Death of the Office Witch (23 page)

By the time Charlie made it around the U-shaped island of the front desk, two lines were blinking. She put one on hold and answered the other. It was Hal Licktman from ZIA—for her.

“What, they got the agents answering the phones there now?”

“Everybody's stepped out. I'm pinch hitting until Irma gets back. How did you know it was me?”

“That sexy, throaty voice is hard to miss, babe,” Hal said. “But hey, I got news. We got a go for Tina Horton to write the pilot for ‘Southwestern Exposure.' Shapiro himself called this morning.”

“Already? And they're going to let Tina write it? At least the pilot? I don't believe this.”

“I know what you mean. You think you finally got this business figured out and something like this happens. Enjoy the good stuff, I always say. Gives you something to remember when you're drowning in feces. Mary's already called Tina. Would you tell Maurice we are definitely interested in Ellen Maxwell for Thora Kay? I tried to get him earlier. And Charlie, don't get murdered over there, huh?”

Charlie let out a howl of triumph the second she was off the line. It echoed around the empty offices. Maurice didn't answer his phone.
Don't get murdered over there
. Good thing “female hysterics” was not in Charlie's resume. She jotted Maurice a note and answered the other line.

“Thank you for holding. This is Congdon and Morse.”

“Charlie, they got you answering the phones now?”

“Edwina? What is this calling me at the office again? Are you still home sick?”

“Yes, I'm still home sick,” Charlie's mother mimicked in that high whine that passed for sarcasm and that always made her daughter want to pick up something and throw it. “I called to find out what the doctor said this morning.”

Charlie explained about the tests next week. That Dr. Williams was fairly certain her problem was not stomach cancer but said it could be anything from an ulcer to gall bladder to a “female disorder” to low-lying intestinal virus to simple indigestion exacerbated by stress. He'd also brought up the possibility of pregnancy, which she assured him was impossible and which she did not mention to Edwina.

“Well, I could have told you that. Not pregnant, are you?”

“No Edwina, I am not. Now if you'll excuse me I have work to do.”

Charlie's mother signed off with, “Just take care of yourself, Charlemagne Catherine Greene. I barely survived raising you. I'm too old to raise Libby.”

Charlie sat back in Gloria's chair, seething, wishing she knew how to switch over to the answering service.

She had never seen Congdon and Morse from quite this angle. It could be day or it could be night. There were no windows. Rain was in the forecast for today. It could be raining right now, but from here you'd never know. Charlie didn't enjoy being in the agency alone. Irma would be back any minute.

She slipped out of her pumps and stared at the pencil halves a long while before her mind prodded her into paying attention. It was in the way they lay there that reminded her of the pencil stubs with the eraser ends Gloria used to punch computer or phone keys. They might have been thrown down in haste and anger just as Larry had thrown these.

Gloria could have been working with them and was suddenly afraid, furious, or sick. Hell, she could have had diarrhea and raced off to the ladies in the back hall.

Gloria may have been alone here as Charlie was now. Alone except for the murderer. Sure was a good thing “easily frightened” and “paranoid” were not part of Charlie's resume.

This place was not a bit quiet even when empty. Somewhere a blower whirred, circulating air filtered out of the pollution and temperature changes in the real world. The little refrigerator in the utility niche wheezed and gurgled in the hall behind her. There were creaks and rattles that seemed to come from within the walls.

Someone could have walked through the door that Charlie now faced and scared Gloria, who threw down her pencil stubs and ran off into the back hall to escape. Only to be chased and caught just before she reached the stairs.

Then the murderer hit her over the head with something blunt and stuffed her in the bag of the cleaning trolley in the janitor's closet. He wheeled her through the office, onto the elevator and down to the first floor, where he pushed her through a corner of the first level of parking and on across the covered drive-in area. They passed at least one, maybe two, parking valets and a security guard, not to mention various people coming and going from a busy commercial building. Then around the concrete end wall and up the alley past the private two-car parking space to Mrs. Humphrys' wall and flowering bushes. And then he or she threw Gloria's body up into the bushes. Heaved her. Stuffed her? Pushed her. How do you get a dead weight in that kind of position? Or did she climb up by herself? Why?

Did he, she, or they do it without being particularly noticed by people who are busy thinking about other things, people who are self-involved and who don't want to get involved? City people who keep their eyes averted and their profile low because bad things happen out there that need avoiding? People like Charlie Greene. Hey, if Tina Horton could get the go-ahead to write the pilot of a series pitched to a major network four days ago, anything was possible. Anything.

Who needed psychics and witches and paranormal stuff? Life was screwy enough the way it was.

But Charlie sure learned a lot about the agency and its people in a very few hours that day. Women who can afford them are always saying you have no secrets from your cleaning lady. Charlie was astonished to realize how much Gloria, as phone receptionist, must have known about them all.

Everyone who called wanted to know, first, what she was doing answering the phones, and Charlie told everybody that Larry had left on an errand for her, and everybody but Irma that she was just sitting in until Irma returned.

Luella Ridgeway wanted to speak to Tracy. “What do you mean she's not there? When will she be back?”

“She didn't come in today. Neither did you. What's up?”

A long silence and then a long sigh, “I don't know if I should tell you.”

“You weren't at the party last night, either. Richard noticed.”

“I'll bet he did. Charlie, I didn't go to the party because the Beverly Hills P.D. picked me up for questioning about Gloria's murder as I was leaving the agency last night. Would you have felt like going to a party after that kind of a session?”

You couldn't have done it. I like you. “Luella, you'd just got back from Minnesota. You hardly had time to plan anything, and how could you even think straight after what you'd been through?”

Charlie could hear the purposeless but companionable noise of a TV in the background. She would learn that afternoon just how different were the messages sent by pauses and inflections and audible breaths when the face and eyes were not there to convince you how they wished you to hear. You were not diverted by clothing or color or gestures or fake attitudes. Only the sounds of people thinking, reacting, planning what to say next.

A deep inhalation, the tinkle of ice against glass, a swallow. “I came back a few days early without telling anyone. But your buddy, Lieutenant Dalrymple, thought to check the airline schedules.”

“He's not my buddy. He's driving me nuts. Why the big secret about being back early? You had that vacation time coming.”

“I got back on Saturday, visited Gloria the Monday night before she was murdered. The homicide sweethearts already know this. What can it hurt if you do?”

“Luella, was Gloria blackmailing you, too?”

Tinkle, swallow, pause, inhale, surprise … “Charlie, she couldn't have had anything on you. You're so worn out being a mommy you couldn't find time to—it wasn't blackmail … exactly.” Luella must have decided she'd already said too much, because she hung up without a good-bye.

What had she meant it wasn't exactly blackmail? It either was or it wasn't. And hadn't Keegan said something similar at the party last night? Charlie had no time to mull it over, for Richard Morse came on the line wanting Luella. He did not sound especially chipper.

“She didn't come in at all today? And she didn't come to the party.”

“She got picked up for questioning by the police as she was leaving work last night. It kind of threw her. They found out she'd returned from Minnesota on Saturday, visited the Tuschmans Monday night.”

“Aw jeeze, that damn Gloria's even more trouble dead.” Richard's mouth was so dry his swallow crackled. “If this doesn't stop we're going under, Charlie, I can feel it. Get a name as a bad luck hotel in this town and you're shunned. Superstitious bunch in this business.” It was unlike Richard to be so pessimistic. His hangover must have been special.

“I have some news that'll cheer you up.”

“What? They found Mary Ann Leffler alive and well? They found out who killed Gloria and we can all get back to work?”

“Not that good. But Keegan completed the
Shadowscapes
script, and it's magnificent. I've already sent it over to Goliath.”

“Oh, that's good. Charlie, you know I haven't seen a mention of that party in any of the press today?”

“Probably waiting for the weekend gossip columns.”

“You think so? Image is everything. We got to appear positive to the industry or we're all done, Charlie.”

“I have some more good news, too. But I'm not going to tell you until you tell me what Gloria was doing that still seems to have everybody over a barrel around here.”

“It was grounds for firing her, Charlie, not for murdering her. What's this other good news? I need all I can get.”

“You don't talk. I don't talk. I'm sick of this, Richard. Get well, ‘babe.'”

“Hey listen, Charlie, wait. Just don't let it go any farther, okay? Gloria was picking out certain of the unsolicited manila envelopes we get in the mail each day. She'd take 'em home and answer them as if she were more of an agent than a receptionist. Tell them they weren't ready for Hollywood yet and offer them a subscription to one of her husband's newsletters that would give them all the information they needed to study up and get ready for the big time at home in Georgia or Iowa before they hit L.A. They'd be way ahead of the pack when they got out here. In these newsletters Roger'd advertise books on the subjects of acting and screenwriting he'd written and printed himself in his little shop. Roger did videos for home study, and seminars, too. And he got an awful lot of inside information from Gloria. Problem was they used the agency's name and address.”

“Jesus.”

“Amen. I found out about it when Dan Congdon came across one of these newsletters in South Carolina where some local was auditioning for background. Handed him one to prove she was a pro.”

“Your partner—he's in the industry?”

“He dicks around with it when he feels like it. But he got his thumb stuck up his ass about this one, I can tell you. I don't blame him. We could be ducking lawsuits, and the fraud guys could get interested. So don't blab. Remember who pays your mortgage. This could sink us.”

“Does Dalrymple know this?”

“No, but he does know about the Tuschmans' witchcraft newsletters. So he's getting close. Christ, they knew gullible when they saw it and how to make a buck. Roger did books and videos on the witchshit, too. Now tell me your other good news before I asphyxiate on pathos and gall.”

“Hal Licktman called from ZIA. They have a go from CBS for Tina to write the pilot for ‘Southwestern Exposure' and are interested in Ellen for the lead. I think she's a shoo-in, Richard. She's a perfect match.” What if Gloria had been on the front desk listening to this conversation? Would Roger's next newsletter tell his students all about a new pilot being written for CBS—hint that he talked to Tina Horton or that she'd been one of his students?

“Nothing happens that fast, Charlie. There's a catch here.”

“Hal couldn't believe it, either. They got the call from Shapiro himself.”

He managed a dry whistle. She could almost see the protruding eyes shutter halfway and the head nod as the mind tallied the take here. “Now that's going to make the trade papers and big. And we've got Ellen and Tina and Monroe. And you. Great job, kid. Now be good to your stomach and take the rest of the day off. I don't like you being there alone.”

24

But as Charlie rose to leave, phone lights started blinking again, and she couldn't resist finding out who else would call in or if more wonderful news was about to arrive. Richard said good things came in threes.

Tracy Dewitt was on one line, and Charlie put her on hold. The other caller was a client of Dorian's. Charlie told him she didn't think Dorian would be in today but would have him call back tomorrow. She switched over to Tracy, who wanted to talk to Luella.

“Glad to see you have to work the front desk, find out what it's like, Charlie.” Why had Charlie ever thought this woman pleasant and funny? Because she used to be, damn it. She had changed her stripes somewhere Charlie hadn't visited. “Is Luella home or what?”

“She just called in a few minutes ago for you, Tracy. Wanting to know why you weren't here.”

“Least I was at the party last night. Richard's really pissed at her. Where's Irma? Or your tame fag?”

“Larry's on an errand for me. Irma will be back shortly. Maurice was in for awhile. And
we
all went to the party.”

“Yeah, well you may have noticed I had a very heavy date last night. James just left about an hour ago.” Even her yawn sounded smug.

Promised your rent-a-date you could get his stuff read here, didn't you, Tweety? Hope you got a discount. “Tracy, I'll read his damned screenplay on one condition only, and will not guarantee how soon or that I'll take him on. Understand? Have you seen the stacks of scripts we haven't been able to get to yet?”