Sympathy for the Devil (12 page)

I
was stressed. With the weird encounter on Bedford Drive behind me, I pulled a right on Santa Monica and headed the Grand Wagoneer towards Century City. I could stop at the shopping center and grab a Diet Coke at the outdoor food court. Then, maybe fill in the time until the reading of Bruno Huntley's will with a little window shopping.

I made the left into the mall parking structure, and cruised the aisles in the underground lot. Behind me was a dark Taurus.

As I circled, looking for a place to park, I began to get the itchy feeling the Taurus was tailing me. In my mirror, I could just make out two men. The driver, a young guy, was looking this way and that, apparently on the lookout for an open spot.

I tried to focus on the big picture. After all, everybody in a crowded parking lot is following everyone else, like rats in a maze, looking for a nice cheesy spot to deposit our twenty-odd-thousand dollars worth of metal. Be cool.

A white Volvo wagon was pulling out directly across from the escalators up to the mall—a prime spot. I slowed down. Naturally, so did the Taurus behind me.

The Volvo moved off ahead of me down the lane. Testing my paranoia, I decided to pass up the empty spot.

I checked my rearview mirror. If everything was normal, I expected the Taurus to pull into the empty spot. But he didn't. My stomach clutched.

My car phone was useless in an underground garage, but I picked it up anyway. No dice. Panic was making my neck hot. I kept telling myself they weren't interested in me at all. But I just had to get out of there.

Following the EXIT painted on the pavement, I turned up an aisle. Suddenly, a red Camaro backed out of its space, blocking me. I waited. When the Camaro finally cleared the space, I was startled to find the gray Taurus, no longer behind me, but now coming down the aisle towards me from the opposite direction.

Squinting to see through the Taurus's windshield, I felt sure I'd never seen the driver or his friend before. Was this some traffic misunderstanding? Had I cut them off accidentally?

The Taurus sped up, crossing over into my lane, coming directly at me. Already, a few cars were waiting behind me, so I couldn't back up. With the Taurus bearing down on me, I slammed on the gas and pulled forward into the space that the Camaro had just vacated.

The Taurus flew by, just swerving in time to miss the car that had been patiently waiting behind me. I breathed heavily to the sound of cursing car horns and screeching tires. Jeez! L.A. could be a scary place. People did not always behave rationally. Especially in cars.

I tried to back out again, but now the line of vehicles waiting for spaces had me literally blocked in my spot.

Through the herringbone rows of parked cars I could see the Taurus recklessly swinging around the parking structure. Shit! Were they coming back for me?

I darted out of my car, dodging traffic, and ran for the nearest escalator. Rushing past a couple who were about to step on, I mumbled, “Someone may be following me.”

They looked back, but the garage seemed quite normal.

I moved up the steps faster, and emerged onto the open air shopping level. Out in the sunlight, I walked quickly past Bloomingdale's, turning my head every few seconds to see if anyone was behind me. Where was a security guard when you needed one? I galloped past Häagen-Dazs
and turned left, hoping when my pursuers emerged from the escalator, I'd already be out of their line of sight. If, that is, I was actually being pursued and hadn't just gotten in the way of some whacked-out parking lot warriors.

Why would anyone want to follow me? All I could think of was that ugly house and those wretched dogs. Could Perry Hirsh be behind this? Did I stumble, in my first try out of the box, on the conspirators who had killed Bruno?

Set out on the sunny mall sidewalk were large ornate pushcarts selling T-shirts and inexpensive jewelry. I rushed past. Ahead of me was a store for the Metropolitan Museum of Art and, just beyond that, was another escalator coming up from the underground parking garage.

Emerging from below were the backs of two heads. As they ascended into view, I stared. Two young men. I froze as they stepped off the escalator, tall muscular men, who turned and looked straight at me. Were they the ones? Was I nuts?

Still frozen, I kept staring at them, looking for any sign of recognition, readying myself to bolt. But their gaze swept over me and around to the shops. They moved on ahead of me, in the direction I had been going.

With nerves now completely on edge, I trotted backwards past the museum store. If they kept going, I was just insane. If they stopped, I was in big trouble.

The two men stopped.

They stopped! Spinning around, I pinballed off the corner of a building and ducked into the nearest open door. Laura Ashley.

I moved through the large Victorian boutique, breathing hard, inhaling the scent of Floris perfume, reassured by the civilized, lace-collared calm of the store. I turned, still backing up, and thought I caught a glimpse of men standing outside the plate-glass window.

Pushing deeper into the store, I grabbed a handful of dresses from the nearest rack and held them up to shield me from eyes that might be peering into the shop. With this armload of merchandise, I moved further into the depths of the store, disappearing into a dressing room, the
perfect “Women Only” sanctuary. At once, I felt safe.

The dressing area was divided into private alcoves by pretty little sprigged curtains, peach and apple green on white, that hung from a system of brass railings. There was a woman in the next curtained dressing stall talking to her pre-teen daughter. They were trying on frilly white petticoats and purple velvet dresses and giggling. I passed them as they emerged from the their stall to look at each other in a three-way mirror placed in a common area of the dressing room.

With nervous, jerking motions, I tore off my black dress and black tights. Feeling every beat of my heart, I slipped into one of the Laura Ashley dresses I'd brought with me.

In the mirror was a little milkmaid in a cheerful cotton print dress. I seemed to be awash in a bright red field that was heavily landscaped with tiny white flowers. It was several sizes too large. I tore the braid out of my hair and shook out the red scarf that had been tied at the bottom. I then fastened it, kerchief-style, over my head. I checked the mirror. A nice look for a sixteen-year-old. Make that a sixteen-year-old virgin from Berne before the war.

My black boots. They were a dead giveaway. Then I noticed a pair of white Keds that had been kicked off by the mother in the next dressing stall. She and her daughter were still standing outside their cubicle in front of the three-way mirror, admiring themselves.

Grabbing my wallet, I pulled out enough cash to cover the cost of the dress and left it in a pile on top of my abandoned black clothes. I quickly patted myself down. I yanked off the price tags and added them to the pile. Luckily, this outfit wasn't equipped with one of those plastic devices that set off alarms.

I stuck fifty dollars into my beloved boots, and scooted them under the curtain into the adjoining dressing room. Then I stepped into my neighbor's Keds and walked confidently out.

I scanned the store. Where were they? Outside? By my car? A figment of my imagination?

I'd make a run for it. Maybe I could get to Bloomies, I
improvised, and flag down a security…As I approached the register, a woman with her black hair cut very short backed into me. A pudgy baby wriggled in her arms while she tried to hang onto two huge Laura Ashley bags.

“Can I give you a hand?” I offered, smiling, as I slid my hand through her bags and tugged.

“Well…” she looked up and took in a gayly dressed milkmaid with a red babushka. The little flower-print seemed to put her at ease.

“Are you parked close to here?” I forced myself to smile while my nerves jangled into overdrive. We left the store.

“This is really too kind of you.”

“No problem,” I said, just as we passed my two stalkers, standing outside about twenty feet from the entrance, surveying the people leaving the stores. With my distinctive hair entirely covered by the scarf, and my slender silhouette obscured by yards of gathered cotton, I ducked my head closer to my newest friend's ear and said something to make her smile. As I had hoped, the men didn't pay close attention to two ladies and a baby, all dressed in floral prints.

“Where are you parked?” she asked me as we descended one level on the escalator.

“Actually, my car is having some trouble, so I'll probably just call a cab.”

She looked concerned.

“Don't worry.”

The baby smiled at me and said, “Dam!”

I smiled back at the little guy as we kept walking.

“He doesn't really talk, yet,” his mother explained. “He just makes sounds. That's his latest.”

“Kids are great. He's so beautiful!”

The mother smiled an I'm-zonked-in-love-with-my-baby smile. “My name's Martha Cummings. Can I drive you somewhere?” Bingo!

“Which way are you headed?” I tried to sound normal.

“East. Over the hill in Glendale.”

“That would be great. I'm going to a friend's house in
Los Feliz,” I explained. By this time we were at her Mercedes, getting junior into his child safety seat.

As my new friend Martha pulled the Mercedes smoothly out of her space, those same two awful men came crashing down the escalators, looking here and there and then straight at our car. Jolted by fear, I turned quickly, jerking my back to the car door so my profile could no longer be seen.

I was near panic, unable to bear not knowing whether they had spotted me or not. Were they running up to the car? Were they…?

Martha was picking up speed, approaching the exit of the structure. Near panic, I shot a glance out my window. The men were on the run, just ten feet behind us! Up ahead, the traffic signal changed to yellow. The men were gaining on us. Martha, oblivious to the danger, hit the gas pedal just as the light turned red, making a smooth right turn. As our powerful car sped off, I couldn't bring myself to look back. So I missed seeing their expressions as the bird got away.

One thing was finally clear. Those men were, most certainly, after me. Totally unclear was just about everything else.

Martha made pleasant conversation as her baby fell asleep in the back seat and she insisted on driving me all the way to Bruno's house. I gave her directions up the winding streets, and she had to slow down to squeeze past the many cars that were crowded around the Huntley property. With all the press coverage Bruno's murder had elicited, hopeful reporters and curious sightseers kept a constant vigil near the house. The neighbors were probably furious.

“This is where that murder happened, isn't it?” she asked me as the house came into view. “I saw it on ‘Eyewitness News.' It was that producer, Bruno Huntley, right?”

“Yeah. Actually, they're reading his will in fifteen minutes.”

“And you're invited? Wow.”

“A fortune teller predicted I was going to come into money. Unfortunately, I do not believe in fortune tellers.”

We smiled as she pulled to a stop. “Was that why those men were chasing you back at the mall?”

“Excuse me?”

Man, had I underestimated this Martha Cummings woman! Not only had she realized what was going on back in the parking lot, but she had most efficiently gotten us out of there.

“Will you be okay?” she asked as I opened the door.

My thanks seemed weak compared to the huge favor she had done me, but she just waved cheerily as she drove off. Thank God for these cool, invincible supermoms. I was now convinced they could do anything.

At the foot of the driveway, a police officer chatted with the crew from the Channel 5 news van which was set up for remote reports with the mansion in the background. My name was on the officer's list. As I walked up the steep driveway, I heard the segment producer from Channel 5 ask, “Who's that?”

The cop said, “Nobody.”

The door was answered by Graydon. He looked surprised. “What are you doing here, Maddie? It's a bad time to come for a visit. The family is a little busy right now. Why don't you come back some other time?”

“I was invited here, Graydon. By the attorney.”

He stared at me.

“So, may I come in?”

“I guess,” he floundered, and I walked in right past him.

Lily was in the hall and when she recognized me, she stopped. Her mouth dropped open and she stared hard.

“Madeline!”

I'd be explaining myself all afternoon. “It seems the family was not expecting me. But I got a call from the attorney and…”

“I'm glad you're here,” she said, graciously.

And as she regained her composure, I realized she wasn't shocked I was there for the will. She was startled speechless by my damned cheery red cotton tent ablaze with daisies!

“
W
e're waiting for Bru,” Lily explained, as she led me away from the front door and down two steps into a large study.

“I would have thought he'd be right on time.” Bru, the older son, always needed money.

“Yes, well…” Lily looked around, but we were quite alone in the study. “The thing is, it was Bru who insisted that this awful will business be done today. He was adamant. He kept phoning the attorney and demanding to know what was in his father's will.”

“Being here today…I hope I'm not making things harder.”

“I'm glad you're here. Honestly. I've never made many women friends. Well, not any, actually. And with Bruno…gone, I don't know if I can trust the women in the family. I'm scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of Bru, when he hears his father's bequests.”

I turned to look at her. She was all alone. Without Bruno to fill up the mansion with his booming personality, she seemed lost.

“It'll work out.”

She shook her head weakly and let out a tight, nervous whinny. “When they find out…” She sighed. “Bruno did not include his first family in his will. Lewis and I get everything.”

“Are you sure, Lily?”

She nodded and held her breath, like she was afraid to let it out for fear she'd sob. “Bruno told me. I begged him to be fair, but…” She shuddered. “They'll crucify me. The boys will tear at me and never stop. I can't face it, Madeline. I don't want the money, really I don't…”

“Hey, calm down, calm down. There.” I had moved over to her and put an arm around her shoulder.

Just then, Graydon came to the door of the study and whined, “Hey! Everybody is waiting. Let's go. Let's go!”

We followed him out through the foyer and across the entry hall to the large living room. The cathedral ceiling was striped with heavy oak beams.

As we crossed the intricately inlaid hardwood floor, I became hyper-aware of the sound of Lily's heels. They alternately clacked on the mahogany and then went silent in the scattered oriental rugs. Clack-clack, muffle, clack-clack, muffle.

Sitting in a deep brown leather chair across from the fireplace was Bruno's attorney, Mark Baker, trim, tiny, and bald. On the two large sofas flanking the fireplace spread the family.

Bru, Jr. and his mother, Rosemary, sat on one side. Bru was not in an attractive mood. He was smiling, showing sharp teeth, and fidgeting. He and his wife had separated recently, and so she, of course, would not be included today.

His mother, Rosemary, sat stiff-backed against the down pillows, once again in the home that Bruno and she had shared long ago. I had met her once or twice in the past. As Bruno's first wife, she'd earned the beach house in Laguna Beach, a black Eldorado, and a reported ten grand a month.

It sounded generous, unless you believed the rumor that Rosemary had been forced to revoke her share of Bruno's production company in the settlement. It was a company that she had helped build and today was worth countless millions. But of course, twenty years ago, who'd have
guessed it would be worth so much one day? Only Bruno.

Rosemary's mostly gray hair was cut extremely short and made her seem older than just late fifties. She had a fierce, gaunt expression, with sharp cheekbones and small black eyes, and she had a nervous habit of pressing her thin lips together, as if she were continually blotting her coral lipstick in place.

Sitting to her right was Gray's wife, Carmen. In contrast to her mother-in-law, Carmen looked soft and young and a little lost. She had a curtain of shoulder-length hair, very black and very straight, which beautifully set off her perfect olive-colored skin, perfect white teeth, and perfect oval face. At this moment, all of Carmen's facial perfection was cast downward, gazing at the hands in her lap.

Her husband, Graydon, having led us into this cozy viper's lair, now moved next to Carmen and sat down. It made a tight fit on the brocade sofa, this family portrait of sharp expectancy with the four of them on that one piece of furniture.

Across the massive oak coffee table, on a matching white sofa, sat a slender, red-haired woman. Second wife, Deborah, present and accounted for.

Bruno decided to leave his first wife and then teenage sons soon after meeting Deborah at the Asp Bar. He'd moved to a stage in his life where the most important qualities he could hope for in a woman involved the length of her legs. So he found Deborah, an appropriately-legged, party-happy female bartender. In the ten delirious months before they wed, Bruno spent not a single sober evening. One short year later, they too had divorced.

I looked at Deborah more closely. Her skin was very pale. She wore a white suit and, except for her bright hair, seemed to blend into the overstuffed furniture.

Her successor, Lily, sat down at the opposite end of the sofa, making wifely bookends to the untouched cushions between. I took a chair to the side, noticing that Bruno had selected a brunette, now graying, a redhead, certainly not natural, and a blonde.

“Is that it, then? Can we get started?”

Mark Baker ignored Bru's rudeness and simply opened his briefcase and got out his paperwork. He pulled a pair of reading glasses out of their Gucci case and placed them gently on his nose. He was not hurrying.

The room was silent.

“There is generally no urgency to the disclosure of a family member's last will and testament, and I really much prefer to handle these arrangements in my office.”

He stopped and looked right at Bru.

“However, in this case, I have acceded to a personal plea from the family to make the contents of Bruno Huntley's will known to those who are most affected. As there was mention of each of the persons attending here this afternoon in the document in question, I am satisfied that this group reading of the will is in the best interests of all parties.”

No one moved.

“I will read from the document dated September 27, 1997:

Mark Baker had been speaking in a soft, leathery voice, and as he came to the end of the document, his dry voice
could barely be heard. He looked up and surveyed the scene.

“So, like, is that it? What do we get?” Graydon was never the brightest light on the dimmer board.

Lily was staring straight ahead, measuring her breaths. Carmen, across the coffee table, was in tears. That was a surprise. She was actually sobbing.

Her husband, Gray, having gotten it at last, looked stunned. But that's awfully close to his usual stupefied expression.

To his left was his mother, Rosemary, who was looking sharply to her left at her more dangerous son, Bru. He, however, was smirking.

And the second Mrs. Bruno Huntley, the redheaded woman on the far side of Lily, seemed to have relaxed. All her credit card debt wiped out! By the look of her Manolo Blahnik pumps and Armani suit, I'd say she did okay this afternoon.

“He felt guilty,” she said, with wonder in her voice. “The old bastard must have felt guilty for not giving me the most precious gift of all, his kid.” She laughed. “So I got the consolation prize.”

Mark Baker seemed to want to get the whole affair over with.

“If there are no questions, I have copies of the will for each of you. You may wish to seek your own advisors, of course, but…”

Bru interrupted, “I take it this is all legal and everything?”

“Of course it is,” Baker nodded.

“Then it's just one of Dad's weird jokes, right?” Bru asked.

Baker looked at Bru with distaste.

“Yeah, wouldn't it be just like Dad to have us all tear around proving that Lily was in bed with just about everyone in Hollywood. Kinda funny, don't you think?”

“Certainly not!”

“But it is funny.” Lily spoke up and the rest of the
chatter died down. “It's really hilarious if you get the joke.” Her voice edged up. “Because Bruno knew I'd never been with anyone but him. Never.”

The room grew still as Lily blurted out more. “You'll go running around trying to ruin me and my reputation just to get his money. I expect that. But you won't be able to do it. Bruno is setting you all up.” Lily stood up. “Thank you for coming, Mark. And now, would the rest of you please leave my home.”

“You're not getting away with this bullshit!” Bru hissed at her. “It doesn't go down like that!”

Rosemary stood up, tapping sharply at Bru's leg. “We're going. Bru! Gray!” Her stern voice brought her sons to attention. “What can you expect from a pathetic old man who cared more about proving his virility than he did about taking care of his flesh-and-blood sons!”

As the strained party broke up, I could see ex-wife number two conferring with Mark Baker, perhaps the quicker to pay off her tab.

In the main hall, I tried the handle on the powder room door, opening it on a very startled Carmen Huntley. She was just standing there in the tiny garnet-colored room, staring at herself in the oval antique mirror, dissolved in tears.

Well, I had hoped to talk to her sometime in private. I stepped in and shut the door.

“Carmen! Guess the door was unlocked.” I smiled at her. She blinked fat tears down her perfect dark cheeks. “I've been meaning to ask you something.”

They say timing is everything.

“What are you doing here?” she sniffed. That could mean anything from what was I doing at this family disaster of a will reading to just a simple inquiry as to why I was invading the privacy of her restroom needs.

“I have a few questions about the party. Did you see Bruno drink cognac that night?”

“Yes. I got him a glass of his Armagnac after dinner.”

Simple as that.

“You got it yourself? From the liquor cabinet?”

“Yes.”

“What time was that, Carmen?”

“I don't know. Maybe eleven-thirty.” She stared at me.

“Were you with Bruno while he drank the brandy?”

She nodded.

“Did he seem okay?”

“Of course he was okay! I didn't poison Bruno. Is that what you think? We just talked.” More tears and more sobs.

“Care to tell me about it?”

“He and Gray had been fighting at dinner, so I wanted to see if I could smooth him over, you know?

“I found him at the dance tent. He said, ‘Carmenita, go get me my Armagnac like a good girl. Then we can talk.'”

She turned back to the mirror and dabbed a handkerchief gently under her eyes, perfectly catching the tears while protecting her mascara. “So what was I to do? I had to tramp all the way back to the house like a waitress. Your partner had the key, so I unlocked the cabinet and poured the drink. Just the way Bruno likes it.”

“How's that?”

“In a Baccarat brandy snifter, filled about a third…”

“That's right.” She had jogged my memory. He had liked to warm it between his hands, and then just nurse it forever.

“…and warmed against my thigh,” she finished.

“Excuse me?”

“You knew Bruno pretty well, didn't you?” She looked at me through thick black lashes. Although her makeup had been carefully tended, her huge dark eyes were red from crying.

The door opened abruptly, and Deborah seemed startled to find Carmen and me chatting in the loo.

“Oh, dear,” she offered.

“I've got to go.” Carmen stepped out into the foyer.