Sympathy for the Devil (8 page)

My breath quickened. “What else did Bruno say? Tell me the exact words.”

“He say, ‘
Feliz, feliz! Maleficio
.' And then again he say ‘
feliz
.' It is just the same like I tell you over and over again.”

But it was, of course, completely different. Rosa had misunderstood. In Spanish, the word for happy is
feliz
, and so she'd thought Bruno must be saying he was happy. But her words about a curse jogged my memory. Bruno had not been happy to die. He must have been talking instead about Los Feliz, these hills where he lived.

According to legend, a curse was placed on Los Feliz a century ago. Today, the Curse of Los Feliz is no more than a tall tale told to neighborhood children by the few parents who are even aware of it. I now believed that as Bruno fell dying on Halloween night, he must have used his final painful breaths to speak of this long-forgotten curse.

But why?

B
ack at my house, I left the Wagoneer in the driveway. I let myself in the front door, and found a note from Holly. “Gone to Western with the costumes. Be back at 5. How about dinner? P.S. No word from Wes.”

I had to find him. For one thing, I needed his help in sorting through all the information that was coming at me.

I was fuzzy on the details of the Curse of Los Feliz and I couldn't remember where I'd heard about it. Wes might know. I dimly recalled us talking about it back when Wes was handling Bruno's land deal. Yes! That was it!

Hell. Just as I manage to get Wesley out of the Calphalon he seems to land in the fire. Where was he?

I walked into the kitchen, flipped on the light, and immediately felt the stiffness that had clawed at my neck all afternoon start to ease. This kitchen always had that effect on me.

The shiny tiled walls, grouted checkerboards of white on white, were clean and practical, while the dull gleam of brushed stainless steel on the Viking range and the Traulsen refrigerator were pure industrial luxury. Through the glass doors of the restaurant refrigerator, ceramic bowls of red peppers and yellow crookneck squash and bunches of bright green cilantro were on display. My kind of art. The worn butcher block and old marble counters were discards from a turn-of-the-century Pasadena bakery. I loved the feel of the warm wood and cool marble. My studio: where I
could invent recipes, create dishes, nourish body and soul.

I craved comfort food, so I decided to make polenta. The old-fashioned way. Call me a masochist.

Preparing polenta is a simple affair, really. Three commonplace ingredients and a few easy techniques. But it's the merciless hand-beating of the cornmeal and water and salt that has for centuries given Sicilian housewives triceps of steel.

I pulled down a favorite old French copper stockpot, deep and heavy, put it over a burner, and waited for thirteen cups of salted water to come to a boil.

Time to find Wes. I pulled a tall stool up to the counter next to the stove. I dialed his mother in Arizona.

“Madeline? What's wrong?”

I heard the concern in Doris Westcott's voice. She lived alone in a huge, new Southwestern-style home on one of those unnaturally perfect golf courses they've built in the desert all around Scottsdale.

“I have to find Wes. It's nothing to worry about. Just some business stuff. Do you know where he is?”

“Well, he called here about an hour ago, honey. I thought he sounded upset. Have you kids had a fight?”

“No, no. Nothing like that Mrs. W.” I couldn't be sure, but I suspected that Wes's mom thought we were a couple.

“I think I know where you can find him.”

“Great.” I felt a rush of relief.

“Perhaps, dear, it would be best for me to try to get him and that way he can call you…”

“Well, thanks, Mrs. W. I don't want to put you to any trouble. Maybe you could give me the…”

“This isn't some sort of lover's quarrel?”

“No.” She had a lot to learn about her son, I sighed.

“Okay, honey. We'll work this out.”

My water was boiling and here's where things can get hairy, polenta-wise. I had learned the traditional trick of adding the cornmeal by the fistful, letting it trickle between almost closed fingers in a fine golden stream, while whisking constantly, to prevent lumps.

I found my container of stone-ground yellow cornmeal and measured out four cups. Then I shook my clenched fist over the pot as I sifted and whisked, sifted and whisked. And I thought about what I hadn't disclosed to the police.

It's just that everything kept pointing to Wes. Like the idea I'd been toying with of the poison being slipped into Bruno's brandy. I knew Bruno's drinking habits a little better, in actual fact, than I had led on to old Richie McGee.

Bruno did drink only brandy after a meal, as I'd reported, but it was a waste of time for the police to test the bottles from the bar. Bruno would never have touched the brandy intended for his guests. Only the very best of the best Armagnac would pass his lips. And I was beginning to believe it just may have killed him.

Bruno had become fascinated by the 1962 vintage Armagnac from Larressingle, one of the oldest firms in Gascony. Naturally, this kind of spirit costs a bundle. The Larressingle was $150 a pop, and Bruno boasted that he'd cellared a dozen cases. It was his habit to keep a bottle locked in his private liquor cabinet in the butler's pantry. Bruno, with a large staff and a small child, had liked the idea of locks and keys.

If the poison was in Bruno's brandy, it had to be from that locked-up bottle of Larressingle Armagnac, vintage 1962. I recalled that for last night's party, the ring containing all the keys to the house, including the ones to the wine cellar and the liquor cabinet, had been given to us early in the day. And they had been held by Wes.

The polenta was getting thicker. Careful whisking had kept the cornmeal smooth but now the real work began. I turned the heat down to medium-low, switched to a wooden spoon, and began to stir.

The phone rang. Mrs. Westcott.

“Madeline, this is odd. I was sure Wes said he was staying at his favorite hotel…”

“The Ritz-Carlton in Laguna?”

“Yes. Well, I called and tried to get him, like you asked. But it turns out I was wrong. He did tell me he was staying
at his favorite hotel, Madeline, but he wasn't at the Ritz-Carlton.”

Where are you Wesley? I changed the phone to my right ear, and shifted my wooden spoon to my left hand. That felt better.

“Thanks, Mrs. W. I'll find him.”

Wasn't I the woman who always met a challenge? Didn't I profess to love a good mystery? Well, here was a chance to prove I was up to it. Maybe Wes had registered under a false name, or maybe…

I remembered Mal.

“Ark Animal Hospital,” a young woman's voice purred in my ear.

“Yes, great. This is Madeline Bean, and my partner, Wes Westcott asked me to check on Mal, his springer spaniel. Could you tell me how she's doing?”

“Just a moment,” she said and she put me on hold.

A dull ache had seized up my left arm and, while I listened to “Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head,” I switched sides again; phone to left ear, spoon to right hand. I looked up at the clock. I'd only been stirring for ten minutes.

“What was your name again?” the voice asked.

“Madeline Bean.”

“Mal is fine, Miss Bean. But Mr. Westcott told us you wouldn't be picking her up until tomorrow. Is that still your plan?”

Yowza!

“Uh, yep. That's right.” So Wes had brought his dog to the vet to have her boarded while he was away. I felt a flush of victory. It sounded like Wes had been planning to leave Mal with me. I always looked after her when he traveled.

I figured a bit further. When he called earlier, I had already left the house for my lunch date with Lizzie, so he took her to the kennel until he could reach me. That made sense. I was sure if I had been home he would have told
me everything. Wesley wasn't running away from me. So no need to panic.

“By the way, did he leave a number where you could reach him in an emergency?”

“555–2010,” she read to me quickly.

That was my number.

“Any other notes?”

“That's all that's on the card,” she said sweetly. This call was just about over.

“It's just that I've got to find Wes…” I was running out of anything rational to add, and just began to blither. “…and he is supposed to call me, but I may be out when he does, and it's about Mal's special food…”

“You just wait a minute. I'll ask Francine. She was here when Mr. Westcott brought Mal in.” And once again I was listening to “Raindrops.” Considering the extra effort I'd just inspired, I must make a note to stop trying to sound so competent all the time.

The polenta was a thick, sticky, golden mush and weighed a ton, but I kept at it. I was entering a kind of Zen state of stirring.

“Miss Bean. You know what? Francine says Mr. Westcott was going to the desert. How about that? See, we don't really have any room for last-minute boarding, especially on a weekend like this. But Mr. Westcott said how it was he had this urgent business in the desert and how you'd be picking up Mal as soon as he could reach you. So Francine said yes. Does that help you at all?”

The desert. In California, that meant Palm Springs. Quick switch of hands, phone to right, dialing; spoon to left, stirring.

“This is Rita. What city, please?”

“Rancho Mirage,” I said rapidly. “The Ritz-Carlton?”

After noting the recorded number, I dialed it and asked for Wes. I was betting that a man who loved the feel of Ritz-Carlton towels after a dip in the pool in Laguna Niguel would find them just as plush while drying off on the outskirts of Palm Springs.

“Mr. Westcott? One moment, please.” I heard the line connect and ring through to a room.

I grinned. I had done it. Tracked him down and it had only taken thirty-five minutes. Not bad.

“I'm sorry, there's no answer. Is there a message?”

“Could you connect me to the health club?” I countered. Faint victory if I couldn't get him on the line. I knew my quarry. I'd track him through his favorite little luxuries, even if I had to be transferred all over the damn hotel. I was going to nail him.

“Spa,” a deep male voice answered.

“Does Wesley Westcott have a massage scheduled today? This is his…wife.”

“Umm, yeah. He's here now. He's in room two with Theo.”

“It's an emergency. Please tell him it's about Mal and get him to the phone right away.”

“Just a moment, Mrs. Westcott.”

I waited, listening to Chopin—it appears I'd earned a muzak upgrade—and counted the strokes I was stirring in the polenta. I had gotten to thirty-three when Wes's voice came across the line.

Victory.

“Wesley Westcott get dressed. We have got to talk.”

“Madeline! I've left messages. Where have you been?”

“After my brush against the thorny backside of the law, I have been trying to figure out who the hell killed Bruno Huntley.”

“I'm standing at the spa reception desk wearing a sheet. I'll call you back…”

“Oh, no you don't. I've been through hell trying to find you and I have fifteen more minutes of stirring polenta, so park it in a chair and tell me why you ran off.”

“I was trying to keep you out of this mess.” He sighed. “You have permission to remind me to keep my mouth shut. Ordinarily, talking about what an asshole Bruno is can be a popular conversation starter. It's just that I was dishing the man at a rather bad time.”

“Wesley!” He had that familiar tone. He was not taking any of this at all seriously.

“Well, how was I to know he'd get popped off last night? Do you think I'd go around trashing the man if I was planning to murder him? It's ridiculous.”

“I know, Wes. But leaving town so suddenly only makes it look worse. Now they're going to think you ran away. I'm scared.”

“Well, honestly! Would I kill anyone? The police are so immature!” he groused. “Granted, I was annoyed at the bastard for ripping me off on that old land commission. But how would his death get me my money? It's not logical.”

His tone of voice changed. “The towels? I'm not sure I can help you.” He was speaking to someone at the spa.

“Wes.” I giggled. “Are you really sitting there in a sheet?”

“Hey, did you turn down the heat on the polenta? You want the cornmeal to taste toasty, not bitter.”

Wes and I could argue recipes for days, but on polenta we were both a bit old-fashioned. No instant mixes, no shortcuts.

“Leave me alone about the polenta. Look, I need you back here to help me figure this out. I've come up with some clues…”

“Oh, good. Clues!”

“Yes. But, oddly, they all seem to lead to you, my friend.”

“Me? Like what?”

“Like the strychnine that was used to poison Bruno? I'm getting an unsettling feeling it was put into the bottle of Armagnac that Bruno kept locked up for his special nightcaps.”

“In the Armagnac? Are you sure?” Wesley thought it over. “That would make certain sick sense. The killer had to know that sooner or later Bruno would take a drink from his precious bottle of Armagnac.”

“Sure. Everyone close to Bruno knew how he'd pour himself a snifter of brandy after dinner. And by poisoning
that one bottle, they could be pretty sure they'd only poison him.” It had been Bruno's inconsiderate habit to offer no one else a drink from his private bottle.

“Interesting,” Wes drawled.

“Then, assuming we're right about all this, the poison must have been placed in the Armagnac bottle some time after he took his last drink on the night before the party.”

“Of course.”

“But, Wes, it was right after that that Bruno gave his entire key ring to you.”

“Hmm.” He paused.

“Wes?”

“I'm thinking.”

“Good idea.”

“Keep stirring,” Wes chided me.

“Wesley!”

“I did lend the keys out to several people. And I'm sure Lily must have her own set of keys. And, for all we know, someone else might have made a duplicate of the liquor cabinet key at any time.”

“Of course, you're right. But tell me, who did you give the key ring to?”

“Well, I lent it to what's her name, the soothsayer, so she could lock up the guest cottage when she took a break. And then Alan needed the key to the wine cellar. I gave him the entire key ring when I asked him to get more champagne.”

“I don't expect it could be Alan,” I reflected. He'd been an employee of ours, off and on, since we'd started. However, lately, his acting career had been fairly active. We'd not seen him for months until this party. But now that I thought about it, I remembered that Alan had worked on one of Bruno's soap operas and been let go. Could he have a grudge big enough to kill the man? My head swirled. It was impossible to really know a person's heart, if they meant to keep it hidden.