Follow the Dotted Line (18 page)

“Sure,” he sighed.

“I found out what happened to Tilda’s other three husbands.”

“What?” He was instantly back on the case.

“I said I know what happened to her other husbands.”

“You found something I didn’t?”

“Uh huh. In the local papers where they lived.”

“What do you mean? What could you find in the local papers?”

“Obituaries.”

“No shit, Sherlock!” he blurted out, with unabashed admiration. “They’re all dead? All three of them?”

“All three of them.”

The whistle of air through his teeth was so loud that Andy pulled the phone from her ear. She took it as an ominous sign.

“What do you think?” she asked him.

“I think it’s damned weird. And I don’t get why I never found any death certificates.” His unexpected silence on the other end indicated just how seriously he was mulling things over. “Did the obituaries include funeral announcements?” he asked at last.

“No. No funerals. And they were all cremated.” Just like Mark, she reminded herself.

“I don’t get it,” he reiterated.

“I don’t get it, either,” Andy agreed. “Advice?”

“I’d stay the hell away from her. That’s my advice.”

“Right. But do you think I should try taking all this to the police?”

“Take what, Andy? And to which police department?” said the voice of experience. “Hell, you can’t even have the bodies exhumed.”

“What if she’s some kind of killer?”

“What if she isn’t? The real question is, can you prove anything? Do you have evidence of anything? And the answer is ‘no.’ Your Tilda is either damned clever or damned lucky—presuming these guys had any money. And in either case, you don’t want to get close enough to find out.”

“No, I don’t,” she said, thoughtfully. “But why do you think she’s in California?”

“Asked and answered,” he said, firmly. “Don’t know. Don’t want to. Let it go.”

“But don’t you think it’s suspicious—”

“Cha-ching,” he said sharply, cutting her off. “Or, in your case, cha-Ping. Job’s over and paid for. Let it go.”

Andy would have admired the pun if she weren’t so unnerved by the whole situation.

“Okay, Larry. And thanks again.”

“No problem. Maybe I’ll see you on the course sometime.”

“And we will know him by his Pings,” she quipped.

He laughed, which made her feel good for an instant. Then he hung up, which made her feel very, very conflicted.

Larry was absolutely right; she should let it go. She had no evidence Mark’s latest wife had done anything wrong. The woman could be completely innocent. And yet Andy loathed her. And it wasn’t a healthy loathing, either. It was an indignant, self-righteous contempt that made Andy feel superior to any woman who read palms for a living. Whatever the truth about her, Tilda Trivette brought out the worst in Andy, and Andy hated her for that, too.

Later that night, Andy found herself trying to remember something Mark used to say, one of the barbs he liked to throw at her when they were arguing. It always grabbed her like a flying fish hook, and she knew why. Deep down inside her emotional armor, she suspected it might be true.

“It’s hard to imagine,” he would observe with uncommon calmness and usually while nursing a Sam Adams, “just how wrong
somebody like you
can be, Andrea.”

It was the ‘somebody like you’ that really tore at her innards. What he meant was that Andy was judgmental and prejudiced and arrogant. Worse, she was all those things while claiming to be open-minded. “You’re just a Hollywood hypocrite,” he would sneer, “because you think you’re better than everybody else.”

For these reasons, it was nearly impossible for Andy to fall asleep that night. She rolled from side to side for more than an hour, trying to sort through her motives and convince herself that finding out what happened to Mark was none of her business. This whole thing just wasn’t her responsibility.

Finally, she got up and downed three melatonin. It took another hour, but the hormone did its job because she eventually found herself standing in one of those large wooden courtroom docks where criminals are confronted by their crimes. The place was packed.

On the witness stand was a young woman Andy had never seen before. Earnest, self-assured and utterly baffled, the elegant girl was telling the jury that it was all the result of a failure to communicate. If the defendant now standing in the dock had only made an effort to meet her, had only taken the time to get to know her, had bothered to ask her for the simple answers to the questions she had about her, then this could all have been avoided. Instead, Andrea Bravos had flown to Texas to harass her former neighbors, hired a private detective to pry into her personal accounts, violated her privacy, slandered her good name, and then—
then
she had the gall to call the police and accuse her of murder.

Andy couldn’t remember having called the police but wasn’t sure exactly how to object to the testimony.

“I don’t understand you, Andy,” said the young woman, verging on tears. “What have I ever done to you? How have I hurt you?”

Andy considered getting up to say something in her own defense but instantly forgot what she was going to say.

“And what did my other husbands ever do to deserve your anger?” the witness continued. “I loved those men. I cared for them. Just like I cared for—”

“Mark!” Andy shouted from the dock, as she jumped to her feet. That’s what she wanted to say. The point was that Mark was missing. “I did those things because I can’t find my husband!” she pleaded.

The courtroom let out a collective groan, as if they had heard the defendant excuse her offensive behavior by making this claim before.

“You mean your
ex-
husband, don’t you?” the young goddess reminded the gallery, as she scanned them with shimmering, innocent eyes.

The courtroom laughed, silencing Andy and mentally pushing her back down into her seat.

“Because Mark is my husband now, not yours,” the witness said. “But then maybe this isn’t really about Mark. Maybe this is really about you. Because you’re getting old, Andy. Doesn’t she look old, ladies and gentlemen of the jury?”

A murmur of agreement made its way through the jury box. The witness went on. “Perhaps this is a case of simple jealousy.”

Andy tried to stand again to object, but she was now tethered to the seat.

“After all, I
am
young enough to be your daughter.”

This set off another titter of amusement among the onlookers.

Andy pulled helplessly against the restraints and then roared in frustration. “I’m not jealous! And I’m not old!” she bellowed. “Why won’t you answer my question, you New Age charlatan?!”

The witness gasped, as if she’d taken a palm to the cheek. The courtroom recoiled in film noir horror.

“I’m sorry, Andy,” winced the woman in the witness box, struggling to recover from the undeserved blow. “Really. I didn’t mean to make you so angry. Now, what was your question again?”

The room sat in awed silence, marveling at the grace of such youth and beauty under fire.

The woman’s performance was pure melodrama, Andy knew, but the idiots in the jury box and gallery were eating it up. She had to muster some self-control if she wanted to save herself. “Please,” Andy said, miming respect and forcing a smile, “just tell the court where Mark is.”

All eyes focused on the witness, who blinked demurely. Hand to her trembling heart, she cleared her throat and then opened her sultry lips, as if she were about to bite into a French confection. “Why, he’s right there,” she said, raising a manicured finger and pointing to the judge’s bench.

Along with everyone else, Andy looked up, mystified. The entire courtroom erupted in satisfied applause.

There he was, alive and well, Mark Kornacky, looking down at them like Houdini in his voila moment, dressed in a black robe and wearing a Cheshire grin.

“Isn’t she just the hottest little witness you’ve ever seen?” the judge beamed. “And she’s my wife!” He turned a disdainful gaze on Andy. “And she knows exactly where I am.” Then he leaned over and whispered conspiratorially to the witness, “What do you think, Tilda, my dear?”

Andy’s thoughts were growing more and more muddled. Mark was right here; had been here all the time. And he was the judge in this proceeding. It seemed odd for a judge to solicit advice from a witness, but then Andy remembered that Tilda probably did most of the work in their relationship, except for the partying and drinking.

Andy looked back at the witness stand, where Tilda had now morphed into the Queen of Hearts, which didn’t seem the least bit surprising.

“I think it’s time,” she told the judge.

“Your verdict?” he asked, eagerly.

The Queen lowered her voice so that only Andy could overhear. “Off with her head,” she instructed.

“Off with her head!” Mark bellowed to the courtroom and slammed his gavel down with the finality of a guillotine.

All at once, the floor of the dock shifted violently beneath Andy’s feet, throwing her forward against the wooden rail. She struggled for balance but couldn’t right herself. The courtroom lurched again, throwing her backwards this time. Then, just as suddenly, the entire scene began to liquefy, with everyone and everything melting into a vast ocean. Without warning or explanation, Andy was caught up in the rolling waves, struggling to stay afloat. But each time she pulled herself to the surface, an icy current reached up and dragged her down again.

“Aunt Andy?” said a voice.

“I’m going under,” she said, gulping for air. “I can’t breathe.”

She felt herself shake and realized her head was bobbing up and down, not in the water but into something soft and cloud-like.

“Aunt Andy, wake up!” Harley barked. He continued to push her back and forth into her pillow until she suddenly careened into consciousness, panting like a runner.

“Are you okay?” he asked, clearly concerned.

She wasn’t sure. “Bad dream. Really bad dream,” she said between swallows of oxygen.

“No kidding. I thought you were being attacked.”

“I was.”

“Would you like to tell me about it?”

She hoisted herself up to a sitting position and began to inhale slowly, waiting for her heart to resume its normal rhythm. “Not particularly,” she rasped, her mouth acid dry. She rubbed her eyes with the palms of her hands and tried to smooth out her wrinkled brain.

“What time is it?” she asked.

“Just past five.”

“In the morning?”

“Uh huh. It’s morning.”

The light seeping in through the shutters drew her back to consciousness. She loved the sun. Daydreams. Nightmares. All her mind’s truly crappy creativity came out under cover of darkness.

“Can I get you something?” Harley asked.

Andy shook her head, drained by the frustration of Tilda’s testimony in tonight’s Rocky Horror Picture Show. She should try to go back to sleep. But what if it turned out to be a double feature?

“Okay,” she said, changing her mind. “Can you go downstairs and slice up an apple and put it on a plate with a scoop of peanut butter?”

“You want peanut butter at five in the morning?”

“Crunchy. Please.”

“Okay,” he said. “Crunchy it is.”

Harley turned and headed out of the room. Still a little dazed, Andy looked up as she heard his bare feet shuffling across the carpet. Through the ambient light, she followed the hairless, spindly legs upward toward his torso, disturbed to discover that Harley Davidson was completely naked, except for a pair of striped boxer shorts and that damned prayer shawl.

Life Imitates Movies of the Week

Andy’s friends were an eclectic contrast of talkers and listeners. Many of them were bright and quirky and witty and never shut up. Others were more thoughtful. They made Andy feel as if she were the bright and witty one. And they made no attempt to compete with or disparage anything that came out of her mouth. They were, in short, free therapists.

Lorna Drexel was one of the latter. In fact, she was a master listener and had a swarm of friends who, like Andy, seemed to need her and were, therefore, never very far away. As a result, you almost had to make an appointment to see Lorna. Which is precisely what Andy did.

At present the two women were having lunch at a small café on Ventura Boulevard, down the street from Lorna’s office in Sherman Oaks. Besides being a good listener, Lorna was also a CPA. She had been Mark’s accountant when he first started his production company and had dissuaded him from some of his dumber business moves. Not all, Lorna liked to point out but a few. After Mark and Andy married, she kept their household accounts, as well. That’s when Andy and Lorna began to notice they were often on the same side when it came to the family’s monetary policy: Lorna and Andy usually played John Maynard Keynes to Mark’s Ayn Rand.

Andy was fond of saying that, besides primary custody of the children, Lorna was the best thing she got in her divorce. The pair had known each other for decades and had been close for twenty years. Lorna was not just Andy’s confessor, there were any number of other people in whom she could confide; Lorna was more of a co-conspirator. It turned out that the CPA’s cautious, analytic personality when it came to economics had an anti-twin when it came to emotion. Whatever Andy was feeling when she told her friend a story, Lorna felt, also. In fact, she usually felt it exponentially.

“You found obituaries for all three of her former husbands!” Lorna repeated, with a bit more punch than Andy had used to deliver the information. “I’d think that would be proof enough for the police.”

“Larry doesn’t,” Andy said. “And he was with the FBI for most of his career.”

“I hate this woman.”

“You’ve never met her, but I’m glad you hate her anyway,” Andy said, admiring her friend’s team spirit.

“So what are you thinking, Andy?”

“That we should go up to Big Bear. For the weekend.”

“Hmmm.”

Lorna also had a cabin in Big Bear. In a neighborhood called Alpine Woods Estates, just a few rambling streets away from the cabin Mark got in the settlement agreement when the Kornacky-Bravos marriage dissolved.