Charlie.

“Why are people looking at me so strangely?” he asked as they approached a table laden. “Am I dressed wrong?”

“Ed, you're impeccable. These people are just trying to figure out who you are and where you perch in the pecking order. Pretend you're home at the yacht club.”

“Don't forget you promised to accompany me there Friday night.”

“You sure Dorothy's going to go for this? Tell me she's not from Kansas.”

“She's not from Kansas. Is that Ellen Maxwell over there? You do travel in exalted circles, Charlie. Next we'll be seeing Mitch Hilsten strut in the door with a babe to die for on each arm.”

Charlie picked out some liver pâté, deviled eggs, oysters Rockefeller, creamed herring, lobster puffs, and crackers topped with creamy cheese. She avoided the low-cal things she usually went for while watching good old Ed unerringly choose them. More reason to resent him.

“Some of us must watch our diets,” he said smugly.

Yeah well, some of us have stomach cancer.

Charlie ate slowly, testing the mood of her middle, washing it down with bottled water instead of champagne. Things felt pretty good. Maybe she was in remission.

“You okay, boss?” Larry whispered in her ear, then said, “Hi, you must be Ed. I'm Larry, the guy you always get on the phone when you need to get her at the office.”

Charlie frantically scraped deviled egg off her front teeth with her tongue, while witnessing the most original choreography she'd ever seen at a cocktail party. Ed automatically balanced his champagne glass on his plate to free a hand to shake Larry's in answer to Larry's self-introduction, with Stewart Claypool intercepting it just as Larry said, “Oh, and this is Stewart Claypool, a good friend of Charlie's and mine.”

Stew returned Ed's handshake, smiled a greeting, and passed in front of Larry to encircle Charlie with his other arm. “Any friend of Charlie's is great to greet.” And in his John Wayne persona he added, “Hear the gremlins are gnawing at your gut, little lady. Don't let anybody tell you it's all in your head, got that?”

He and Larry quizzed Charlie about what she was eating and drinking and moved on.

“Something's eating your gut?”

“I'm not well, Ed,” Charlie said bravely. “Libby thinks I have stomach cancer. Even Mrs. McDougal should get turned off by that. Hey, we might not have to do the yacht club thing, although I was sort of planning to expire there.”

Ed stared at her over his champagne glass, probably still caught up on stomach cancer. He'd want to be the hero-provider, and that wouldn't work. Which put him out of the running, should he have wanted to be in it, and mellowed her mood toward him. She selected one last creamy cracker and set her glass on a passing tray.

“Don't worry, tonight I feel wonderful.” And she did. Charlie gave Ed her thirty-five-millimeter smile. He drained his glass in a gulp.

You've been through a lot of mood changes in the last two hours, Charlie. What time of the month is it?

Oh shit.

They crossed the tiled floor and were heading for the patio and pool when Elaine Black popped up in front of them and in front of Dorian's back as he tried to sell—himself, an idea, a used car?—to an Oriental gentleman gripping a martini glass like a shield.

“Charlie,” Elaine gushed, “you look stunning. I envy you so. I wish—”

“Elaine, this is Edward Esterhazie, a good friend,” Charlie interrupted. “Ed, would you excuse us a second?” She practically lifted Dorian's wife out of her shoes to gain them a private word. “You don't happen to be carrying any plugs in that suitcase, do you? I think I'm in trouble.” Elaine's purse resembled a diaper bag and totally negated her attempt to look businesslike in a dress that would have been suitable for the office about ten to fifteen years ago. For a party like this, never.

“Guess what? I'm going to work.” Elaine bubbled in the hall outside the bathroom. “I'm so excited. And for myself, too.” She rummaged through the bag. “Here, take two. I always carry lots of everything.”

“Don't tell me,” Charlie said. “Real estate.”

“I just got my license, but how did you know?” Elaine was small and thin with a distinctive overbite and blond hair darkening naturally to dishwater. Disappointment dragged the lean features downward in a preview of what the years would bring. “Dorian told you. I wanted to myself.”

“No, he didn't, honest. I just guessed.” When the economy is in the toilet, people go into real estate and novel writing. Or selling cosmetics or vitamins nobody wants even in good times. Desperate people. Charlie took another look at Dorian Black's wife. Maybe she was growing up. “Be careful,” she told Elaine. “It's rough out there.”

But when Charlie emerged from the bathroom, Elaine hadn't moved. “Charlie, do you think the police think Dorian killed Gloria? They've been hanging around, asking questions … you know. I mean, he can be a real asshole, but I know he didn't kill her. He said you were kind of unofficially looking into things for the agency. I mean, the police make a lot of mistakes and—”

Charlie guided Elaine around a corner and into a telephone niche papered with signed eight-by-ten glossies of aged stars when they were young and dewy. Mitch Hilsten was probably the youngest, and he had to be pushing forty by now.

“Charlie?”

Charlie turned her back on the sexiest gaze in the universe. “Elaine, did Dorian ever have anything to do with Gloria outside the office?”

“No, why would he?” Dorian's wife had good bones but no makeup sense. She accentuated her lack of color with dull lipstick and nearly beige eye shadow. Charlie watched a touch of color creep into pale cheeks now though, highlighting the cheekbones. Her eyes widened, and she became interesting. “Well, except for Halloween, but that—”

“Halloween.” And I should be surprised? “Last Halloween? Dorian and Gloria Tuschman on Halloween?”

“Well it was both of us. And the kids. Only time we've ever been up there. It was kind of fun. They called it ‘All Hallows' Eve' but it was neat. We all dressed in white—”

“What were you, the sacrifices?”

“No. They're white witches. At least I guess that's it. It's kind of a religion with them I think. Everybody wore white and danced around this bonfire in this orange grove in the moonlight. The kids loved it because it was spooky. But it was fun, too. And the food was good. Lots of people.”

“Anybody else there from the agency?”

“Well, yeah. Everybody. Well, Richard wasn't there. He and Ann were breaking up in Acapulco. And you weren't there, were you? Irma Vance Was, and Maurice. Uh … Tracy. And Luella Ridgeway. Luella really got into it and wore a sort of white Grecian thing trimmed in gold.”

Now that Charlie thought about it, she and Libby did get an invitation to a Halloween party at the Tuschmans, way last October. One she respectfully declined, needing no extra contact with the office witch. Gloria was already on Charlie's case about supposed psychic powers by then. “How about Larry?”

“Larry … who—oh the—I mean, your secretary—Larry,” Elaine caught herself in time. “I don't remember seeing him. But most of the people weren't anyone we've seen either before or since. You know. You could get into the spirit and act wacky because most of these people didn't mean anything to you. But it all doesn't mean Dorian would murder Gloria or anything.”

“I hear Irma got very angry or embarrassed or something,” Charlie fished.

“Dorian said he'd heard something about that too, but it happened after we left. She was fine while we were there, sort of aloof, you know how she is.”

“Did he say what he'd heard about it?”

“She and Gloria got into it over something. I don't know what it was.”

Ed was in deep conversation with Ellen Maxwell and Maurice Lavender when Charlie located him at poolside. He looked a lot more elegant and at ease here than Charlie would at the yacht club Friday night.

He slid an arm around her waist. “I thought you'd abandoned me.”

“A little personal matter I had to clear up. I won't let you out of my sight the rest of the evening.”

Maurice looked down his nose and out of the corner of his eye at the same time—which Charlie would have thought impossible if she'd seen it written. “Sweetie, you never told us you knew
the
Edward Esterhazie.” Even Maurice's drawl was impressed. “What else haven't you told us?”

“I didn't know you knew him, why would I—”

“Well, it's the cement, dear,” Ellen said, and everybody but Charlie snagged champagne off a passing tray. “Esterhazie Cement is blazoned on the side of just nearly every cement truck you see from San Diego to San Francisco. Wish I could get that kind of publicity, don't you, Maurice?”

Maurice merely winked approval at Charlie and led Ellen off.

“Cement,” Charlie said to her date. “You made your money in cement. You never told me that.”

“Actually, it's concrete. Every highway project you pass, to and from work or Vegas or Oregon has a damn good chance of its concrete trucks carrying the Esterhazie name on their cab doors. It's not a very ordinary name. I can't believe you didn't know.”

“The things I seem not to notice would blow your mind to Zaire and back.” The name Ed Esterhazie conjured up a self-employed handyman auto mechanic in rural Wisconsin. “Ed, do you think you could find me some more mineral water? I promise I'll stay right here.”

Lieutenant David Dalrymple of the Beverly Hills P.D. came up to Charlie the moment Ed turned his back.

“Lieutenant, did you know about Roger and Gloria Tuschman's All Hallows' Eve party last October?”

“Not until yesterday. Mrs. Black mentioned it in passing and suddenly everyone else from the agency who attended is remembering that fact. You, I understand, were not invited?” His eyes had been skimming the faces on the patio and those coming and going through the two sets of doors leading inside. Now they settled on Charlie. Irritation peeked through the blandness perpetually masking his thoughts.

“I was invited. I just didn't want to go. And I totally forgot about it until Elaine Black mentioned it to me just now. I have never noticed the name Esterhazie on cement trucks before. And I learn tonight that my date for the party, Ed Esterhazie, made his fortune in cement, concrete actually.”

“So what is it you're trying to say, Miss Greene?”

“That I better stick to agenting. That I'm no good at detecting because I don't notice half of what goes on around me. I'm no help to you.”

“Then again, you may be noticing the half that other people aren't because you see things differently. And yours may be just the half we need.”

20

How do you know Edward Esterhazie?” Richard Morse confronted Charlie, who was about to go looking for Ed and her mineral water. “You never told me. Charlie, I'm devastated.”

Charlie was beginning to notice other people having a little trouble with consonants, and with standing still without rocking, and with dilating pupils. “Why do I never notice what I'm supposed to?”

“You didn't notice twenty percent of
Legionnaires' Disease
was Esterhazie money? We're talking cement here. Charlie, I'm disappointed in you.”