The Monet Murders (21 page)

“As sure as I can be.”

“All right.”

“How do you feel?”

“Not too bad. A little sore.”

“How was class? Did the instructor make a fuss about Rex not being there?”

“A little. But I did what you said. I told him I hadn't seen him. That I drove my boyfriend's car to class this morning.”

“Good. Did he notice the bruise?”

“Yes, but I told him what you said. He seemed to accept it.”

“How about a glass of wine?”

“Yes. And then I want to go to sleep and sleep until noon.”

“Yes. You've earned it.”

“Will you stay with me?”

“Of course.”

I didn't know whether she meant for this evening or for the long term. But it didn't matter, anyway. Not right now.

CHAPTER NINE

I
spent the weekend at Myrtle's house, cooking her food and delivering it to her in bed. She seemed to be recovering, physically and—especially—psychologically. On Sunday afternoon, I found out why.

“How do you feel—about what happened to Rex?” I asked. We had not talked directly about it.

She shrugged. “It is too bad, of course. But what else could I do?”

“Nothing, I suppose.” Of course, we knew she could have refrained from bashing him, and equally of course we should have called the cops, but that pair of horses had left the barn long ago.

“Shall I tell you something?” she asked, maybe with a certain amount of indecision.

“Sure.”

She didn't say anything.

“What is it, honey?”

She looked at me, and there were tears in her eyes. “This is not the first time this has happened to me.”

“What do you mean?”

“In the old country, one day a gang of Serbs came to our village.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Yes. We were always fighting with them, you know. They are beasts, like the Russians. Worse than Russians, really.”

“What happened?”

“They came to steal and they came to rape and to kill. They started shooting many of the men and dragging the women into the streets. Everyone was screaming. The noise of the screaming and shooting was terrifying. My father told me to run away. I ran into the woods, but one of the Serbs followed me, and . . . well, you can imagine the rest.”

“Yes.”

“And when he had finished I grabbed a rock and hit him, more than once. I don't remember how many times. But many. And when he was lying there unconscious, I took his knife from his belt and . . . well, I made sure it was the end of him. I hid in the woods until the Serbs had gone and then went back to the village. That was how my parents died. Not from disease. Not the way I told you. But from being shot. My mother, even worse. I didn't want to tell you this before. Maybe I didn't want to think about it. Or remember it.”

“I can understand why.”

“But now you can understand that I feel very little, almost nothing, about what happened to Rex. It was like being back in my village again, being attacked for no reason.

“It is too bad it happened with Rex,” she continued. “But I know I can live with the memory. I have done it before, so I know.”

“It's a bad story,” I said.

“Yes. I am glad I told you.”

“I am too.” It explained a lot. Two rapes, two dead rapists, two cases of self-defense. That was more than enough for any woman to have to endure, and yet she had done it. With her history, it was a wonder she was so giving and passionate with me.

“You know, it's amazing to me that you and I can have such. . . .”

“Such fine times in bed?”

“Yes.”

“It's not so amazing. Don't you remember that we are half in love? That is what makes the difference.” She smiled, teasing.

I put my arms around her and felt something I had not felt before. A bond? A connection? Something stronger than friendship or the desire to look after her. Something more.

“How would it be if we were all the way in love?” I whispered to her, smelling her dark hair.

“Who knows?” she asked. “Maybe we will find out. But we must wait a little while longer. I want you, but we must wait.”

I nodded. I wanted her more than anything just then, knowing that it was impossible.

On Monday, Myrtle called the studio to pick her up for class, and I went to my office. Della was there, cigarette dangling, right eye watering. She was banging away at her Underwood.

“Mornin', chief,” she said.

“Mornin', loyal employee. How's the novel coming?”

“Not bad. I'm doing a chapter about how the smart-aleck detective got his shorts in a wringer trying to cover up a killing.”

“Did he have any accomplices?”

“A couple of shady characters and one glamorous middle-aged woman with henna-colored hair.”

“Does she smoke Pall Malls?”

“Practically non-stop.”

“I look forward to reading it.” I often wondered what Della was really writing. I knew it wasn't a detective novel. Much later, I learned it had something to do with her escort business. I guess there was a fair amount of paperwork involved, though I can't imagine what it might have been. Maybe carefully worded blackmail notes. “Anybody call?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. Ethel Welkin.”

“Did she say what she wanted?”

Della looked up and smirked. “Lube, oil, and filter?”

“Very droll. Any other calls?”

“Yeah. A guy named Charles Watson. Name mean anything?”

“Yes. Any message?”

“Just that he wants you to call him back. He sounded as if he thought he was important. You know the type.”

“All too well.”

I went into my office and dialed the number Della had given me.

A gruff voice answered: “Charles Watson.”

“Mr. Watson, this is Bruno Feldspar.”

“Ah. Good. I have a little mystery on my hands.”

That was understating it by a fair amount, it seemed. But I let it go.

“Yes?”

“I have been going through my late wife's checkbook. I suppose you have read the papers and seen that she was killed by an intruder.”

“I saw that report, yes.” He did not seem broken up about it, or even a little dented. But it was interesting, if not particularly useful, to know how he was interpreting what happened to his wife and her boyfriend.

“Anyway, in looking through her checkbook, I see here a check for two hundred and fifty dollars written to you. I'd like to know what it was for.”

“That's understandable.”

“You are a private detective, I believe. I looked you up in the Yellow Pages.”

“That's right. And I was working on a case for your wife.”

“I'm not sure I like the sound of that.”

“I think you'll feel better when you know the details. Suppose we get together.”

“Yes. Come to my office this afternoon at two.” He gave me the address. It was a fancy one. Then he hung up.

I never did like taking orders, and I felt pretty certain I wouldn't like this guy. As it turned out, I was right.

Around lunchtime, I met Ethel at the Beverly Hills Hotel. She felt nostalgic about the place, because it was at the Polo Lounge there that we'd first met. At the time, I'd been going by the name of Victor Raskolnikov, a Polish poet. There's no sense going into why; it seemed to be a good idea at the time. Anyway, Ethel quickly figured out that my only link to Poland was growing up in a tiny Ohio farm town by that name. And she had read
Crime and Punishment
, so she sniffed a fraud from day one. But instead of being annoyed at the pathetic deception, she thought it was funny, and that's how we started whatever it was we had. It was nothing more than friendship sprinkled by a little passion—pretty strong physical passion on her part and the mildest sort of passion on mine, hardly worth the name. A moralist might say that I was using her in exchange for favors in Hollywood—access to potential clients and that sort of thing. And I suppose there's some truth in that. But any moralist who could be a fly on the wall during our afternoon gallops would have second thoughts about who was using whom.

So we had a quick roll in the hay—Ethel's efficiency in these matters was one of her strongest attributes—and then an even quicker lunch in the Polo Lounge. Ethel as usual opted for something in which the primary ingredient was garlic, while I went for a mushroom omelet with pommes frites, lightly salted, because they reminded me of a French woman I had met the first time I was in California. Her name was Dany and the memory of her was still bright, even though she had given up trying to make it in the movies and had gone home to France to marry a doctor. Or maybe it was a dentist. That might have turned into
something special if she had stayed around a little longer. But she hadn't. Too bad. She was beautiful and had the most charming accent.

“How's Myrtle these days?” Ethel asked between bites of pastrami and a dill pickle that had its own, almost visible, atmosphere.

“Okay. She's enjoying her acting class.”

“Good. You know, I think she has the ‘it,' as they call it. She reminds me of Garbo. Not so much in her looks—which are frankly better—but in her aura. She gives off a complicated message.”

“I agree.”

“She's going to be a star, you watch.”

“I hope so. She's been through a lot. She deserves the chance.”

“She's going to get it, believe me. Manny is almost never wrong when it comes to spotting ‘it.' She just needs to keep her nose clean—which means that you and she had better be pretty damned discreet.”

“I understand.” And, boy, did I.

“They're going to turn her into a virgin, you know.”

“I heard. It's remarkable, the things Hollywood can do.”

“Tell me about it.”

“What happened with that other one I sent you?” I asked. “Rita Lovelace.”

“Isadore tested her, and she came across pretty well.” Isadore was Ethel's husband, a big-time producer. “He's going to offer her a contract. Nothing elaborate, but worth having. She'll go into the studio stable. She has potential; but, unlike your Myrtle, she doesn't quite have ‘it.' Not yet, anyway. It's the difference between a headliner and the girls
in the chorus. But you never know, Rita may develop into something. I doubt she'll have to become a virgin, though.”

“I'm glad. She's been working on the fringes for a while now and was just about ready to give up.”

“Getting tired of banging assistant producers?”

“And their nephews.”

“What's her real name, by the way?”

“I think it's Isabelle Fern.”

“No wonder she changed it. How'd you run into her?”

“By accident. I've been working on a case involving stolen art, and she happened to have some information. I traded her a phone call to you for the information. Which reminds me, do you know a guy named Charles Watson?”

“The real estate developer?”

“Maybe. I don't know what he does, but I have the impression that he's wealthy.”

“Yeah, he is, if it's the same guy. He likes to play cards with Isadore and a few of the other big players in town. Isadore loves it when he shows up for the game because he's such a lousy poker player. Watson, I mean. There's nothing like taking money from the goyim. At least that's what Izzy says.”

“Did I ever mention I was a Presbyterian?”

“I don't mind. I don't have Izzy's prejudice. Besides, I'm not taking any money from you.”

“Watson's a steady loser?”

“Big-time.”

“Do Isadore and his crowd ever go out on the gambling ships, or are the card games all in the comfort of someone's mansion?”

“It varies. Sometimes they go out there in a party. The guy who runs the
Lucky Lady
hangs around Hollywood because
of the glamour. It gives him a cheap thrill when the movers and shakers call him by his first name. He goes out of his way for them. It wouldn't surprise me if he didn't spice things up with a little female talent, just for variety.”