Dial H for Hitchcock (5 page)

I
t poured the whole walk home.

Gambino once told me that sudden October rain marked the tail end of a hurricane. It would fall fast and furious for a while, then die down just as quickly.

He knew about things like that.

That lightning is three times hotter than the surface of the sun.

That the average person falls asleep in seven minutes.

That I fall asleep in less than four. He said he’d timed me, even though he already knew I wasn’t average.

When I got home, I realized I’d forgotten my key. It was that kind of day. Week. Okay, year. I reached into the flowerpot by the front door, pulled out the spare key, shook off the dirt, and let myself in.

Stopping to pull a fresh towel out of the hall cupboard, I went into the bedroom, where I peeled off my little-black-dress-
except-it’s-a-sodden-dishrag and tugged on a pair of blue jeans and a T-shirt. I was about to put on a pot of coffee when I noticed that the light on my phone machine was blinking.

I froze.

The lady detectives.

They’d figured out my statement was a lie.

Then I remembered that the cops don’t call first. They just show up with handcuffs and a warrant.

However, it turned out the message was from Bachelor Number One.

His name was Ben McAllister and he wanted to see me.

Unfortunately, all I wanted to do was go to sleep for the next hundred years, with a forest of briars around my house that no one could penetrate without facing certain death in the thorns. Maybe Javier could arrange that.

The doorbell rang.

I looked through the peephole.

Bachelor Number Two. Connor. This was getting confusing.

“Hi,” I said.

“Can I come in for a second?” He had an anxious look on his face.

“Sure,” I said, opening the door.

He bypassed the white chaise this time and took a seat on the couch.

I sat down opposite him and waited.

He rubbed his hands on his jeans.

“Would you like something to drink?” I asked.

“Nope,” he said, kicking one shoe with the other.

“Hungry?”

“I had lunch a little while ago.” He was staring at the floor. “Nice of you to offer.”

“What?” I asked sharply.

“Is there anything you want to tell me?” He finally looked up.

“Not really.” I rose to my feet. “Actually, there is. I want you to go home so I can take a nice, hot bath in peace.”

“The cops were here,” he said.

I was right. They don’t call. They just show up.

“What on earth are you talking about?” I went into the kitchen and pulled out the coffee pot, poured the old coffee into the sink, rinsed out the pot, and filled it with fresh water.

“They were asking all kinds of questions about you.” Connor followed me into the kitchen.

“Asking who?” I washed this morning’s grounds out of the filter and spooned in enough for a full pot.

“Jilly, me, the guys. I saw them at your door a little before they came over, then when they didn’t get an answer, they went to the back and looked around for a while.”

“Since when do you keep tabs on who comes and goes at my house, Connor?”

Ignoring my question, he said, “They rang our bell, wanted to know if we’d seen you today, or if we’d noticed anything suspicious about your activities, stuff like that.”

“And Jilly ratted me out, right? Said I was a master criminal whose presence on the block was bringing down property values?”

“Not exactly.”

“What then?”

“She used the word ‘strange.’”

“Strange?” I slammed down the coffee pot and hit the on switch. “I was being facetious.”

“She said you don’t even seem to live here.”

“That’s ridiculous. I’ve been away. In the Caribbean.”

“On vacation?”

“On my honeymoon.”

His mouth fell open. “Are you
married?”

I sighed.

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“It’s a no. I’m not married. I went on my honeymoon by myself, okay? It’s a long story.”

“Can I tell Jilly?”

I stared at him. “Tell her whatever you want. She’s not going to care. She hates me.”

“That isn’t exactly true.”

“I don’t get it. I’m a good neighbor. I’m friendly. I don’t complain about loud parties or barking dogs. Okay, so I could’ve gone over there with a Bundt cake when she moved in, but the truth of the matter is, I don’t own a Bundt pan!” I collapsed onto the kitchen chair.

Connor crouched down in front of me so we were eye to eye.

“What is it?” I asked wearily.

“What’s up with your tennis shoes?”

Nothing was up with them. I’d worn them to the hiking trail. They’d gotten filthy, and I’d kicked them off before coming inside. I got up, pushed him out of the way, ran to the front door, threw it open. My tennis shoes were exactly where I’d left them the day before.

“Look!” I said, picking them up. “They’re just ordinary,
messed-up tennis shoes. A little wet, maybe. Why are you asking about them?”

“Because the cops were taking pictures of them.”

Of course they were. They’d found footprints up by the crime scene. They wanted to compare them to my shoes. How easy I’d made it for them. They hadn’t even needed a search warrant. And they were going to get a match.

Whoever set me up knew exactly what kind of tennis shoes I wore.

Whoever set me up had been watching me.

God.

“You have to leave now, Connor,” I said. “I have somewhere I have to be.”

“I thought you wanted to take a bath.”

“I changed my mind.”

“Don’t you ever sit still?”

“It’s important to stay active.”

“Are you going to be okay?” he asked. “You need anything?”

“How about a new identity? You think your CIA buddies can arrange something?”

“Is it that bad?”

“I’m kidding,” I said. “Really. I’ll see you later. Please?”

I waited a few minutes, then peeked out the stained-glass window in the living room to make sure he was gone.

Ten minutes later, I was parked in front of the Andalusia Apartments at 1475 Havenhurst Avenue.

According to her driver’s license, the dead woman’s last known address.

W
ith its red tiled roof, carved wooden balustrades, and ornate, star-shaped fountain, the Andalusia was one of the most beautiful courtyard complexes built in West Hollywood in the twenties.

As I walked across the rain-slicked brick auto court, I imagined the starlet who might have lived here back then. Going to the studio every day, hoping to catch Louis B. Mayer’s eye. Living on tinned peas. And then, one day, running up the tiled staircase, elated, because it had finally happened: she was going to be cast opposite Clark Gable, and every night for the rest of her life she’d be living it up at Mogambo’s, or the Brown Derby, or Chasen’s.

I wondered if Anita had been a dreamer, too. Dreamers usually get the short end of the stick.

Suddenly, the French doors on the second floor loggia flew open and a young woman with a cap of neon yellow hair cried, “Here, kitty, kitty! Here, kitty, kitty!”

Something black crossed my path.

“Excuse me,” she called down to me, “can you grab him? He can’t be outside. It’s October!”

“Come to Cece,” I murmured, bending down to pick up the four-legged vagabond. “There, now. Mommy’s coming.”

The woman came tearing down the stairs. She was barefoot, clad in tight black leggings and a Metallica T-shirt, and tiny, like her cat.

“Hello, my love.” She scooped the furry creature out of my arms. “Thank you so much. You know, the shelters declare a moratorium on black cat adoptions this time of year. The Satanists and all.” She actually looked at me for the first time, “Oh! Hi! I mean, oh, God, what can I say?”

“Excuse me?” I said.

She shook her head, her hair shimmying like fringe. “Life’s a bitch and then you die. At least Charley here has nine lives, don’t you, baby? Anyway, I can’t get over it.” She opened her eyes wide, then peeled off her eyelashes. “Sorry. Didn’t get a chance to take them off last night.” She tucked them inside the pocket of her leggings. “Can you?”

“Can I what?”

“Get over it. You heard, right? That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

Ah. She thought I was a friend of Anita’s. Paying my respects. “Yes. That’s why I’m here.”

She nodded, pursing her lips. I guess it was still my turn.

“It was so unfair,” I said.

“Unfair is right.” She sat down on the edge of the fountain and patted the roughly cut white stone. “It’s not wet. You can sit.”

“Thanks,” I said, taking a seat next to her.

“What’s so awful is I was just getting to know her. Anita was great. I could tell her anything. And vice versa.”

I nodded. “A girl needs someone to confide in.”

“Damn straight,” she said, stroking Charley’s fur. “Especially in this town. I’m from Ohio, and let me tell you, the people out here are total freaks. But she wasn’t like that.”

“No,” I agreed.

“She was from the Midwest, for chrissakes! And after all that shit with her ex. And then the credit cards. And then the bank. She was just getting out from under, taking her life back, you know?” She shook her head. “But what am I telling you for? You were so close. Like Siamese twins.”

Siamese twins? “You really think so?”

She looked puzzled. “Well, of course. You came over, like, every night and sat in her apartment right over there, drinking your cranberry martinis or whatever, talking girl talk. I was a little jealous, to be honest.”

I’d never been to Anita Colby’s apartment before. I’d never even had a cranberry martini. She was lying. But why?

“But I’m kind of busy most nights anyway,” she went on. “I’m in a band. Kiki Madu? I’m the only one who’s not Japanese. It’s not like I’ve ever been much of a girl’s girl anyway. I have four brothers.”

Maybe she wasn’t lying.

Maybe they’d planted someone who looked like me as part of the set-up.

Or they’d picked me because I looked like somebody who was already close to Anita.

“I have two brothers,” I said. “Richie and James Jr.”

She smiled. “They teach you to catch a ball and all that?”

“Oh, yeah. It was great.” My brothers had never wanted the slightest thing to do with me. I was the alien with big hair.

“Yeah,” she said. “I miss home.”

“Poor Anita,” I said, reaching over to scratch Charley behind the ears, “never getting to go home.”

“Never getting to see her mom again.”

“Awful.”

“And that dreadful ex.”

“Hoo boy,” I said, looking right at her. “Worked at that insurance company, wore those dreadful ties. What a controlling—”

“Yikes,” she said, bending down. She pulled one of her eyelashes off a moss-covered brick. “Slippery little buggers. No, not him. He must be another ex I didn’t hear about. No, I meant the one who works at the used car dealership. Out in Bakersfield? That’s the creep I meant.”

“Oh,
him,
” I said. “
He
was in a class by himself.”

“Those letters he wrote,” she said.

“They were something all right.”

“Anyway, I should go,” she said, standing up. She had a tattoo on each ankle. A fairy and Betty Boop. “I only came down to get Charley. I’ve got some people waiting up in my apartment, and they must be done with their coffee by now. Two detectives, can you believe it? Knockouts. They look like they should have their own cop show or something.”

Whoops.

I leapt to my feet and started for the exit.

She wheeled around. “Actually, do you want to come up
and talk to them? I mean, you knew Anita a lot better than I did. You might be able to help.”

“Help? With what exactly?”

“The case.”

“I heard it was an accident,” I said, trying to keep the edge out of my voice. “That she fell.”

“I don’t know about that. They’re talking murder.”

Jesus.

“At least that’s what I’m hearing. But maybe I’m wrong. The whole thing’s kind of like freaking me out, to be perfectly honest.” She shivered dramatically.

I pulled out my brand-new BlackBerry and pretended to check my messages. “Oh, man. I was hoping this wouldn’t—listen, I’ve gotta run.” I looked at my watch. “I’d like to help, but I’ve got this work thing, and I’ve got less than half an hour to get downtown.”

“Yeah. I know. I’m supposed to go to rehearsal, but these cops say they need like an hour of my time. They’ve got a whole list of questions. Not that I’m about to feel sorry for myself. Not after what just happened to my friend.”

I watched her go back up the stairs with Charley and close the French doors.

When the coast was clear, I broke into Anita Colby’s apartment.”

B
reaking in may be overstating it a bit. The door to Anita’s apartment was ajar, so I pushed the rubbed brass knob and let myself in.

Another person might have wondered why the door to a recent murder victim’s apartment wasn’t sealed with police tape, much less bolted nine ways to Sunday, but another person probably wouldn’t have been in this particular situation to begin with, so there’s no point going down that road. Closing the door behind me, I slipped out of my ballet flats and put them in my purse. Then I tiptoed into the living room.

It looked like a movie set.

There were Oriental rugs on the dark hardwood floors, a folding peacock screen that made me think of Gloria Swanson, a persimmon satin chaise, a plum crushed-velvet settee, embossed leather ottomans, and hanging Moroccan
lanterns with panes of multicolored glass. Two wrought-iron candelabras flanked either side of a baby grand piano, over which hung a portrait of a dark-haired woman in an antique gold frame.

I wanted the name of the set decorator.

Not that he or she would have been happy to see fried eggs on the coffee table with a cigarette stubbed out in them.

Or the half-empty wineglass with the dead fly floating in it.

Or the bouquet of white flowers, which must’ve looked beautiful once, but were now browned at the edges.

The kitchen was an unfortunate seventies redo with dark wood paneling, harvest gold linoleum, and fruit-themed wallpaper. The refrigerator, however, was a brand-new Sub-Zero. Inside was beer, sour cream, lox, whole milk, bologna, diet soda, and plain nonfat yogurt. The pantry contained bagels, refried beans, tortilla chips, Slim Jims, calcium supplements, and chai tea bags.

Call me psychic, but I’d say Anita Colby had a boyfriend.

The telephone and answering machine were in the nook just outside the kitchen door. The red light was blinking.

Five messages.

I sat down on the little tufted stool and hit play.

Hi, it’s me. I’ve got to leave a little sooner than I thought. I’ll call you next week, when I’m settled. Don’t worry about your stuff. It’s in good hands. You can come get it whenever you want.

Cryptic.

Next message.

It’s Tuesday at 6:00 p.m. I’m at Musso’s. Good thing they
make a decent martini because I’ve been fucking waiting here for at least a fucking hour! Where are you? Screw you. I’m done waiting. I’d be lying if I said you were worth it.

Nice.

Third message.

Hi, Anita. It’s Cece Caruso.

Oh, God.

Last night I was at the movies by myself. I don’t like to go to the movies by myself, but I’m on my own these days, if you know what I mean. Anyway, I really need you to call me. (323) 555–6480. I’m getting pretty frustrated.

Well, that certainly confirmed it. I was out of my mind. Couldn’t have sounded more unhinged if I’d tried. Like it would have killed me to have said, “Hello, I don’t know you, but I found a cell phone and you, Anita, are one of the calls dialed, so here I am, calling you now, to find out who the phone might belong to because I’m a Good Samaritan, which is the opposite of a murderer, in case you are listening to this, Detectives McQueen and Collins.” No, that would’ve made life too easy.

Fourth call.

Hi, babe. Are you okay? How’d it go? Give me a call. Bye. Love you.

So the creep cooling his heels at Musso’s, a famous old Hollywood watering hole I happened to love, had called early Tuesday evening. The woman with Anita’s stuff had to have called sometime before then. I’d called early Wednesday. This fourth person could have called Wednesday during the day, Wednesday night, or any time today. How did what go? The hike? Not well, obviously.

Fifth call.

Anita?

A man’s voice. Not the creep. Someone else. There was static on the line.

Anita? Pick up. It’s—

More static. I couldn’t make out the name.

I’m in Coldwater. Bad reception. Can you hear me? I’ll bet you’re listening. Anyways, in answer to your question, yes, I’ll have what you asked for with me, and I expect you to hold up your end of our…

Static again.

I suppose I deserve the shit raining down on me. But…you’re a piece of—

Whatever Anita was a piece of got lost somewhere over Coldwater Canyon. But the message got me thinking. I had no idea why Anita had been killed. Love gone bad had been my default motive, but according to Gambino, it’s not always love. Sometimes it’s money.

Blackmail would certainly be one way to pay for a Sub-Zero.

I moved down the hall to the bedroom, which looked like somebody had taken the entire contents of Bloomingdale’s and dumped it on the floor.

Anita? Or somebody else?

Cops don’t make that kind of mess.

The bed was unmade. White sheets, high thread count, half ripped off the mattress. I hoped the last night of Anita’s life had been filled with wild sex, not bad dreams.

There was nothing much underneath the bed. A stained T-shirt. Dust balls. A jump rope.

I rose to my feet.

Aha.

A desk.

Desks are important places.

Desks are where people keep things.

This one was ersatz Chippendale, with ornate legs, fretwork, and gold leaf. The surface was covered with pages torn out of magazines. There were pictures of watches on most of them. Expensive watches. Gold Rolexes and Omegas and Cartier tank watches modeled by beautiful tennis players with impressive serves. Maybe the boyfriend who liked bedsheet-ripping sex and Slim Jims was the generous sort.

The desk had only one drawer. I slid it open. Then I closed it with my elbow. I was out of my mind. I needed gloves. The last thing I needed to do was leave fingerprints.

Back in the kitchen, I opened the cabinet under the sink and found a dozen pairs of rubber gloves, all white. Anita must’ve liked a clean kitchen. I slid a pair on. They were too big, but I wasn’t complaining.

The last time I’d worn white gloves was junior prom. They were silk, full-length, and crushed slightly at the wrist. My gown was red chiffon, with a matching shawl. I’d wanted to wear lavender, but my mother talked me out of it, claiming that psychologists had proven that the majority of men do not like the purple family.

I took a seat at the desk and resumed the search.

Inside the drawer was a stack of take-out menus: Thai, Vietnamese, Cambodian, Indian, Brazilian.

Then there were catalogs: Bliss Spa, Harry & David, Robert Redford’s Sundance catalog, where you could buy a
high mountain earflap hat, a vintage Tyrolean sled, or a set of peace-sign coffee mugs.

A huge pile of credit-card solicitations. Anita must’ve been a pack rat.

Some change-of-address forms. Maybe she was planning to move.

At last. Her Filofax.

I flipped it open to the week of October 22.

And there it was.

Wednesday, October 26th, 5:00 p.m.

It was marked with the letter
B.

That was no help.

B
for Beachwood Canyon?

Or
B
for the bastard who killed her?

Shit.

I looked up.

Someone was at the front door.

Diving into the Bloomingdale’s pile was an option, but I worried about suffocation.

There were footsteps in the hallway now.

I dashed into the closet, pulled the accordion doors shut, and squeezed my eyes shut.

This was the scary part of the movie.

Like when the heroine decides to get out of the car along the deserted highway even though everybody knows the psycho killer is waiting for her behind a bush with a hatchet.

Or when the beautiful lady detectives who are supposed to be upstairs drinking coffee come wandering down the hallway to catch the falsely accused killer as she tries to abscond with
clues as to the real killer’s identity, while wearing the dead woman’s rubber gloves.

Or worse yet, when the guy being blackmailed breaks into the person’s apartment to destroy the evidence against him but winds up killing an innocent, barefoot bystander with big brown hair and a pageant-worthy smile.

The footsteps were in the bedroom now.

Something was clawing at the doors to the closet.

I held my breath. It was only a matter of time. I looked around wildly. Could you impale someone with a hanger?

“Charley?”

I heard meowing.

“Come here, you bad boy. Let’s go back upstairs. I can’t have you wandering around the dead lady’s apartment.”

His nails scratched against the wooden floor as she swooped him up.

“But first, let’s grab that bottle of Chardonnay out of her fridge. She can’t drink it anymore, can she? No reason it should go to waste.”

That made two times Charley had crossed my path in one day. Like I needed more bad luck.

I waited until I heard them close the front door, then I made a run for it.

Back at home, I had another message from Bachelor Number One.

Who happened to be named Ben.

Which starts with a
B.

Ben had been at the theater that night. He could’ve easily dropped the phone in my purse. He could’ve set this whole thing up.

But
B
could just as easily stand for bald.

Or blonde in a robin’s-egg blue dress, for that matter.

Before I drove myself completely crazy, I returned Ben’s call and suggested we meet for dinner the following night at Musso’s. The idea was to kill two birds with one stone. Plus I remembered how delicious their pork chops were.

What I forgot, however, was that multitasking is not for the faint of heart.