Death of the Office Witch (6 page)

Dalrymple did not look impressed. But Charlie floated through the rest of her day. She did get partially caught up on her phone log, checking the progress of some of her writers. But she wasn't able to get hold of Keegan Monroe to return his call, although she did make it back to Long Beach in time to pick up buffalo steaks and three bottles of Dom Perignon. If no one could come to her last-minute victory party, she and Libby would eat what they could and freeze the rest. It was that kind of triumph.

As it turned out, everybody came. Mrs. Beesom brought her renowned pasta salad, Jeremy Fiedler his veggie stir-fry and an airhead named Connie. Maggie brought fruit compote. Libby brought droopy Doug Esterhazie. Tuxedo brought one of Mrs. Beesom's wild birds, dead. And very nearly ruined the celebration.

This weekend, she decided, when she wasn't doing the yard work or the housework, Charlie had to find a way to get rid of that goddamned cat—something she'd been threatening to do for almost a year. She turned from the older woman's stricken face to her daughter's unconcerned one. “This is it, Libby. I've had it.”

“Mo-om, that's what cats do. They're carnivores like us.” She looked pointedly at the bloody juice on the platter, all that was left of a hunk out of a buffalo.

Doug then explained with the restrained patience teenagers reserve for adults that Mrs. Beesom's bird feeders attracted birds. Birds attracted cats. It was all in the nature of things, and Tuxedo shouldn't be blamed for his nature. Any more than Charlie should be blamed for stopping at the gourmet deli on the way home and picking up buffalo steaks. How that kid always managed to put her on the defensive Charlie would never know.

They'd eaten on Charlie's patio, and she stretched out on the chaise longue with her coffee. It felt wonderful to put her feet up. “I'm sorry, Mrs. Beesom. We've been nothing but trouble for you since we moved in.”

“Well, life has been more exciting, that's for sure,” the old lady said bleakly. Jeremy and Maggie exchanged snide glances. Mrs. Beesom's life revolved around her church, her birds, television, and keeping close track of her neighbors. Maggie swore that the woman went through their garbage to discover their personal habits.

The Beesoms had once lived in an old house in the center of this lot, and when Mr. Beesom died, a developer talked his wife into selling it for one of the new houses he'd build. She was a small woman with a large stomach she kept covered with smocklike tops over polyester pants. Her thinning hair had turned from gray to white, but she seemed to have a fair amount of energy.

“I saw on the news tonight about the woman in your office that was murdered. It must be awful for you, Charlie,” she led the way to the topic everyone had been too polite to bring up over buffalo.

“Yeah I know, and here I am celebrating,” Charlie admitted. “But the whole agency would be tonight if it wasn't for Gloria and the police running around and everybody having to avoid reporters.”

As she'd told them at dinner, this
Alpine Tunnel
project was one she'd brought with her from New York when she'd come to Congdon and Morse. The only best-selling author Charlie had ever represented died after one book, and Charlie lost the account to another agent when the estate took over the rights. But the literary agency where she worked in New York, Wesson Bradly, often used Congdon and Morse as its Hollywood connection, and Charlie served as liaison. So when Richard Morse went after
Alpine Tunnel
for a now-defunct independent production company, he used Charlie to begin negotiations with the author's estate through the new agent. The publisher got into it and decided on a new huge printing to tie in with the film, but the indie went under, the author's family hadn't liked the screenplay, and Goliath had brought out a similar historical that flopped like a beached salmon.

When Richard talked Charlie into coming out to work for him, the deal had a little life left because McMullins was still interested in the tie-in and had interested another indie, Ursa Major, in the deal. McMullins and Ursa Major brought Congdon and Morse and Charlie back into the picture, another screenplay was written, excitement mounted once more. And last October the family had said no. Flat out.

Last week the book's editor hinted that something was yet again in the wind, but Charlie had kept it quiet. And yesterday the deal was on again, but Congdon and Morse found out a day late because somebody murdered Gloria.

The night was warm and soft and filled with the sweet, tangy scent of lemon blossoms. Charlie could just hear the ocean over the traffic and emergency sirens. Jeremy sprawled on the other chaise fondling Connie with one hand and Tuxedo with the other. One of them was purring.

“What's all this witch business?” Jeremy asked. His eyes were open wide and seemed to glow in the city-dark like the cat's. “Was it some kind of a ritual murder?”

“In an alley behind a bank?” Charlie began to see why everyone had accepted her last-minute invitation. Once again she was the center of attention. But not for the reason she wanted to be. “She was always claiming strange powers and going to strange meetings with stranger people. Nobody at the agency paid much attention to it all.”

Until she starts talking to you from the end of an empty hallway after she's dead. Is that a strange power or what?

That was a very alive person playing a very cheap trick, Charlie reminded herself.

At least she was able to sleep that night. After the heavy dinner and the champagne, and after closing her door tight to be sure it latched and kept Tuxedo out, she had barely closed her eyes before the alarm went off. A short time later, Libby perched on the nearby clothes hamper while Charlie stood in front of the bathroom mirror preparing hair and face to meet the world.

“Mom, what are you now, thirty-two?”

“Thirty-one. Don't make it any worse than it is.”

“Here you are, thirty-one years old,” Libby drew it out mournfully, “with a fifteen-year-old daughter. Don't you think it's time you thought about getting married?”

6

“I know you're under a lot of stress, and I'm sorry if I upset you just now, okay Mom?” Libby blocked Charlie's exit from the john.

“I'm in a hurry. We're late. And what makes you think you upset me?”

“You just sprayed your hair with bathroom deodorant.”

All the way to Wilshire on the interminable freeway, did Charlie scheme and fantasize and rejoice in the possibilities about to come out of the
Alpine Tunnel
deal? No.

Did she consider the ramifications of a murder at the agency and mull over the possible candidates for murderer? No.

Did she get on the car phone and call New York? She did not.

Charlie spent the entire time trying to figure out the connection between two-hundred-dollar Rollerblades, cheerleading, high school sororities, and her own unmarried state. She knew Libby. There was a connection somewhere. And whatever it was, it would cost Charlie bucks.

This weekend when she wasn't trimming the yard, cleaning the house, getting rid of the cat, doing the laundry and grocery shopping—she and Libby were going to have to take the time for a long talk. Charlie had never known the bliss of matrimony, nor had she known the desire. Motherhood was already more than she could handle. Libby had made it this long without a father figure, couldn't she hang on just a few more years?

Jesus, some kids have to go without food.

Riding up the public elevator to the fifth floor of the FFUCWB of P with Maurice Lavender, Charlie received the requisite hug-grope and continued congratulations on the
Alpine Tunnel
deal. And then Maurice raised a handsome brow. “What is that wonderful perfume you're wearing, sweetie? It's vaguely familiar, but I can't place it.”

“
Eau de Potty
,” Charlie, who wasn't wearing any, told him and sidled away to the door just as it opened.

She stepped right into Lieutenant Dalrymple's chest. “Miss Greene, here you are. I was hoping for a few words with you before all the excitement starts. Have you had breakfast?”

Before she'd even set foot in her office, Charlie found herself, instead, facing the Beverly Hills Police Department over omelets and coffee at Sidney's.

“Have you had any thoughts about who might have killed Gloria Tuschman and why?” he asked pleasantly and as if they both had all week to laze around the breakfast table.

“Not really. That's your job. I have one, too, you know. Lieutenant, do you have a family?”

“A wife and two grown children, why?”

“Did your wife work outside the home while raising the children?”

“Once they were in school, certainly. You know a policeman's pay.”

“Did she have time to solve murders, too?”

“She barely had time to clean the house, and I was no help, with my hours—ah, I see what you're getting at. I do realize you're busy. And I understand you have a young daughter.”

“More like frantic, and she's fifteen, and I'm raising her myself. Between home and office and freeway, I barely have time to read submissions. Which is a big part of my job, but there's no time for that during working hours. And I know this is going to sound incredibly cruel, but I've barely given poor Gloria a thought since I last saw you yesterday.” Charlie pushed her plate away and reached for her coffee. Neither she nor Libby ate breakfast at home, and this was the first cup of the day. She sniffed the warm pleasure of it and took a gulp, continuing before he could interrupt her. “Right now you are concentrating on Gloria and those murders assigned to you. Do you have time to worry about or concentrate much on those assigned to other detectives?”

He'd hardly begun on his omelet, and now he paused to break and butter a muffin. “You are a very persuasive young lady.”

“That's my job, too.” She looked pointedly at her watch.

“You're overlooking something important.” He took a bite of the muffin and spent forever chewing it. “Murder takes precedence.”

“Lieutenant, I really have to get on the phone to New York soon. I've already lost a day. This
Alpine Tunnel
thing could well be a megadeal here.”

“Yes,” he said dubiously and cut another piece out of his omelet, “is this something to do with Switzerland or skiing?”

“
Phantom of the Alpine Tunnel
, the novel.”

“Never heard of it.”

“You must have. It was on the
New York Times
best-seller list for twenty-eight straight weeks. Of course that was a few years ago, but—”

“Unlike murder, fame is fleeting,” he mused and continued enjoying his food, his movements precise, unhurried. “You're not the only one who seems untouched by the receptionist's sudden absence.”

“But we all are, don't you see? That place is a madhouse without someone on the phones and filtering traffic through the front door and the fax … a hundred things. Clients will have seen about it on the news and be calling in worried that their business is not being seen to, that we're so preoccupied by the murder that opportunities are being overlooked and it will affect their careers. Actors are paranoid, and so are writers. I just hope Irma came in today to take charge.”

“Gloria Tuschman's death, then, is an inconvenience rather than a grief?”

“I feel sorry for her. Nobody wants to be dead.”

“But you didn't like her. I have the feeling no one did. Why?”

This man was not going to be manipulated, hurried, or put off. Charlie might just as well bite the bullet and consider Gloria. “She grated on people. I never felt comfortable around her, and I doubt the others at the agency did, either. But she was very good at what she did, and I don't think Richard realizes how hard she's going to be to replace.”

“How did she grate on you? What was it she did that made you uncomfortable?” When Charlie just shrugged, he added, “Miss Greene, consider this a business breakfast. Time worth spending. Because it is, you know. Murder's a nasty business but every bit as exciting as show business if—”

“Can't you talk about anything but murder?”

“It's not going to go away, and neither am I. So, why did Gloria Tuschman make you uncomfortable?”

“I honestly can't put my finger on it. You can probably tell I love my job. It's exciting and wonderful and I wouldn't be anywhere else for the world. And she made it easier by being a good receptionist and keeping things running smoothly. We're all in and out of the office so much, and you could always count on Gloria to know where everybody was. I just never spent a lot of time around the front desk. I'd breeze by on my way in and out. Larry picks up my mail and keeps track of my calls. I didn't stop and talk to her much.”

“You never had lunch or coffee breaks with her?”

“Lord no. I'd grab a cup of coffee on my way in and drink it at my desk. If I didn't have a lunch meeting, I'd probably had a breakfast meeting late and wouldn't want lunch. One of the assistants would take a break with Gloria while another covered for her at the desk. At lunchtime she put the phones on the answering service and went out with other secretaries in the building. If I'm in, I find that a very good time to get caught up.”

“If you had no contact with her, how could she make you uncomfortable?”

“There was some contact of course. But I always had the feeling that if I stayed around her very long, she'd want something I didn't want to give her, or try to tell me something I didn't want to hear. I know it sounds dumb, but I avoided her whenever possible. Which doesn't mean I killed her.”

“Something you didn't want to hear. Something like the fact that she thought you might be sensitive to certain stimuli or even be psychic?”

“You've been talking to Larry Mann.” Charlie was forever passing on her irritations to her assistant.