L.A. Dead (27 page)

“Okay, see you tomorrow.” Dino hung up.

Stone called Arrington and told her the news.

“I’ll have Isabel plan something special for dinner,” she said.

“Sounds great. Dino will let you know their flight time.”

“Why don’t you and I have dinner tonight?”

“Behave yourself.”

“Oh, all right; just be here at seven tomorrow evening.”

“I wouldn’t miss it.” Stone said good-bye and hung up. Almost immediately, the phone buzzed.

“Yes?”

“Charlene Joiner on line one.”

He punched the button. “Hello, Charlene, how are you?”

“Terrible,” she replied. “I’m very upset about Vanessa.”

“It was a very bad thing.”

“Did you know her, Stone?”

“I met her at Marc Blumberg’s Palm Springs place a couple of days ago.”

“You were right about the police; they’re on their way over here now. Maybe you and I should talk before I meet them.”

“No, you don’t need a lawyer; just answer their questions truthfully. If we met first, it might make them think I’m involving myself in their case even more than I’m already involved.”

“How are you already involved?”

“I had dinner at Vanessa’s house last night; apparently, I was the last person to see her alive.”

“Lucky Vanessa! At least she went with a smile on her face.”

“It wasn’t like that, Charlene,” Stone said. “When can we get together?”

“Why don’t you come over here for lunch? I’ll be done with the police by then, say one o’clock, and I don’t have to be back on the set until three.”

“All right, where are you?”

“In the biggest fucking RV you ever saw,” she said, “parked at the rear of sound stage six. It’s got ‘Georgia Peach’ painted on the side.”

“I’ll find it. See you at one.”

“I’ll look forward.”

Forty-three

S
TONE FOUND THE RV AT THE BACK OF THE SOUND stage, and Charlene had not overstated its size. It looked as long as a Greyhound bus, and it, indeed, had “Georgia Peach” painted on the side. Stone was about to get out of his car when he saw the two policemen, Rivera and Goldman, leaving the big vehicle. He waited until they had driven away before getting out of his car.

He knocked on the RV door and, a moment later, it was opened by a plump middle-aged woman wearing horn-rimmed glasses, with a pencil stuck in her hair.

“You Barrington?” she asked.

“That’s me.”

“I’m Sheila, come on in.” She sat down at a desk behind the driver’s seat and pointed at a door a few feet away. “Charlene’s expecting you.”

Stone rapped on the door.

“Come on in, Stone,” came the voice through the door.

Stone opened the door and stepped into a surprisingly well-furnished room. It contained a sofa, coffee table and a couple of comfortable chairs, a desk, a dressing table, and a king-size bed. Charlene’s voice came from what Stone presumed to be the bathroom, the door of which was ajar. “Have a seat,” she called. “I’m just getting undressed.”

“What?”

“Sit down. You want a drink?”

“I’m okay at the moment.”

Charlene stuck her head out the door. “You don’t mind if I’m naked, do you?” It was a rhetorical question. Before Stone could reply, she stepped into the room, and, unlike the last time he had seen her, she was not even wearing her bikini bottom. “I hope you’re not too, too shy,” she said, “but I’m shooting a nude scene this afternoon, and I can’t have any marks on my body from clothes or underwear.”

Stone sat down on the sofa. “I won’t complain,” he said, but he felt like complaining. Why were women always walking around naked in front of him just when he was trying to be good? He was struck anew at how beautiful she was—tall, slender, with breasts that were original equipment, not options, and she was a lovely, tawny color. “Did you greet the cops this way?”

“For them, I put on a robe, but it left this little mark where I tied it around the waist, see?” She pointed at a slightly red spot.

“Can’t have that, can we?” Stone said lamely.

“The director would go nuts,” she said. “Once I turned up with pantie marks and he shut down production until the next day, and I got a call from Lou Regenstein about it. You sure you don’t want something to drink? Some iced tea, maybe?”

“All right, that would be nice.”

She went to a small fridge, opened the door, and bent over, presenting a backside for the ages.

Stone took a deep breath and let it out slowly. There was not a hint of fat or cellulite anywhere. How did Hollywood do it?

She came back with a pitcher of iced tea and two glasses, then poured them both one and sat down on the sofa.

She pulled a leg under her, and Stone could not help but notice that she had recently experienced a clever bikini wax.

“The fuzz were very nice,” she said.

“I’ll bet.”

She giggled. “I don’t think they’d ever seen a movie star up close before. I mean, not this close, but close. You’re by way of being an old acquaintance, so I don’t mind.”

“Neither do I,” Stone said truthfully.

“Vanessa’s death really shook me up,” she said, but she didn’t look shaken. “People my age are not supposed to die.”

“You think the ex-husband did it?”

“I can’t think of anybody else with a motive,” she replied, shaking her head. “Vanessa was a sweet girl. You said you were with her last night?”

“Yes, I gave her a lift home from Marc Blumberg’s office, and she asked me to stay for dinner.”

“Oh, speaking of food, it should be here in a minute.” As if on cue, there was a rap on the door, and Charlene got up and went into the bathroom. “You let them in, sugar; I don’t want to give the waiter a coronary.”

“You don’t seem to mind giving me one,” Stone said, walking to the door. He heard a giggle from the bathroom.

Two waiters came in and, in a flash, had arranged two lobster salads and a bottle of chardonnay on the coffee table. They were gone just as quickly, and Charlene returned, just as naked.

“I’m starved!” she said, sitting down and attacking the lobster.

Stone poured them both a glass of wine. “Charlene, who were Vanessa’s best friends?”

“You met most of them at my house,” Charlene replied. “The ladies who lunch? The whole group was there, except for Vanessa and Beverly.”

“Beverly Walters?”

“Yep. You know her?”

“I met her briefly in a restaurant once.”

“Beverly’s all right, I guess, but she wouldn’t be in the group, if it hadn’t been for Vanessa.”

“What’s Beverly’s story?”

Charlene shrugged. “She’s a Beverly Hills housewife, I guess. She came out here to be an actress and ended up giving blow jobs for walk-ons. Her husband saved her from that; now all she does is have lunch and shop.”

Stone tried the lobster; it was perfect, tender, and sweet. “Where’d the food come from?” he asked.

“From the studio commissary; have you been there, yet?”

“No.”

“You’ll have to come with me, sometime, sugar; that would do wonders for your reputation around here.”

“You’re not exactly shy, are you, Charlene?”

“You ever noticed
anything
shy about me, sugar?”

“No, I haven’t. Tell me, was this group of ladies with you on the day Vance was shot?”

“Was it a Saturday? Yes, it was. I remember now. Sure, they were all there that day; we have a regular Saturday thing at my house.”

“How late?”

“Later than usual, as I recall. Everybody’s mostly gone by five or six, but a couple of people stayed right through dinner. I think it’s
cleansing
to have dinner without a man occasionally.”

“What time did Vanessa leave?”

“She didn’t stay for dinner. I remember, they left, because Beverly had a dinner party to go to that night, and she had to get home and change. I don’t know what Vanessa was doing.”

“They left together?”

“Yes, they came and left in Vanessa’s car.”

“That’s promising,” Stone said, half to himself.

“Promising? How do you mean?”

“Sorry. I was thinking aloud.”

Charlene, having eaten a third of her lunch, grabbed her wineglass and half reclined on the sofa, resting her feet in Stone’s lap.

The view was transfixing, Stone thought, trying to concentrate on his lobster instead. “Are you and Beverly close at all?” he asked.

“Not very. Like I said, she’s not my favorite person.”

“I understand that Beverly is … talkative.”

“Well, that’s an understatement! We had to listen to every detail of every affair she had.”

“Did she ever sleep with Vance?”

“Sugar, if Vance had ever had a social disease, half of Beverly Hills would have come down with it.”

“I mean, did she ever talk about having an affair with him?”

“She tried, but she was late to the party; the rest of us had already had Vance.”

“Vanessa, too?”

“Sure, and before she was divorced. Vance didn’t discriminate against married women.”

“Who is Beverly married to?”

“A producer on the lot here: Gordon Walters. That’s her entree around town; if she were ever divorced, she’d never get asked to dinner. Gordy’s a sweetheart, but Beverly isn’t all that popular. Everybody knows you can’t tell her anything. It would be like putting it on a loudspeaker at Spago.”

“Charlene, I wonder if you’d do a favor for me.”

“Sugar,” she said, poking him in the crotch with a toe. “I’ve been
trying
.”

“Another kind of favor.”

“Sure, if I can.”

“Have lunch with Beverly Walters; see if you can find out what happened after she and Vanessa left your house that Saturday.”

“Why do you want to know?”

“You can’t share this with the ladies,” Stone said.

She made a little cross with a long fingernail on her left breast.

“Beverly is a witness against Arrington, in this shooting thing. She’s testified that Arrington told her she wanted to kill Vance. Arrington was joking, of course.”

“Of course,” Charlene said dryly.

“It’s possible that Beverly might have been at Vance’s house that evening, and that she might have seen something. I can’t let Arrington go into court without knowing what Beverly saw. Do you think you could worm that out of her?”

“Shoot, Stone, I could worm Beverly’s genetic code out of her, if she knew it.”

“Vanessa said something about this to me, and I wouldn’t like for Beverly to know that. Vanessa felt she was breaking a confidence, just by mentioning the possibility.”

“That sounds like Vanessa,” Charlene said, looking misty for a moment. “She’d be true blue, even to Beverly.”

“When do you think you could see her?”

“She’ll be over at the house on Saturday, with the others, I’m sure; we’ll have some commiserating to do over Vanessa.”

“I’d appreciate any help you could give me.”

Charlene smiled a small smile. “How
much
would you appreciate it?”

“A lot,” Stone said.

“I don’t believe you,” Charlene replied. “It’s Arrington, isn’t it? She’s why I can’t get you in the sack.”

“We’re old and good friends,” Stone said.

Charlene laughed. “Well, at least you didn’t say you were
just
good friends. I don’t blame you, Stone; she’s perfectly gorgeous. I’d hop into bed with her in a minute.”

Stone laughed, put down his fork, and stood up. “I’ll tell her you said so, if the occasion should ever arise. I’ve got to get going. Thanks for the lunch, and, especially, for your help.”

Charlene put down her wineglass, arose, and came toward Stone. She snaked one arm around his neck, hooked one leg around his and kissed him, long and deep.

Stone enjoyed the moment.

“Just you remember,” she said, “you owe me one.”

Stone released himself and made his way out of the RV. On the short drive back to the bungalow, Stone made a concerted effort to forget how Charlene Joiner had looked naked, and failed.

Forty-four

S
TONE SPENT THE EVENING ALONE IN VANCE’S BUNGALOW, heating a frozen dinner and watching one of Vance’s movies from a selection of videotapes in the study. It turned out to be one in which Charlene Joiner had costarred, and that didn’t help him think pure thoughts. Her ability as an actress actually lived up to her beauty, which surprised him, though it was not the first of her movies he had seen.

He slept fitfully, then devoted the following day to a combination of Calder Estate business and correspondence FedExed by Joan from New York, which kept his mind off naked women, living and dead. The noon news said that Daniel Pike was not a suspect in his ex-wife’s death, but he didn’t believe it. The police had probably leaked that information to make Pike think he was safe. He’d done the same thing, himself, in his time.

Arrington called early in the afternoon. “Dino and Mary Ann are arriving at three,” she said, “and Manolo is meeting them. I can’t wait to see them!”

“Same here,” Stone said, and he meant it. Cut off from Arrington most of the time, he craved affectionate company.

“You be here at seven,” she said.

“Can I bring anything?”

“Yes, but I don’t think you’ll share, in your present mood.”

“When this is over, I’ll share until you cry for mercy.”

“Promises, promises! Bye.” She hung up.

Stone left the studio at six-thirty, which would make him fashionably late to Arrington’s. Then, after no more than a mile, the car’s steering felt funny, and he pulled over. The rear tire was flat. He thought of changing it himself, but there was a gas station a block away, and he didn’t want to get his fresh clothes dirty, so he hiked down there and brought back a mechanic to do the work. As a result, he was half an hour late to dinner.

He entered through the front gate, for a change, and noted that there were no TV vans or reporters about. Manolo let him in and escorted him into the living room where Arrington, Dino, and Mary Ann sat on sofas before the fireplace. Another woman was there, too, but her back was to him.