Sympathy for the Devil (10 page)

“Wow!”

“It gets better. Time goes by and Innocante makes a very lucrative deal to sell the land's water rights. That evening, he gives a large party to celebrate his good fortune. He parties into the night, waving his walking stick.”

“A large party in Los Feliz? Don't drag this out, Wesley. Was he murdered?”

“Shot and killed.

“After that, a guy named Leon ‘Lucky' Baldwin buys the land. Isn't that a great name? You know, I'd like a nickname,” Wes said, detouring off.

“How about ‘Jailbird' Westcott?”

“Cute. Anyway, Lucky's rich and he spares no expense to make the Rancho de Los Feliz the most profitable and luxurious rancho in all of California.

“Can't you just guess what happened next? A guy named Lucky? A curse? Let's just say, nothing good.

“Pretty soon the cattle sicken and die in the fields. The dairy business is a disastrous failure. There is fire. There are grasshoppers. The vineyard is stricken by a strange blight. It's the seven friggin' plagues!”

“Go on.”

“Well, with a run of luck like that, Lucky Baldwin goes broke. Eventually, he has to sell off the ranch to pay back the mortgage.

“The buyer, this time, is Griffith J. Griffith. Things don't get a whole lot better. Misfortunes continue to pile up. A huge storm in March of 1884 brings lightning down upon the oaks. Waves of water cascade down the hills onto the flatland. Ranch hands actually claim they see the ghost of Antonio Feliz riding the waves, later reappearing to dance the
jarabe
over the ruin that had been wrought.”

“No! Wesley! You made that part up.” I was laughing out loud. “That part about Don Antonio surfing that tidal wave from hell!”

“I swear. That's the legend, anyway.”

“What happened after he hangs ten?”

“They decide to cut the dead oaks and sell them for lumber. But all is not proceeding without incident. Workers claim a spirit, calling itself Antonio Feliz, sometimes appears to them at a promontory known as Bee Rock. Ostriches, which are being raised on the rancho, inexplicably stampede at night.”

“Ostriches? Stampeding ostriches in the night?”

“Do you want to hear the end?”

“Of course.”

“Well, Griffith is so spooked, the story goes, that eventually he will only visit the property at midday. In the end, he bolts and donates a lot of the land to the city for a park. And that's Griffith Park.”

“Amazing.” Today Griffith Park contains hiking trails and a train museum and a couple of golf courses. The Los Angeles Zoo is located in Griffith Park, and I made a mental note to visit the ostrich enclosure the next time I visited.

“It was 1898 when Griffith got rid of the land. So one night soon after, the city fathers gather at the old Feliz adobe to celebrate the city's acceptance of the former rancho as a park.”

“Uh-oh. I can see this coming. Parties on the property did not fare well.”

“Right. The legend says that at midnight, a gaunt figure with a fleshless face appears at the head of the oaken banquet table and announces: ‘Gentlemen, I am Antonio Feliz, come to invite you to dine with me in hell. In your great honor, I have brought an escort of subdemons!'”

“Uh-oh. Nothing like a bunch of rowdy, uninvited subdemons. It pays to hire bouncers.”

“That's the lot. Makes a great ghost story. I've told it at a party or two. Griffith had been able to unload several thousand acres to land developers when he donated the park to the city, which accounts for the neighborhood of Los Feliz. In fact, I told the story to Bruno on the morning he signed his final escrow papers to purchase his new acres. He loved that legend, I can tell you.”

“He wasn't frightened?”

“Not in the least. He said he hoped he'd see the ghost.”

“I'm worried.”

“Why?”

“Before, when I found out that Bruno didn't say the name of your dog, Mal, I felt relief. You know, I figured the police wouldn't be able to connect you to Bruno's last
words. But now, since we know his last words were about this curse, it seems like it puts you back into it, somehow.”

“I see your point.”

“You told Bruno the story. You helped sell Bruno the land, and then got burned on the deal. And you could write a damn masters thesis on the details of the curse. The cops will still think Bruno's last words point the finger at you.”

“Well, either me or old Don Antonio,” Wes said lightly.

“Perhaps. But who are the cops most likely to arrest?”

S
unday morning, as I stood in the shower, I kept hearing the chorus from “Big Time” going around in my head. I whipped my hair from side to side under the cool water, rinsing out shampoo and willing out the eighth replay of “My head is getting bigger.”

I dressed quickly. A pair of white jeans and a chef's tunic with “Madeline Bean” embroidered in small black stitches over my heart. My fingers raced up to my neck over the tunic's double row of buttons, and then I shook out my hair. No matter how quickly I shower and dress, this is where my routine comes to a soggy halt.

I used the ConAir 5000, blowing and brushing for a good thirty minutes, thinking about whom I should call and whom I should visit in person and which technique might net me the most reliable information.

By taking the natural curl out of my reddish-gold hair, I had added a good five inches to its length. I neatly braided it down my back, where I could forget it.

I laced my white oxfords tight, and ran lightly down the steps.

Wesley was going to meet me at the Frymans' house, so I loaded the Grand Wagoneer with all the food for the party and made my way over to Santa Monica.

As I crossed Third Street, heading south on La Brea, I saw the Sunday morning people, true to their religion, lining up outside of DuPar's coffee shop at Farmer's Market.

I took Olympic west and experienced an unexpected calm. I had found a time of day and day of week when there was no trace of the usual, lurching crawl of east-west traffic.

It was another pretty day. Having been raised in the Mid-west, I can still clearly remember the sharp cold and stinging winds of November. But here, with the sun winking through the palm fronds, I am admittedly dazzled by winter's glamorous Hollywood makeover.

I'm certainly no holier than any other shivering, mid-western soul who has finally found the comfort zone. I am sold on L.A., despite the smog, despite the traffic, despite the crime, despite the threat of brush fires and mudslides and earthquakes. What, me worry while the sun shines?

As I made the turn onto Fifteenth Street, I could see Wes waiting for me in the Frymans' driveway. He'd arrived early to set up the grills, and now he helped me unload the food and bring it into the kitchen.

Houses in this fashionable neighborhood of Santa Monica had been built in the thirties and forties on identical size lots, and tended to be of restrained middle-class proportions. In the late eighties, when prices scaled the dizzy peaks of real estate's Everest, the frenzy had pushed a modest, three-bedroom, two-bathroom home like the Frymans' upwards of three-quarters of a million dollars.

I looked around as I brought in a stack of colorful Metlox platters. This spectacularly priced home boasted a kitchen that measured eight feet by eleven feet. What did the realtors call it? Ah, yes. “Cozy.”

“The guests are starting to arrive,” Wes informed me, as he put some finishing touches on the buffet table he'd set up earlier in the small dining room.

“They're one hour early? Who comes to a party an hour early?”

I picked up my pace as I began preparing circles of puff pastry, first brushing them twice with a raw egg wash. When baked, this would give the tarts a nice glazed finish and prevent the hot topping from soaking through and mak
ing a soggy mess. I inverted a second baking sheet over the one holding the puff pastry circles, a trick to prevent the dough from rising too much and keep them a uniform height. How perfect a dish looked on the platter was part of the job. Moving fast, I popped the pastry trays in the oven.

“Did you see the
Times
?”

Bruno's murder, having taken place so late on Friday night, had only received modest coverage on Saturday. But, gathering steam from the outrage of the entertainment community, many of whose leaders had been inconvenienced at the party, it made front-page news in the Sunday
Times
.

“You wouldn't believe the calls we've been getting.”

I was letting the machine pick up the messages, which seemed to be mostly curiosity mixed with excitement on the part of our clients and acquaintances.

Wes told me he had been treated to an early morning interview with the police at his apartment.

“Seems they aren't arresting me just yet.”

“Thank god!”

“They are content to simply harass me and insult me with their suspicions and attitude. Typical.”

I asked lightly if it was the good detective Honnett that did the asking. Honestly, I can't even mention the guy's name without Wes giving me a look at his smug face.

Apparently, it wasn't Honnett, so maybe they were putting Wes on the back burner, after all, and instead focusing on Lily. I was too scared to feel complacent about Wes's chances.

Wes had been up early, baking. He put out a platter of warm pecan pumpkin muffins alongside an antique silver rack of buttered, oven-toasted raisin cinnamon bread. The Guatemalan coffee had been brewed. And the host was pouring the mimosas I'd prepared, so the blasted early guests were fine for a while.

I had eighteen minutes to wait while the tarts baked and I couldn't stop thinking about all the people I needed to
talk to. I took my cell phone out of my bag and walked outside. My first call was to Lizzie.

“Bailey.” She answered like a cop.

“It's Madeline. I'd like to see a copy of the coroner's report on Bruno.”

“The autopsy report? Why? It's not fun reading.”

“Are the police still convinced that Wesley was involved?” I asked her.

“Look. I'll see what I can do. I know I owe you. But no promises.”

“Thanks,” I said. I was getting over being totally pissed at Lizzie. If she came through with the information I needed, I might just be big enough to forgive her.

Wesley had come outside to get the chicken started and was listening in to my side of the conversation while fussing with the controls on the gas grill.

“What next?”

“What we need to do is track down the people who had access to Bruno's liquor cabinet.” So far, I figured we were the only ones who suspected that Bruno was poisoned by his own precious bottle of brandy. We needed to move quickly. I dialed the number we had for Alan.

I got his machine. As I started to leave a message, Alan, groggy-voiced, picked up his phone.

“Hi. I was kind of just getting up,” he explained.

“It's about the night of the Halloween party. Do you remember when Wes asked you to go down to the wine cellar for more champagne?”

“Sure.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Let's see. It was about ten, ten-thirty. After dinner. And people were still asking for champagne. Wes told me to go downstairs and bring up another two cases, just to be safe.”

“The cellar was locked so Wes gave you the key, right?”

“Yeah, he handed me a key ring with the wine cellar key marked. I carried up two cases of Domaine Chandon.
End of fascinating story. Hey, Madeline, what's this all about?”

“I wish I knew. So you gave the keys back to Wesley?”

“What's the deal? Are they missing? I think I tossed them to Holly. She was hanging around the kitchen. She'll tell you.”

“Sorry to trouble you, sleepyhead. Go back to bed.”

I looked at Wes. “I don't know where this is getting us. Holly had the keys.”

“Wonderful,” Wes said, dryly. “Keep investigating, Madeline, and let me know when you've managed to pin the murder on Arlo.”

I heard the faint ding of my kitchen timer and moved back inside to deal with the tarts. Each flaky puff was removed from the parchment-lined baking pan and placed onto a bright turquoise platter, where I spooned hot onion/fennel marmalade atop each circle. The baked-on double egg glaze was holding. Wes and I had a little bet on how long this dish could sit on a buffet table.

I quickly phoned home for messages and found two. An attorney was requesting my presence at the reading of Bruno Huntley's will. My, my. I guess I would be one of the first to find out who got what.

Then I heard Lieutenant Honnett's deep bass on my machine, sounding polite. He had a few more questions.

Our brunch host and hostess peeked into their kitchen. “Everything smells wonderful,” Brenda said.

“Wonderful!” her husband boomed.

“Everyone's here. So we can begin the brunch whenever,” Brenda said brightly.

“Whenever,” offered her husband, beaming.

I smiled my reassuring caterer's smile as they ducked back out of the tiny kitchen.

Wes was slicing the freshly grilled chicken. I looked at him and said, “Race you!”

Famous last words.

I quickly placed the beautiful, pink slices of gravlax over each mounded, steaming tart.

Wes was tossing together the Caesar salad more quickly than was absolutely safe. I saw a crouton go flying.

I took a plastic squeeze bottle, filled with creme fraiche, and drizzled a pattern of fine white lines, like lacework stars, over each salmon covered tart.

Wes was nimbly arranging the chicken slices in a chevron pattern over the enormous wooden bowl of salad.

Like a maniac, I sprinkled finely chopped chives over the top of my tarts and looked up.

Wes was nonchalantly checking his watch.

Bastard!

Maybe I should just let the cops have him.