Greta McKennan on the Merge Between Hobby and Books

mystery author

Greta McKennan, author and stitcher

One of the fun things about heading off to fan conventions such as Bouchercon is the chance to meet all sorts of interesting people. I don’t know a lot of people who get into clothing construction like I do, so when I stumbled across Greta McKennan, who was wearing a tape measure around her neck, I knew I’d met a kindred spirit. Not only that, she writes just the kind of mystery I like. Better yet, she was kind enough to write this up at the last minute.

Many thanks to Anne for inviting me to write this guest blog today! We met at Bouchercon—she recognized a fellow sewer by the tape measure around my neck, an unexpected sight at a mystery convention. I’m excited to have the chance to share some thoughts on her blog!

One of the best things about writing is getting to live vicariously through your characters. You know that thing you’ve always wanted to do but have never done? Your character can do it!

In my case, I write about a historical seamstress, Daria Dembrowski, in my Stitch in Time cozy mystery series. Daria is a lot like me, but she gets to do all the fun things that I might not do.

Daria lives in a big house in Pennsylvania with two roommates: her older brother Pete, and Aileen, the lead singer in a metal band, the Twisted Armpits. She sews for a living: the bread-and-butter custom wedding gowns, as well as her specialty, historical sewing. At one time in my life, I lived in a big house in Pennsylvania with four roommates and worked in a bridal shop sewing wedding gowns. My timing was perfect since I got engaged while working there. I learned a lot of tricks that came in handy when making my own wedding gown. If not for that job, my wedding dress would have had a zipper in the back. Instead, I learned how to make satin buttons with loops for a much more elegant look.

I grew up sewing period clothing for my dolls, which were often the March sisters or the Ingalls family in my games. In college, I majored in History and worked in the theater costume shop. Daria’s black Singer sewing machine with the gold tooling that only sews in one direction is directly based on my own sewing machine that once was my grandmother’s. I love that machine! I can change the belts and do my own maintenance without worrying about computer chips.

I’ve done a lot of sewing in my life, but Daria’s got me beat. She not only designs and sews wedding gowns, but she makes a Confederate uniform coat for a Civil War reenactor in Uniformly Dead, she sews authentic eighteenth-century dresses for two elderly women who are restoring their home to its original condition for a TV reality show in Historically Dead, and she tackles a Scottish kilt in my new release, Royally Dead. Personally, I have never made a kilt, although my husband has been known to wear one while playing the bagpipes. I did make a pleated skirt once, and I agree with Daria that pleats are very, very hard.

There is one aspect of Daria’s life that I hope I never experience. She is one of those unfortunate people who seem to stumble over dead bodies on a regular basis. Her innate nosiness and sense of justice lead her to try to solve the crimes that she encounters, with great success.

Daria and I have a lot in common, and I enjoy hanging out with her when I’m writing my mysteries. I hope my readers like to spend time with her as well!

Thanks, Greta! You certainly have more skill than I have, but what fun. Royally Dead is available at Barnes and Noble, and at Amazon.

Chapter Eight

“Just because I was divorcing the man doesn’t mean I wanted the asshole dead,” Ramona Bistler swore vehemently.

She was scared. About average height, she had dark hair that had been streaked, high cheekbones and a wraith-like figure dressed in a faded designer denim mini and a fuchsia silk blouse. Her tights were fuchsia also, and she wore multi-colored ankle-high leather boots. She paced about her Laura Ashley living room, puffing on a cigarette.

“Why would I jump to that conclusion?” asked Mrs. Sperling.

“You’re here, aren’t you?” She waved the hand holding her smoke, sprinkling ash in a wide arc. “Come on, Delilah. You wouldn’t want to talk to me unless I was a suspect.”

“I would guess, Ms. Bistler, that your friends have been frightening you needlessly. Your closeness to the victim makes you a good source of information. That is why I am here. I’m certainly not about to classify anybody as a suspect with as many questions unanswered as there currently are. Just so I can eliminate you, what were you doing the night your husband died?”

“Nothing. I… Well, I was alone all night. I took a short drive because I felt like it, then came here and watched T.V. until I went to bed.” She sighed. “It doesn’t look good, does it? And no, there wasn’t anybody who could have seen me.”

“Are you sure? Did you make any stops? Even a mundane stop at the grocery for cigarettes or even for gas for your car.”

“None. My maid stocks plenty of cigarettes for me, and Steve, my chauffeur, sees to keeping plenty of gas in the tank. I suppose I should say, my former chauffeur. I fired him yesterday.” She stubbed out her cigarette in the overflowing ashtray next to her sofa.

“Why?”

“Insubordination, for starters, and the bastard was stealing from me. I needed him to get through the funeral, but after that, I fired him.”

“Did he know you were about to?”

“I hadn’t mentioned it to anyone. He seemed pretty shocked when I told him. And pissed off.”

“Indeed. Do you have his home address, and may I have it?”

“I think my lawyer has all that. He takes care of all my financial matters. He’s Eugene Montoinne, over on Sunset. Nine thousand something or other. You know, those big towers where all the agents’ offices are?”

I knew the buildings she meant, rather better than I wished to admit.

Mrs. Sperling nodded. “If you would be so kind as to call him and let him know we’ll be coming, it would be appreciated.”

Bistler walked over to the other end table and picked up the handset to one of those real fancy old-fashioned phones. Not the upright kind with the part you speak into on the base and the earpiece is separate, but the other kind. Anyway, she got through right away and told the person on the other end to answer any questions Mrs. Sperling might have.

“That’s settled,” she said, hanging up. “Any other questions?”

“Yes. Did your husband belong to a gymnasium or health club of some sort?”

“Of course. The same one I belong to. It’s on Santa Monica.”

“Near the Rodeo district, or closer in to downtown?”

“Close to Rodeo.”

“That fits in perfectly. This may seem a rather personal question, but what did your husband wear to bed?”

“To bed? With me?” Bistler fidgeted with her cigarette. “Um. Nothing. If you want the complete truth, Josh was a bore, from the first day to the last. He was a nice person. But he was the worst stick in the mud I’ve ever known. All he cared about was that damn gallery. The only parties he went to were connected to the gallery, and he didn’t go to many of those. The more established he got, the fewer parties he went to.”

“But what did he wear when he wasn’t with you?”

Bistler hesitated. “I… Shit, I don’t know. We weren’t exactly a close couple. He kept to himself mostly, and I didn’t butt in. I’m a night person, anyway, and he’s the morning type. For two people who lived in the same house, we didn’t see much of each other.”

“Why did you marry him?”

Bistler laughed. “Why else? For his money.”

“Was he aware of that?”

“Beats me. I couldn’t have cared less if he did. I only wanted to stay married long enough to get a good settlement. It was all part of my game plan. First, I had to get a guy like Josh, who could be counted on to ignore me. Then I had to get him to marry me, wait a few years until I had a good case, then sue him for divorce and get as much money as I could. In the meantime, I stashed away some more cash in a Swiss account, so if I couldn’t get a decent alimony, my butt would still be covered and comfortable.” She stopped and examined Mrs. Sperling. “It was heartless, I know. But I couldn’t afford feelings. I grew up dirt poor. That’s why I came to L.A. I was gonna be rich or die trying. I really wanted to be in the movies. Was that ever a joke. Nailing a rich husband was a lot easier. As soon as I had a few million in the bank, I told Josh goodbye. Kicked him out two weeks ago today. And this is his house. I’d do it again in a minute.”

“You were certainly motivated,” replied Mrs. Sperling without a hint of judgment.

“Not enough to kill him. There are things even I won’t do.”

“Of course. Is it safe to assume you didn’t share a bedroom?”

“We didn’t. Actually, Josh played right into my hands on that one. About six months after we were married, Josh asked me to take my own room because I was so prone to staying up late, and he didn’t like being wakened up when I finally went to bed.”

“May I see the room?”

“Sure. I was going to have the maid clean it out this afternoon. The police haven’t released the stuff from the gallery yet.”

The room was kind of dark, and very neat, perfectly fitting what we knew of Mr. Stein’s personality. After I described it, Mrs. Sperling had me go through the closet and chest of drawers.

“It’s the same sort of stuff that was in the police report,” I said. “Not as much. Looks like he took the bulk of his stuff when he left. There’s only a couple pairs of pants, three shirts, some sweaters.” I opened the chest. “I don’t see any undershorts. Hey, look at this. Two pairs of pajamas. They look really fancy.” I handed a pair to Mrs. Sperling.

“Silk,” she observed. “Are there any other pairs?”

I hurried through the drawers. “Nope. Not much else here, either. He took all his shoes and belts. About the only thing he left was eight suits.”

“That’s interesting,” Mrs. Sperling nodded. “It would appear Mr. Stein did not like dressing up.”

Bistler had nothing to say because she had shown us the room and left.

I checked under the bed just to be thorough. “Nothing under the bed. Do you want to take the room apart?”

“No. I don’t think we’re going to find anything revealing here.”

I ran my hand between the mattress and box springs.

“You’re probably right. I don’t see any signs of counterfeiting.”

“That would take a great deal more space than is in this room. We’ll go finish speaking with Ms. Bistler.”

We returned to the living room where Bistler smoked and paced.

“Ms. Bistler, did your husband have a studio in the house?”

She snorted. “Josh was no artist. Couldn’t even draw stick figures.”

“That’s odd. I believe there were rumors going around that he was counterfeiting artworks.”

“Could be.” Bistler shrugged. “If he was, someone else was doing the work. I heard the rumors, too. It doesn’t sound like Josh, him being such a bore and all. But I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Did he ever give you any indication he was?”

“Josh gave me no indication of anything he was doing. I didn’t really care, either. As long as the money came in, I didn’t give a damn what he did.”

“Have you seen the terms of his will?”

“Yes.” Bistler paced even more frenetically. “Would you believe he left everything to me? Does not sound good, does it?”

“It’s not an unusual way to dispose of one’s money. Do you know of anyone who might have had something against your husband?”

“Oh, come on! I didn’t even know his friends. How am I supposed to know his enemies?”

“Maybe you’ve heard rumors.”

She shrugged and lit another cigarette. “Maybe one of his competitors. That gallery did a good business.”

“That is an angle I didn’t think of.”

“The cops sure did.”

“Have the police spoken to you since you identified your husband’s body?”

“Yesterday. What’s his name, Michaelson? He came over asking where I was that night and about enemies. I told him what I told you.”

“Excellent. Well, I’d better not trouble you anymore, Ms. Bistler. Thank you very much for your information.”

We left, much to Bistler’s relief. Our first stop was her lawyer’s office. The receptionist sent us back almost immediately. Mr. Montoinne was a fairly short man, balding, and dressed in the required dark pin-stripe three-piece suit. He looked to be as honest and humble a family retainer as one could want.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Sperling,” he said with sincere warmth. But something about him didn’t feel right to me. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Your reputation is outstanding.”

“Thank you, Mr. Montoinne.” Mrs. Sperling graciously took the seat she was offered. Eleanor curled up at her feet. I was left ignored and standing by the door. “What I came for was an address that your client, Ms. Ramona Bistler, said you had.”

“The chauffeur’s. Yes. My secretary is digging it out now.”

“Then while we’re waiting, would you mind answering a few questions?”

“My pleasure.” He scurried around his huge oak desk and sat down.

“How long have you been retained by Ms. Bistler?”

“For about two and a half years. Her late husband recommended me when she wanted someone to deal with some investments for her.”

“Why not a regular stockbroker?”

“Part of it was the legal awkwardness of maintaining separate ownership. California’s divorce laws are such that anything acquired during the term of the marriage is considered community property unless there is a special contract drawn up. Mr. Stein had made some gifts of cash to his wife, and she wanted to invest them, and at the same time maintain sole ownership of the funds and whatever profit from them against the possibility of a divorce. She was also afraid Mr. Stein’s attorney would be biased in his favor, so at her husband’s suggestion, she retained me. Through power of attorney, I eventually became responsible for managing her household affairs, including retaining an accountant, hiring her staff and seeing to it they were paid, overseeing her stockbroker, details like that.”

“So you are well informed as to her financial status.”

“Intimately so.”

Mrs. Sperling’s eyebrow lifted. “Interesting choice of words.”

“You are referring to Ms. Bistler’s reputation?” Mr. Montoinne leered slightly. “With her promiscuous tendencies, it’s not at all surprising. And I can see you asking yourself if I have… Well, gone beyond the usual bounds of attorney-client relations.”

“I blush to confess the thought did cross my mind.”

“You’re blushing in this town? Mrs. Sperling, I am a man, and Ramona Bistler does have a way about her.”

“I get the point. We needn’t be salacious.”

“Your good breeding shows. I don’t run into much of that anymore. It’s a pleasant change.”

“Thank you. To return to my original line of questioning, being so knowledgeable about Ms. Bistler’s assets, perhaps you could confirm the existence of a Swiss bank account in her name, and give me a rough estimate of the amount therein.”

“She has one in Zurich. If she continues investing at her current rate, she should be able to better her standard of living on the interest alone.”

“That’s a great deal of money. Is she aware of that?”

“I would say not. I have yet to tell her the exact figures, beyond mentioning that she needn’t be concerned about her settlement. Fortunately, I do not need to inform the court about the Swiss bank account, since those assets cannot be recognized. Or I wouldn’t have had to. But some caution had to be exercised regarding her investments, on the odd chance the judge developed sympathy for Mr. Stein, and imposed an alimony payment on her. For that reason I purposely kept her in the dark regarding her assets, thus making it harder for her to perjure herself on the witness stand.”

“You thought she might?”

“I didn’t want to give her the opportunity. And being aware of her tendencies, I also strongly recommended she refrain from adulterous liaisons, or at least be extremely discreet about them so as not to give her husband a case against her, which in turn could result in a minimal settlement or in her paying alimony. It’s all a moot point now. Her husband left her everything.”

“What are the odds of his family fighting the will?”

“Fair to middling, I would guess. They’ve got plenty themselves, or so I hear. But that doesn’t mean they’re generous. A lot depends on how they feel about my client. That’s the reason I have strongly recommended that she avoid overt romantic liaisons with men for the time being.”

“Have you heard anything regarding her husband’s gallery?”

“I never paid any attention to it, to be honest, beyond sending my son there for his Niedeman serigraphs.”

“He has an HN6?”

“I have no idea.”

“If he does, I would suggest having it authenticated. There’s a possibility someone switched counterfeits for Mr. Stein’s genuine ones. And could you please call me with the results?” Mrs. Sperling reached into her purse and removed a small leather case. “Here is one of my cards.” She stood as she handed it to him. “I appreciate the way you took time out of your busy schedule to speak with me.”

“It was my pleasure, Mrs. Sperling.” Mr. Montoinne was up and around his desk in a second. “If there is anything I can do for you in the future, please do not hesitate to call.”

“I won’t, Mr. Montoinne.”

I opened the door and we left, stopping only to get Steve Lansky’s address from the secretary.

“Where next?” I asked as Eleanor jumped into the back seat of the Rabbit. “Mr. Lansky’s?”

“Not yet.” Mrs. Sperling tied a scarf around her hair. “I’d like to speak with Sergeant Michaelson before he goes home today.” She got into the passenger seat next to me. “I don’t believe we’re far from there anyway.”

“It’s what? Four o’clock?” I snapped on my seatbelt. “We should be able to get there pretty quick.”

“And where is Mr. Lansky’s address?”

“Studio City.”

“Good heavens. We’ll end up on the freeway during rush hour. We’ll just see Sergeant Michaelson.”

“Fine.” The VW caught immediately, and I backed out of the parking space. Mr. Montoinne’s secretary had validated our parking ticket and we got out of there without any money left behind.

In spite of a quick ride over there, Sergeant Michaelson was getting ready to go when we arrived.

“I knew it,” he grinned ruefully. “I knew I’d never make it out of here early.”

“Is it urgent, Sergeant?” asked Mrs. Sperling. “I can always return tomorrow morning.”

“Nah. I take it you want the latest on the Stein murder.”

“It would help.”

“Okay. What do you know about a Steven Lansky?”

“Ms. Ramona Bistler’s chauffeur, or former chauffeur. He told Donna that Ms. Bistler spent the night of Mr. Stein’s death joyriding, and later filled the tank of her car to cover up her trip.”

“Before or after he was fired?”

“Before.”

“That lends even more credence to his story, which was basically the same, except with an even stronger implication that Ms. Bistler was involved in her husband’s death. I, however, spoke to him after he was fired, trying to confirm Ms. Bistler’s story that she was home alone after a brief drive.”

Mrs. Sperling nodded. “She seems to be keeping her story straight fairly well.”

“Ah-hah. You think she’s lying.”

“So do you.”

Sergeant Michaelson laughed. “I got one on you, Mrs. Sperling. I know she is. After hearing Lansky’s story, I spent a good day and a half checking out gas stations in the near vicinity of Ramona Bistler’s home. It was a long shot.”

“All the more satisfying when it pays off.” Mrs. Sperling smiled, as anxious as a kid on Christmas Eve. “What did you find?”

“That Ms. Ramona Bistler did indeed fill her tank with gasoline around eleven-thirty on the night her husband died. She paid for it with a charge card, so there’s a written record of it. And the station attendant particularly remembers her because her engine died just as she pulled in, and they had to push the car to the pump. Her tank was completely empty.”

“Very supportive of our current theory, but for one thing.”

“What?” Michaelson groaned.

“I’m not sure about the theory.”

“Keep plugging, then. And don’t worry about Bistler. It’s pretty suspicious, but not enough to arrest her on. We need a lot more evidence.”

“Too true. Still, it was a fortunate discovery, Sergeant.”

Michaelson chuckled. “That’s not all we discovered. It didn’t get in the initial report because the lab boys didn’t get to it until Friday, but they found something a little odd in the gallery, itself.”

“They did?” Mrs. Sperling’s eyebrow lifted.

“Yeah. There were about five prints stacked in a corner with a note that said they weren’t for sale.” Michaelson flipped through his notepad. “A Yamagata, two Sumners, and two Niedemans. We got them authenticated.”

“And..?”

“All of them were fakes.”

Mrs. Sperling nodded. “So Mr. Stein knew about the counterfeiting. Well, thank you for sharing all that with me. I’ll organize my notes this evening and send them over first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Thanks a lot, Mrs. Sperling. I’d better get going. My wife thinks I’m on the way.”

“Give her my regards, and tell her I’d like to have you and the family to dinner soon.”

“I’m sure she’ll look forward to it. See you around.”

We left the office, but not the building. Mrs. Sperling’s contacts with the police are pretty good. We spent an hour and a half on the firing range. The idea, of course, was not to use the gun at all. Mrs. Sperling makes a point of confronting her criminals in such a way that they can’t use violence. But criminals being criminals, they don’t always make that an option.

 

mystery fiction, mystery serial

Chapter Seven

I got my gratified smile Sunday evening. Mrs. Sperling didn’t say whether or not my information meant anything. I got the feeling it fit in with some hypothesis she had, and she was holding her cards close to her chest, so to speak.

The next morning, I got back from dance class and cleaned up just barely in time to drive Mrs. Sperling to the Braille Institute, on Vermont. I thumbed through my Backstage West while she tutored Delsie Simmons, a young black girl recently blinded in a gang altercation. One of the aides told me that Mrs. Sperling always got the tough ones because she was the only one who could handle them.

Delsie was not only prone to skipping her homework, she was also very belligerent, and had yet to accept her handicap. I got a little nervous when I heard yelling coming from the room. It soon stopped and eventually, Mrs. Sperling came out unscathed and unruffled. She waited until Delsie had left the building before giving me our next destination.

It was a luxury condo nestled in one of those high rises along Wilshire, just past the crossing with Santa Monica Boulevard. I don’t know if that’s Beverly Hills proper, or West Los Angeles, but it’s still rich kid country, and not far from U.C.L.A. Being help, I got to park the car myself after Mrs. Sperling had been helped out of the car by the building’s doorman. She was waiting in the lobby for me when I got back.

“What took so long?” she asked.

“They don’t have visitor parking here,” I grumbled. “Parking in this city is insane. It’s a good thing we didn’t bring the limo.”

Mrs. Sperling nodded. “I understand it’s worse in New York.”

“That’s what I hear. Know where the elevator is?”

“Actually, no. Why don’t I just take your elbow?”

I looked around, searching for the conveyance, then took off at a brisk pace. Mrs. Sperling matched it, with Eleanor matching us both.

“He said it was three doors down to the right,” Mrs. Sperling said as we got off on the twelfth floor.

She and Eleanor took the lead from there. The door opened seconds after Mrs. Sperling rang and he ushered us in. I saw the condo first. It was mostly a huge living room furnished in black, white and royal blue minimalist with a long window taking up most of one wall and which overlooked Wilshire Boulevard and the condominiums across the street. The view made me woozy. I looked away. In the center of the room, a spiral staircase led to a loft. Under the loft was a tiny kitchen which matched the living room, and a black and glass dining room.

Then I saw Him. Tall and slender, with a chest that was just broad enough, lightly tanned skin, a fabulous face and beautiful, laughing green eyes. His sunbleached hair was dark rooted and clipped and arranged with stylish abandon. I’d seen His dark bomber jacket, yellow print shirt and baggy pants on mannequins on Rodeo Drive. Not that exact ensemble, but things like it.

It was Phillip DuPre, live and incredibly handsome, right in front of me. I was in shock. I mean, I figured Mrs. Sperling might have a few industry contacts, having been married to a cinematographer and all. But Hollywood’s latest golden boy director? A guy who had directed two mega-hit feature films, among other things, and now had every big name in music screaming at Him to do their videos? This was the son of some old family friends?

I had first seen Him at a cattle call for His second rock video. The first was from His movie “Five Alarm”, and that was the one that got the music industry so excited. He was behind the table with the casting director and producer, although He was obviously in charge. I remember joking with Tina that I would have loved a chance to fall in love with Him.

At the time, of course, it was ridiculous. I was just one of a thousand dancers who were auditioning for a role. He’d smiled at me. He’d smiled at all of us. I got called back, and He smiled at me again. I didn’t get the role. I don’t know if it was intense jealousy that she was working with that gorgeous man and I wasn’t, but I did not like the girl they chose.

“Phillip, I’d like you to meet my new chauffeur, Donna Brechter,” Mrs. Sperling was saying.

It dawned on me I’d been so busy ogling I hadn’t heard or seen any of the traditional greetings.

“Hi,” He said, pleasantly. He held out His hand.

“Hi,” I said.

Really winning dialogue, I know, but my heart was pounding so hard I couldn’t think straight. The man was just that gorgeous. I remembered to shake His hand, only He’d already started withdrawing it. I grabbed, He fumbled. It went back and forth for an hour, it seemed like. Mrs. Sperling says I didn’t, but I turned three shades of purple.

He laughed, quiet and really cute, then looked at me again.

“You’ve auditioned for me, haven’t you?” He asked.

“You remember?” I was in seventh heaven.

He actually blushed. “Well, not quite. It’s something more along Aunt Delilah’s line. Uh, deductive reasoning. I’m pretty good at faces, and if I can’t attach a place to one, I probably saw it at an audition. You look vaguely familiar, but nothing else, ergo…”

“Yeah. It was for the ‘White Heat’ video. I got called back.”

“Right. I remember now.” He smiled even more warmly if that were possible. “You were good.”

“Thanks.”

“Phillip, I believe you have some sculpture to show me?” broke in Mrs. Sperling.

“Yeah. It’s right this way. Would you like me to take you around the room first?”

“Thank you, Phillip. That would be quite nice.”

He took her elbow and guided her around the room, letting her place the furniture, warning her about a wobbly stand here, or a sharp corner there. His Niedemans hung all over, the only other colors in the room besides the main decor. They were all in thick black lacquered frames. He had several bronze sculptures and some clay ones, and one beautiful white porcelain figure of a woman. It was to these pieces that He drew Mrs. Sperling’s attention.

“A Remington?” Mrs. Sperling chuckled, going over a bronze of a cowboy on a bronc.

“I have my moments.” He shrugged. “Besides, that’s investment art. I got a good deal on it and give me a few years and I’ll get a hell of a profit on it. In fact, I’ve got a signed Ansel Adams print in the dining room. I could get some real bucks on that.”

“Your deals are legendary, Phillip,” replied Mrs. Sperling. Everything He did was legendary. But Mrs. Sperling seemed immune to it. She moved to another bronze. “And what have we here?”

“Now that was a real find.” He leaned against the back of the black leather sofa and folded His arms across His chest. “It’s a bronze by Hans Niedeman. I got it about a year before he died. They’re real rare. He did not do many of them. It’s like the Remington, in that the sculpture is almost a three-dimensional version of the painting.”

“So this is what all the fuss is about.”

“That and the investment value. Most of it isn’t worth that much, more for rich teenagers and upper-middle-class types. But I’ve got some signed pieces that will bring in some money. I’m glad I got into it when I did. It saved me a few bucks.”

Mrs. Sperling laughed. “Young man, when have you ever wanted for anything? You are as penurious as your father.”

He shrugged. “So Dad made sure I knew the value of a buck. You know the industry. I’m doing good now, but it won’t necessarily last. I gotta invest in something to keep me comfortable when the glow fades.”

“Phillip, I find your complete grasp of reality utterly refreshing.” Mrs. Sperling smiled at Him with genuine affection. “And your lack of an over-inflated ego even more so.”

“Who can keep an ego with two younger brothers? Say, Aunt Delilah, have you seen Richard lately?”

“He’s not back from law school already, is he?”

“I heard you were back east last week.

“Briefly. Jimmy’s tour kicked off, and I visited a few friends, but I didn’t leave New York.”

“He’s graduating this December, and at the top of his class. He is so thrilled. He wants you at the graduation.”

“I wouldn’t dream of missing it.” Mrs. Sperling cleared her throat.

I remembered my job. I wandered over to the HN6 where it hung by the window, out of which I refused to look. Reminding myself that I was twelve stories above solid ground was not going to do my nerves any good.

“My brother just got one of these,” I said.

“One of what?” Mrs. Sperling walked over to me.

“This Niedeman print. He says it’s one of the commemoratives.”

“Well, Aunt Delilah?” He ambled over. “Real or fake?”

She sniffed. “The smell seems genuine, so it’s not one of the fakes I’ve been chasing. Where did you get it?”

He held up his hands. “Sorry. Gotta protect my sources.”

“Phillip. I’m certainly the last person to be creating competition.”

“Aunt Delilah, I’d love to tell you. But the guy is real nervous. He’s getting me some terrific deals, and I don’t want to ruin it on an accidental slip of the tongue. Besides, I promised I wouldn’t.”

“I see.” She didn’t believe Him for some reason.

“I bet you do. How about if I offer lunch as a consolation prize, including your dancer hyphen chauffeur.”

“That sounds worthwhile.”

Mrs. Sperling didn’t press the issue.

He insisted on driving us in His BMW. Mrs. Sperling insisted on sitting in the back with Eleanor, which meant I had to sit up front. I was heartbroken. I tried to make some intelligent small talk, but what do you say to a god?

Mrs. Sperling kept the conversational ball rolling and even set up a few opportunities for my brilliant wit and dazzling charm to shine out. I managed not to get tongue-tied and sounded like I had a reasonable command of the language. Other than that, I was pretty quiet.

He was kind of quiet, too, which surprised me a little. At the audition, He’d seemed really outgoing, the kind of person who knows He’s in charge but doesn’t have to ram it down everyone’s throat. He answered Mrs. Sperling’s questions about His family and other little things. He smiled at me. I smiled back, trying not to melt.

We ended up at this little eatery in Santa Monica where several more distinguished members of the Industry were dining. After having been dazzled by Phillip DuPre, and I confess, still under His spell, these other big shots had no impact on me whatsoever. I was so cool, it was disgusting.

It was very satisfying, too, when our waitress just happened to be this little witch I knew from my dance class who was a horrible name dropper and treated me like I was the biggest no-talent in Southern California. She recognized Phillip DuPre immediately. And there I was, having lunch with Him, and on a first name basis. It was certainly one of my better days.

Mrs. Sperling waited until we were eating dessert before bringing up the murder.

“Phillip,” she began, after wrapping her hands around a cup of very good cappuccino. “I know you think you have very good reasons for keeping your friend’s name from me, but please consider, your supplier could know something related to Joshua Stein’s death.”

He winced. “Uh, yeah. I suppose it could.”

Mrs. Sperling sighed. “You know very well it could, young man. I don’t want you doing anything foolish.”

“I’m not going–”

“Phillip.”

He grimaced. “Tell you what. I’ll talk to my source. If he agrees, I’ll set up a meeting between you two. Will that redeem me?”

Mrs. Sperling smiled with maternal affection. “It’s a start.”

After lunch, we went back and got the De Ville. We paid a call on Sergeant Michaelson, who growled that there were no new developments. We tried to pay a call on Ramona Bistler, but she was gone. In desperation, Mrs. Sperling directed me to Dolores Carmine’s. She was in, but not much help.

“You have no idea where Fred Gonzagos might be?” Mrs. Sperling pressed.

“If I had I would’ve told you,” replied Dolores.

“What did he say the last time you saw him?”

“Nothing. He complained about the capitalist fucks and how they don’t recognize his art, and I sympathized. He asked me to loan him a few bucks. I said go piss up a rope. I don’t have a few bucks.”

“What did he want the money for?”

“For a few drinks. What else? The way that son of a bitch drinks, it would take more than a few bucks to get him drunk. But, shit. That’s his problem. I can barely eat as it is.”

“Did he say anything about going anywhere?”

“Just to his favorite bar. Hennessy’s. Down on Sunset, near La Cienega. It’s an okay place. A little too capitalist for my tastes. But it’s okay.”

“About this latest shipment of Niedemans, how many did you get?”

“Shit, about five of them.”

“That’s a lot.”

Dolores just shrugged. “Since when am I gonna argue with some asshole who wants wholesale cost for them? I grabbed the whole bunch.”

“Did it occur to you they might be hot?”

“Why would I think something like that? Fuck, yes, I thought they might be. But I didn’t ask questions. I’m not stupid. Besides, he was Fred’s friend. Fred don’t send me no shit.”

“And Fred is missing. Does he have any relatives that you know of?”

“A sister, I think. Maybe an ex-wife. I don’t know any names.”

“Somehow, I’m not surprised. Well, thank you, Dolores. You’ve been exceptionally kind.”

“Right. See you later.”

We went back to Beverly Hills to find out what company was the private security patrol around Mr. Stein’s gallery. We did get that name. We drove out to their offices only to find that the guard who had been patrolling the night of the murder was sick, and, no, the receptionist could not give out his address or phone number.

Before giving up, Mrs. Sperling had me take her to the Beverly Hills P.D. again. There, she tried to get the girl in the records department to see if Fred Gonzagos had a file in the national crime computer. The girl said she couldn’t. Mrs. Sperling had her call the chief. The chief had already gone home for the day.

“That settles it,” said Mrs. Sperling. “It’s a sign from God. We may as well go home. Eleanor, forward.”

In the car, I tried to cheer her up.

“We’ll get the record tomorrow,” I said. “I’ll run over there first thing after dance class. Or I could even skip dance class.”

“Oh no. Don’t do that.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Darling, you need to keep in shape. I also agreed to support your efforts.”

“You don’t have to. I mean, I’m working for you. You get first priority.”

“Which I’ll take when I need it.”

“Tell you what. I’ll call a couple of my friends and we’ll go out to that Hennessey’s bar tonight. I’ll ask around for Fred and see what I find. If he’s truly a regular, someone will know him.”

“Donna, you do realize that could be dangerous.”

“I’ll call Mickey. He loves a good fight, remember?”

“I do. I hope that is the least of the trouble you find.” Mrs. Sperling sighed. “There is a possibility that Mr. Gonzagos is a pre-meditated killer, and he may not appreciate someone trying to find him. It’s also not unlikely that someone else again might not want Mr. Gonzagos found.”

“I’ll lie about my identity. No big.”

“It could be. You’re as bad as Phillip. The both of you have this fantasy of playing detective. This isn’t a child’s game of cops and robbers. We’re looking for a cold-blooded murderer.”

“I know basic self-defense. And I don’t see you carrying a gun.”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t.”

“But–”

“If I can hear it, I can hit it, and my hearing is very good. I’ve been very fortunate that I’ve hardly had to use it. I might also add that there’s a gun in the glove compartment of each of my cars. Just keep in mind the objective is not to use it.”

“You really think I might need a gun if I go to Hennessy’s tonight?”

“Probably not. But it could stir up trouble.”

“Yick. On the other hand, it could probably help things.”

“True.” There was a pause. “Very well. Call your friends, if you wish. However, before you go, we will go over the proper use of firearms, and you will carry one. You’re not permitted for it, but I’d rather pay a fine than for a funeral.”

“So reassuring. You sure you don’t want to come along?”

“No. It’s better that you go without me. I’m hardly inconspicuous.”

Dinner was ready when we got back to the house. I called Tina and Mickey right away, then sat down to eat. Earl was working that night, so Tina was looking for an excuse to get out. Mickey just wanted to go, and a bar suited him fine.

I didn’t tell them I was packing a heater, as they say. I knew how to shoot it, too. Mrs. Sperling made sure of that and promised I’d get some time on a shooting range in the near future.

Hennessey’s was a pretty basic place. A nice restaurant lurked beyond the bar, which was dark and decorated in a pseudo-Victorian style. In one corner a huge projection T.V. displayed a football game. A crowd had gathered around it and cheered on one of the teams. I think it was the Rams, Forty-niners game, but that might have been the following week. I don’t remember, which is odd because I’m an ardent Rams fan.

Mickey and Tina groaned when they saw me heading for the television. Mickey all but picked me up and sat me down at the bar.

“You’ve got other things to do,” he told me.

Tina and I ordered white wine and Mickey got a gin and tonic. The bartender returned with the drinks grumbling about the game. He was bent over and balding and looked as though he’d been mixing drinks since before he was legal.

“You here a lot?” I asked.

“Most every night.”

“There’s this guy, his name’s Fred Gonzagos. I’ve heard he sells artwork. Somebody told me he likes to do his drinking here.”

“Yeah, he does. Hasn’t been in while though.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“Last Wednesday.” He squinted at me. “You a cop?”

“Me?” I started. “Are you kidding? I just want to track Fred down. I heard he’s got Niedemans for sale, and he’s the only person in town who’s got ’em. I gotta get one.”

“Well, if he had ’em, they’re all sold by now. He came in here Wednesday pretty happy and with a bit more cash than usual. Said he sold some art. Must be them Niedemans you’re talking about.”

“What time was he here?”

“Early evening, I think. I remember it was later than normal. He missed happy hour. I do know that. He often comes in and eats the hors-d’oeuvres for dinner. Must have been closer to nine, now that I think about it. Bought a couple rounds for these two girls, then made some stupid joke about saving some money for gas.”

I swallowed. “No kidding. You wouldn’t happen to know if he has any relatives or friends that might know where he is, would you?”

“Well, he spends a lot of time cussing out his sister when he gets drunk. I believe her name is Anita. Think she’s married, too.”

“Oh. Great. Well, thanks for the info.”

We only stayed long enough to finish our drinks. I wanted to watch the rest of the football game, but Tina insisted we go someplace either a little quieter or with dancing. We got stuck with the quieter. Most places don’t have dancing on Monday nights. Mickey was disappointed that things had gone so smoothly.

The next morning, I visited the police station briefly after class. When I got home I was surprised to see the kitchen empty. Voices floated in from the dining room.

“Has she considered a breast augmentation?” asked one, a male voice. My heart stopped. It was His.

“Phillip!” gasped Mrs. Sperling.

“It’s a professional issue,” He protested.

“Phillip.”

“Aw, come on, Aunt Delilah. You know that doesn’t turn me on. I think she’s perfectly gorgeous the way she is. But it wouldn’t hurt her career, and we both know it.”

Mrs. Sperling coughed, then called, “Why don’t you come in, Donna?”

They were having brunch, spinach souffle, and baked applesauce. Mrs. Sperling invited me to join them.

“I, uh, don’t exactly smell good,” I protested. “I’ve been working out.”

“Won’t bother me any,” He said, staring at His plate for some reason.

“It’s well within bearable limits for me,” added Mrs. Sperling. “And you need to eat.”

“Well, uh, thanks.” I sat down nervously and helped myself.

“Donna, what was your agent’s name?” asked Mrs. Sperling.

“The theatrical one I’m giving up?”

“You are?” He finally looked at me.

I felt myself blush and really worked at sounding cool and calm. “I’m not getting sent out on enough auditions. It has been a slow season but not that slow. My friend, Tina, has gone out on three or four and got called back twice.”

“Is your friend, Tina, a dancer?” He asked.

“Yeah. She’s really good, and beautiful. She has this really exotic look, almost like a cross between a Black and an Asian, only she’s all Black. She’s real pretty and a terrific actress.”

“We want to know your agent’s name, dear,” pressed Mrs. Sperling.

“Jerry Lawton, over at Lawton, Wheaton, and Weiss,” I said.

“Sh–” He saw Mrs. Sperling’s frown and shook His head. “Him.”

“You seem to know him,” said Mrs. Sperling.

“The man is scum. He does great for his men, but if a girl isn’t into fun and games, he sends her out to just enough auditions and for bad jobs.”

“He’s never made a pass at me,” I said, indignantly.

“He probably has.” He went back to His plate. “You’ve just missed it, is all.”

“Well, there’s got to be at least one honest agent out there,” I grumbled.

He looked at me with a guilty smile. “Yeah, Diogenes, there are a few.”

“Well, why don’t you recommend one, Phillip,” said Mrs. Sperling with a sly grin.

He smiled at her. “Um. She could try Shelly Carson, at the Talent Company.”

“I thought you didn’t like her,” said Mrs. Sperling.

“Okay, she gets more money out of me than I want to spend.” He smiled at me again. “Sometimes there are more important things than budgets.” He got up and wiped His mouth. “I gotta run, Aunt Delilah.”

“Off to cast your new film?” She smiled as He kissed her cheek.

“That’s tomorrow. And it’s a video.”

“That’s right. I had forgotten.”

During that time my heart took a diving leap to my feet. If He was casting a video, there were good odds He needed dancers. And there I was, selling Him on my friend instead of me. Not that I begrudged Tina the sell. I just could have spent some time on me, too.

He turned that wonderful smile on me then fled. I melted and forgave Him for every time He wouldn’t cast me.

Mrs. Sperling only waited long enough for the door to shut.

“My dear Donna, it would appear to me that you are completely infatuated with Phillip.”

“Fat lot of good it’s going to do me. I can’t even put in a plug for myself.”

“There, there. Don’t give up hope yet. If you’re finished eating, hurry and clean up, and call that Shelley Carson. Tell her you can bring her a picture and resume today. Then bring the V.W. around. I’m in a top-down mood, and we’ve got other errands to run, too.”

 

 

 

Vicissitude Alert

You may have noticed that posting has gotten a bit spotty. Well, Life Happened. Anyway, since I can’t do everything (who knew?), I’m having to take a bit of a break. I hope to be back by September with new chapters of A Nose for a Niedeman, new guests and more observations and even some cooking lessons.

Sign up for the Robin Goodfellow newsletter, and you’ll find out exactly when all this is coming back. And thank you for your patience.

Janet Lynn and Will Zeilinger and a ’50s Big Band Leader

If you like old-school noir, you’ll probably like the Skylar Drake series, by my friends Janet Elizabeth Lynn and Will Zeilinger. More fun is that they love doing the research, and you can tell because they come up with fun bits like the below.

My husband, Will Zeilinger and I co-write the Skylar Drake Murder Mystery series, a hardboiled  series that takes the reader to 1950s Los Angeles and other areas of the west. Our new book, Slick Deal, begins News Year’s Eve 1956 at the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel, The first murder and clues lead to Avalon, Catalina. During our research we find the most amazing historical pieces we try to use in our books.

Donnell Clyde (Spade) Cooley was an American Western swing musician, big band leader, actor, and television personality. He was also sentenced to life in prison.

Spade Cooley played fiddle with one of the groups that performed at the Venice Pier Ballroom in Venice, California, led by Jimmy Wakely. When Wakely got a movie contract at Universal, Cooley replaced him as bandleader.

Cooley’s 18-month engagement at Santa Monica’s Venice Pier Ballroom in the early half of the 1940s was record-breaking. His recording Shame, Shame on You, was recorded in December 1944, and was No. 1 on the country charts for two months. The song was the first in an unbroken string of six Top Ten singles including Detour and You Can’t Break My Heart.

Cooley appeared in 38 Western films, both in bit parts and as a stand-in for cowboy actor Roy Rogers.

June, 1948, Cooley began hosting a variety show on KTLA-TV in Los Angeles, broadcast from the Santa Monica Pier Ballroom and the show won local Emmy awards in 1952 and 1953. The Hoffman Hayride was so popular that an estimated 75 percent of all televisions in the L.A. area were tuned into the show each Saturday night. However, by 1956  Cooley’s ratings dropped and was eventually replaced with Lawrence Welk.

His career came to a halt when Cooley beat his second wife, Ella Mae Cooley, to death on April 3, 1961.

Cooley was indicted for the murder and convicted of first-degree murder. He was sentenced to life in prison.

Cooley had served nearly nine years of a life sentence, and was in poor health from heart trouble. When, on November 23, 1969, he received a 72-hour furlough to play a benefit concert for the Deputy Sheriffs Association of Alameda County. During the intermission, after a standing ovation he died of a heart attack.

For a trip down memory lane, listen to Shame, Shame on You by Spade Cooley on YouTube

You can find Slick Deal at BarnesandNoble.com and Amazon.com. Enjoy!

mystery fiction, mystery serial

Chapter Six

Glen’s door was open when I got home, leading me to deduce that he was still out. A frigid breeze blew into the hallway from his open window. I didn’t know if Mrs. Sperling was up or not. No lights were on, but that didn’t mean anything. I knew she was home. She’d left a note on the bulletin board between Glen’s and my rooms informing us that there was no need to be up early as she had no plans and was absolutely not going to receive.

I took advantage of it and slept until noon. I beat Glen to the bathroom. He was still in there when the phone rang. It was my mother wanting to know if I was coming to Sunday dinner the next day. I told her I’d call her back after I’d talked to Mrs. Sperling.

I decided to try the kitchen first. At bare minimum, I’d get something to eat. Mrs. Osgood was there, putting together a tray.

“Mrs. Sperling is not feeling good today,” she explained. “Will you bring this up for her?”

“Sure. Can I eat first?”

“You should.”

“I’ll get it. I thought I saw some cereal in the cupboard.”

I had. Glen came in as I got out the milk.

“She’s having one of her days,” he grumbled.

“Mrs. Sperling?” I asked.

“Yes.” Glen morosely removed a bowl from the cabinet. “She has two kinds. A kind where she just doesn’t feel like getting out of bed. Those are okay. Then she has sick days. Those are totally awful. I gotta be around to carry trays, but she doesn’t get many, so I’m stuck waiting all day.”

“You could do homework,” volunteered Mrs. Osgood.

“I should, but it’s totally boring.”

“You’re in school?” I asked.

“Yeah. U.C.L.A.”

“No kidding. My best friend’s fiance is a resident at the medical center there. What’s your major?”

“Psych.”

“The tray is ready,” Mrs. Osgood broke in.

“I’ll take it up,” I said. “I’ve got to talk to Mrs. Sperling anyway. I haven’t got anything better to do, so if you want to ditch, Glen, why don’t you?”

He grinned. “You don’t mind? Awesome.”

I put my bowl in the sink and picked up the tray. Mrs. Sperling’s room was dark. Light filtered through the sheer curtains on the long window leaving a square patch on the king-sized bed. Eleanor lay curled up at the bed’s foot. She looked as dismal as her mistress.

Mrs. Sperling was on her back in the middle of the bed with an ice pack covering her eyes.

“Mm?” she softly moaned as I entered.

“It’s me, Donna. Mrs. Osgood sent me up with this tray.”

“Put it on the bedside table.”

“There’s tea here and some toast.” I set the tray down where she’d asked. “You wouldn’t happen to be suffering from a migraine, would you?”

She winced. “You would have to guess that. I hate admitting it, but I am. I’m not the fuzzy slipper type.”

“Actually, highly creative and intelligent women are more likely to get them.”

“Where did you read that?”

“I was told by my doctor when I had one. It’s not an experience I’d like to repeat.”

“I wouldn’t wish it on Alisa Montrose, even though she is probably behind this one.”

“Was she the lady last night who was so surprised that you could get from one end of a room to the other without killing yourself?”

“Yes.”

“May her face fall even faster this time. I felt like punching her.”

“I abhor violence. If it wouldn’t be so unfair to the poor man, I’d wish arthritis on her plastic surgeon.” She sighed loudly. “It’s so aggravating, Donna. Why can’t people understand I can get along, in many ways, just as well as they can?”

“I don’t know. It seems pretty amazing to me that you do, especially when I think of how much I use my sight. We used to do trust walks in my acting classes. We closed our eyes and just walked, trusting that our classmates would catch us before we bumped into anything. It was the scariest feeling. And yet you do it all the time. It’s hard for me to understand how.”

“It must be as hard for you to imagine being blind as it is for me to imagine seeing. There’s no sense in it, though. Why do some people insist on treating me like glass when the evidence of my capabilities is thrown in their faces?”

“They’re blind to it?”

That got a chuckle out of her. “Certainly in the case of Alisa Montrose. My heavens, that woman is disgusting. She yells at me as if I were deaf, holds me up as if I were a cripple, then gushes on incessantly about what a miracle I’ve achieved in spite of my tragic affliction. I ask you, is there anything tragic about me?”

“Well, you’re a widow.”

“That isn’t tragic. Heartbreaking, but not tragic. If anything, John’s death was rather mundane.”

“It was?”

“Yes. He had your basic heart attack. It all happened almost twenty years ago, and he died almost instantly. He understood, and he was a cinematographer, one of the best. His eyes were his living, and yet he rarely noticed my lack of sight.”

“You still miss him.”

“A husband is a hard thing to lose. Still, I’m a strong person. There is a great deal of truth in time’s healing powers. Sometimes I think that’s Alisa’s whole problem. I’ve had it fairly easy, but that woman has never known a moment’s adversity. The worse trauma she’s suffered is a broken fingernail. Poor thing, she deserves pity. Of the two of us, I’d say she’s the handicapped one. A lack of basic intelligence is far more devastating, don’t you think?”

“To those who have to put up with her, it is. She probably doesn’t know the difference.”

“She doesn’t.” Mrs. Sperling suddenly smiled. “It’s terrible how that woman brings out my worse instincts. I was unforgivably rude to her last night, and worse yet, I thoroughly enjoyed it.”

“What happened?”

“She was displaying her Niedeman serigraph, the HN6. She was bragging about it, when I, with tremendous pleasure, informed her that it was a fake. She was aghast. How could I possibly know? I couldn’t see it. I pointed out that she could, and it hadn’t stopped her from being fooled. Of course, she wouldn’t believe me, so I told her about the smell, just to prove I knew what I was talking about. I doubt she believed me even after that, but Norma Delgado said she heard Alisa mention something about an appraisal later.”

“Was it a fake?”

“Certainly. Do you think I would risk her calling my bluff? Furthermore, she got it from Mr. Stein.”

“So maybe he is counterfeiting.”

“Possibly. I also ran into the son of some old friends of my family. Phillip has been collecting Niedemans since before the artist’s death. He, naturally, has all of the commemoratives. I overheard his comment that he was very unlikely to end up in Alisa’s predicament, even though he’d recently made a purchase. I found it interesting that he was so certain of his serigraph’s authenticity. So later I managed to obtain an invitation to look at his sculptures on Monday afternoon.”

“Okay. Is there anything planned for tomorrow?”

“You may have the day off after church. Do you belong to any?”

“Not really.”

“Fine. You will accompany me then. I am a practicing Catholic, and I hold the Church’s view that a little religion once a week is essential for personal growth, even if that is a minimum. Unless you have some serious objections.”

“No. I guess not. I’m Catholic, too, but I haven’t been to church in a while.”

“A providential meeting, then. We’ll be going to nine o’clock mass, after that you’ll be free.”

“Fine. My mom wants me to go home for dinner. My brother and his fiancee are coming.”

“That should be pleasant. Did you find anything out from Mr. Lansky?”

“Oh boy, did I.” I told her the whole story. She tsk’d over the fight.

“I shouldn’t have let you go. I was afraid there might be trouble. Was Mr. Lansky hurt?”

“Mickey didn’t think so. Lansky was pretty looped, too.”

“It’s fortunate that your friend was there, although I deplore the necessity.”

I shrugged. “Mickey probably enjoyed it. That’s one of the reasons we never made it as a couple. I can’t handle fighting, and Mickey loves it. He was always trying to get some debate going with me. I hated it, and he hated it when I refused to argue back.”

“All for the better then. Mr. Lansky wanted to know what I had on him?”

“Yeah. I never told him who I worked for. I figured he overheard me talking about you to my friends and realized I was pumping him and got scared. But why?”

“That is the question. Another piece for the puzzle and precious few of them are fitting with any other.”

“Did you get to talk with Ramona Bistler?”

“Only long enough to secure an invitation to her home sometime this week. What you’ve just told me shall make it a very interesting visit indeed.” She paused. “You say this Mickey is just a friend of yours.”

“Alright,” I groaned. “He was more. It just didn’t work, and it never will.”

“Indeed, and all the more painful because you two truly care for each other.” She yawned.

“I guess I ought to take off. Feeling any better?”

“Some. I expect I shall have to just sleep it off. Would you please take Eleanor on a walk for me?”

“Sure. Eleanor, come.”

Eleanor got up slowly, looked back at her mistress, then padded out of the room at my side.

My whole family showed up on Sunday. It made for quite a crowd around the table, especially since my brother’s fiancee, Elise, and my brother-in-law, Ernie, were there also. My other sister, Denise, and I were the only singles left, something Peter made a point of rubbing in. He also made a couple cracks about the odds against Debbie’s marriage working out. Ernie just laughed and said he was used to beating the odds. Debbie laughed also, but I could tell she wanted to slug Peter one. Elise did.

“Hey!” Peter yelped.

“You quit being so snotty,” reprimanded Elise.

“That’s right, Elise,” I cheered. “Keep him in line.”

“Thanks, Donna.” Peter glared at me.

“Children,” sighed my father.

“Let’s not get into an argument,” Mom cut in.

“So how’s the drug-making business?” Debbie asked.

Peter’s a chemist for a pharmaceutical company in Pasadena.

“Good,” replied Peter, ignoring Debbie’s cut. None of us would ever let Peter live down that he was into drugs for a living. “I’m working.” He looked right at me.

“So am I,” I said with a slight grin.

“I heard. Driving a car. Some great career that is.”

“I think it’s a perfectly good one,” said Denise. “It’s honest work, for one thing.”

“And I can still work on my acting career,” I added.

“Still thinking about that, huh?” Dad asked with a worried frown.

Mom sighed. “I hope you’re not endangering your job.”

“Not in the least.” I squirmed under Peter’s grin. “Mrs. Sperling says it’s perfectly alright. In fact, she’s encouraging it.”

“That is terrific,” said Denise. “I wish I had a boss like that.”

“It sure is nice of her, isn’t it, Peter?” Elise looked at him. Peter didn’t answer.

“Mom says you’re living in Beverly Hills,” said Debbie, still trying to get Peter back.

“Yeah. It’s a real nice house. I’ve got my own room, but I do have to share a bathroom with the houseboy. He is a slob, too. He’s into collecting Niedemans.”

“Really? I just got one this morning, the HN6,” said Peter.

“No kidding. Where?” I asked.

“A little place down in Hollywood. This lady owns it. She always sells them cheap.”

“You got it this morning? That’s weird.”

“I know. I got a hell of a deal. I get all my Niedemans there. I’m on the broad’s waiting list. I’ve been looking for HN6 for a while. Then yesterday she called me and said she’d found a couple extra and did I still want one. So I hot-footed it out there this morning, and grabbed it.”

“Peter is such a sexist,” sighed Elise. “Have you seen those prints?”

“Just the one,” I said. “And you’re right.”

“I’ve seen a whole bunch,” said Debbie. “Peter, your taste is despicable.”

“That’s not fair,” Denise said. “Niedeman’s women are idealized, the embodiment of the perfect woman. I think they’re fascinating.” Denise is an art major.

Peter laughed. “I’m just buying them for the investment value, and, Elise, you know it. The guy is still hot and the prices are going up.”

“Only because he’s dead,” said Debbie.

Denise shook her head. “Not necessarily. He was very popular before he died.”

“Either way,” I snickered. “Peter, are you sure you haven’t got a counterfeit?”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Peter retorted.

“I might be able to tell,” said Denise.

“So can I,” I said, smugly.

“Since when are you such an expert?” said Peter.

“Since Glen Weir got stuck with a fake.”

“Who’s he?”

“Mrs. Sperling’s houseboy. She spotted it and told me how.”

“Well, most knock-offs of Niedemans are easy to tell because they’re such bad quality,” Denise said.

“These are really good ones, Denise.” I smiled. “Most people can’t see the difference.”

“Well, my supplier could,” bragged Peter. “She may be pretty flakey, but she knows her art.”

“Flakey?” I asked. “How?”

Peter shrugged. “She’s old, and she dresses like she’s from the sixties, and she’s a space cadet, keeps talking about her past lives.”

“Dolores Carmine!” I almost jumped.

“You know her?” Peter was as shocked as I was.

“I’ve met her. Mrs. Sperling knows her. We were checking out Glen’s fake.”

I have to admit I enjoyed the sick look that came over Peter’s face just then. As soon as we finished eating, he had Denise look over his print. She said it looked good. I sniffed it but couldn’t be sure.

At about two thirty Peter couldn’t take it anymore and talked me into following him to Hollywood in my car and going to see Dolores Carmine. It wasn’t too hard. I wanted to talk to Dolores, also. Fake or real, the source of that print could be very important. I could just see Mrs. Sperling’s gratified smile.

Most of the stores on Dolores’ block were closed. But there was a light on in the gallery. I held Peter and Elise back.

“Peter, I’ve got some very specific questions to ask,” I said. “So will you please let me do the talking, and play along?”

“Why?” he asked.

“Just trust me.”

“Peter, can you please?” Elise asked.

“Alright.”

I led the way in. Nothing had changed in the musty old shop. Dolores shuffled in from the back, muttering obscenities. She smiled when she saw me.

“Hello, little bitch,” she said, grinning, then noticed Peter and Elise. “And you two shits are back.”

“They’re with me,” I said. “Mrs. Sperling wanted them to come. She asked me to ask you a few questions about the serigraph you sold them this morning. She’s kind of tied up right now, or she would’ve come herself.”

Dolores shrugged noncommittally. “What the fuck.”

“Where did you get it? Peter, here, told me you’d just got some others in.”

“Yeah. This young prick came by and sold them to me cheap.”

“What was his name?”

“Do I fucking look like I’d ask?”

“Do you remember what he looked like?”

“Tallish with dishwater hair.”

“Are the prints genuine?”

“Fuck, yes.”

“But how do you know if you don’t know the person who sold them to you?”

“He said he was a friend of Fred Gonzagos.”

“Those aren’t exactly the best credentials.”

“Fred’s not gonna stick me with shit. He knows better, and he’s a friend anyway.”

“Speaking of Fred, have you talked to him lately?”

“Not since early last week.”

“Any idea where he is?”

Dolores frowned. “Why? Is he missing?”

“Yep. Since Wednesday night. If you hear anything, will you let Mrs. Sperling know?”

“I suppose.” She stopped and looked at me. “I knew you. You were a queen, a Goth queen. Do you remember?”

“Uh, no.”

“I was a Roman decurion. You bore three sons for me.”

“Great. Listen, Mrs. Sperling’s waiting for me. I’ve gotta run. Thanks for the answers.”

I pushed Peter and Elise out of the shop ahead of me.

“She said I saved her from an evil wizard,” Peter chuckled.

“I never knew you were that noble,” I returned.

“He has his moments,” said Elise.

I remembered there was something she saw in him. My sisters and I could never quite figure out what. Peter can be charming and warm, but all my sisters and I usually saw was his more odious side. I have to be fair. We weren’t always very pleasant to him.

“Listen,” I said. “I don’t want to take Dolores’s word on that print.”

“Why not?” asked Peter.

“Because Fred Gonzagos happens to be a counterfeiter of fine artwork.”

“You know some pretty interesting people,” teased Elise.

“I don’t know him.” I sighed. I didn’t dare take a chance on letting it get back to my mom that I was mixed up in a murder. “Mrs. Sperling thinks that Glen’s fake was done by this Gonzagos guy. It’s a long story. Anyway, why don’t I take your print and have Mrs. Sperling check it out? I’ll get it back to you Monday, Tuesday at the latest, I promise.”

Peter grumbled. “Oh, alright. You got my work phone?”

“Sure. Or will Elise be at your apartment?”

“Of course,” Elise replied. “I don’t go into the store until five Monday and Tuesday.”

“Elise.” Peter shifted with the guilty warning.

I laughed. “Don’t tell me…”

“Yeah, she’s already there,” sighed Peter.

“Don’t tell our parents, please?” Elise begged. “My old roommate’s covering for me. My dad’d kill me if he knew.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t tell the folks,” I said. “But I’d sure like to tell Debbie.”

“Donna!” Peter groaned. “Come on. We’re already getting married.”

“Okay. But no more cracks about her and Ernie.”

Peter nodded reluctantly and went and got the print. It was rolled up in a large cardboard tube. I put it in my car and again talked the motor into running.

 

Terri Gregg on Finding Time to Write (Or Not)

Terri Gregg

Please welcome author Terri Gregg, who’s working on finding the time to write. Who said retirement would make it easy?

During most of my adult life, I’ve had a strong desire to write fiction.  I spent 9 years as a science writer for an encyclopedia and wanted to try my hand at something more creative.  But as has been said before, life has a way of getting in the way of your best-laid plans.  Three children to raise (we had a child under the age of 8 for 21 straight years) and a series of demanding jobs left a shortage of time for creative writing. The six months I spent in Australia with my husband while he was there on an exchange teaching post did allow me to complete my first (but probably never to be published) novel.

Ah, I thought as the children launched into their own adult lives and retirement loomed, now I will have all the time I need to write book after book.

Silly me. The first years saw us traveling full time around the country in an RV. My husband is also a writer, so we sat with two laptops facing each other across the dining table in the RV trying to be creatively productive.  Not much of any value was accomplished.

After two years we settled down, bought a house in Sarasota, Florida, and prepared to get some serious writing done. But part of my platform for my first series is archeology. (I got my M. A. in Archeology at age 60 partially for background for the books and partially because it fascinates me.) That lead to travel—Stonehenge, Machu Picchu. Great Wall of China, Great Pyramid of Egypt and of course Cahokia, the great Mississippian Indian city in Illinois where the first book of the series, Bones Unearthed, is set. (Photos of some of the sites appear in the gallery on my website, terrigregg.com.)

So here I am.  One book out. The second in the series moving slowly along. For those of you that are not familiar with Sarasota, Sarasotans are surrounded with a myriad of distractions—golf, tennis, concerts, theater, not to mention beautiful beaches and a huge number of restaurants.

So here I am.  I keep working, even though slowly.  Maybe someday, my life will settle down to the point where I can join the ranks of other mystery writes who manage to get one or two books out a year.

Hope springs eternal.

Terri Gregg’s books is available at Amazon, and you can find out more about her on her website, terrigregg.com.

mystery fiction, mystery serial

Chapter Five

I spent that afternoon reading. Around six I took the limo out to see if it needed gas. The tank was half full. I went ahead and filled it the rest of the way. At seven-thirty I got dressed and braided my hair. I didn’t have a uniform. Mrs. Sperling had told me I wouldn’t need one. I still felt I had to look something like the part. Besides, I had a plan.

“I do hope you will keep your ears open while we’re at the party,” Mrs. Sperling said on the way over. “Hired help is notorious for gossiping, and you never know when you might pick up an interesting tidbit.”

“No problem,” I answered. “Maybe we ought to set up some sort of signal in case I catch something hot.”

“I was about to suggest that. Your predecessor used to whistle.”

“I can do that. I’m something of a virtuoso.” I snickered with pride.

“Mozart, Symphony Number Forty, in G Minor.”

“Uh, which one’s that?”

Mrs. Sperling whistled from the first movement.

“That one.” I started whistling along.

After a few bars, Mrs. Sperling dropped out and just listened.

“I’m impressed,” she said.

“I have a weakness for Mozart,” I confessed.

“That’s a blessing. All Jimmy could manage was ‘Take Me Out to the Ballgame.’  I enjoy Mozart, although Beethoven is my weakness.”

“Really? Do you just listen to classical music?”

“Heavens, no. Glen recently introduced me to Beyonce and JayZ. I also like Glen Miller, Ray Charles, the Beatles, Wagner, Lady Gaga, Beach Boys, some Van Halen, Benny Goodman…”

“And the list goes on. That’s quite a combination.”

“I have very eclectic tastes, and I make a point of keeping up on what’s current in the popular arts, as well as the more esoteric ones. My father always encouraged me to try new things. He was the only adult I knew who liked rock and roll when I was young.”

“I hope I stay that young. Looks like we’re here. Why don’t you stay put when I stop, and I’ll strut out all the hot stuff I learned in chauffeur school.”

Mrs. Sperling chuckled. “Most certainly. I love a good entrance.”

Eleanor was the first out of the car. Mrs. Sperling first tested for the curb with her foot, a movement so smooth I barely noticed it. As she stood, she stumbled and caught my shoulder.

“You okay?” I asked as she righted herself.

“Perfectly all right. Give me an hour, then you can go dancing with your friends.”

“Mrs. Sperling!” I groaned.

“Those were your tentative plans, weren’t they?”

“Yes. Another educated guess?”

“Confirmed by your clothing.” She ducked her head mischievously. “I’m sorry. That stumble was no accident. I was trying to confirm my guess. Spaghetti straps under your sweater and a full jersey skirt?”

“I wanted to look like a chauffeur and save time by not changing. You take as long as you want. My friends know I may not show.”

“I don’t want to take very long anyway. At this point, I’ll use any excuse.”

“Okay. You know your way up the drive?”

“Yes, thank you. Park the car around back, and don’t worry about whistling loudly. I’ve pretty sharp ears.”

“I can imagine.”

I parked where she indicated, next to one of several limos already gathered. Another chauffeur headed into the back of the house, so I followed him. There were about eight of us in the brightly lit kitchen dodging the caterers. I was the only female in the group. I guess the guys figured I was with the caterers because they left me to myself at first. Then one noticed that I wasn’t carrying trays and ambled over.

He was about my height, attractive, with dark hair and a roundish face aged slightly with a thick mustache. He wore a black vest over a white shirt with a black tie and black pants.

“Hi. You’re new,” he said with an obvious sort of grin.

I smiled politely anyway.

“I’m Steve Lansky,” he continued. “I drive for Ramona Bistler.”

“You do?” My interest picked up a lot. “No kidding.”

“No kidding. The boss told me I didn’t have to wait. She’ll probably be going home with some stud. I just stopped in to say hi to the guys. Looks like this is my lucky night.”

“Maybe.” I hesitated. On one hand, I wanted to keep his interest and possibly find something out about Ramona Bistler. On the other hand…

“Do you have to wait?” Lansky asked with a leer.

“Well, I… I might be able to get out of it. How do I get to the party?”

“Follow the trays, sweetheart. Tell you what, we’ll go dancing, then…” He smirked. “We’ll see what comes up.”

“I’ll go check.”

I hurried after a tray laden young woman down a hall to a packed living room. Standing in the doorway, I began the first movement of Symphony Number Forty. It took a minute, but Mrs. Sperling appeared at my side.

“You’re working very fast,” she said softly.

“So’s Bistler’s chauffeur. He wants me to go dancing with him.”

“Convenient.”

“It was his idea, I promise.”

“I’m sure it was. It sounds like a golden opportunity.”

“For information, yes.”

“Not to your liking?”

“He thinks he’s hot stuff.”

“Don’t sacrifice yourself, dear.”

“So I put up with the jerk for an hour or so. I’ll ditch him fast enough. In the meantime, I’ll pump him for what he knows.”

“It’s not part of your job description.”

“Maybe not, but I want to know.”

“Good for you. Please wait here a minute.”

She listened for a moment, then walked off across the room. I wondered where Eleanor was. The crowd shifted and I saw her tail listlessly thumping the floor from behind a sofa. Mrs. Sperling talked with Mrs. Delgado who nodded vigorously. Mrs. Sperling then threaded her way through the people back to me.

“The Delgados will give me a ride home,” she said. “Go to your interrogation with my blessing and ditch the clod the moment you get a chance. I don’t want you endangering yourself.”

“I won’t. Thanks.”

“Oh, Delilah!” oozed an older woman as she slid up. Her skin was tan and freshly lifted, with perfect make-up and hair. “Darling, how did you get over here?”

“I walked,” Mrs. Sperling answered with irritated politeness.

“But how?”

“I stood and put one foot in front of the other. The same way you do.”

“But there are so many people here. It must have been positively terrifying.”

“Not in the least.”

“Here, darling, let me help you back to the couch.”

“I’d really rather mingle, thank you.” Mrs. Sperling moved off into the swarm. If she bumped into anybody it was because the room was so crowded everyone was bumping into everyone else.

Taking a deep breath, I returned to my waiting swain. It took a little doing, but I convinced him that I really had to return the limo to Mrs. Sperling’s house. I also insisted on driving.

“I know a really hot spot in Westwood,” I said when we were finally on our way in my Altima.

“Great.”

“So how come your boss doesn’t care where you leave her car?”

“Cause she’s not going home in it. She don’t care about nothing but getting laid and getting a good settlement from her husband. Or she cared about the settlement. Looks like she’s getting the whole pile now.”

“Yeah. She sure is lucky.”

“She’d better watch her step. His family is supposed to contest the will. It’s like before she had to be careful so no one caught her sleeping around so she could get plenty of alimony. If she wants that money, she’s going to have to convince some judge she’s a grieving, faithful widow.”

“I hear she’s not.”

“You think your boss is weird. Mine is completely bananas. She’s taken up joy riding lately. In fact, night before last she took off again. I know cause the gas tank was full the next morning.”

“Full?”

“Yeah. She’s trying to cover it up now. The tank was half empty when I left it that day. The next morning it’s full. You try to tell me she didn’t run it down driving all over kingdom come, then filled it up so I wouldn’t think she’d been out.”

“Did you hear the car running at all?”

“Nah. I was out all night. I tell you, the broad is crazy. Why should I care if she goes driving?”

“Beats me,” I replied. He wouldn’t care, all right. But she might, if she needed an alibi, and a car running in a garage does empty the tank.

I parked in a parking structure about a block from the disco, after getting Lansky to cough up the parking fee. It was a rotten move, considering what I’d just gotten, and what my intentions were. But Lansky got on my nerves.

I walked quickly to the disco. Lansky kept up but was a little winded when we reached the door. I got my hand stamped and went in with Lansky right there.

The music was good and loud and drowned him out. The generous dance floor was across from the bar, and busy but not overcrowded. Tables were scattered about and mostly filled. Single men and women stood about watching and plotting. I had to complete a circuit of the room to find my friends.

There were five of them, including a couple I didn’t know very well. Their names were Jan and Lee. Tina Paulson, my best friend, stood when she saw me. Tina’s a black woman with a real exotic look that reminds me of Sade, only Tina’s prettier. With her was her fiance, Earl Cartwell, and a mutual friend, Mickey Dooley. Mickey has bright red hair and an outrageous personality. Besides dancing, Mickey is trying to break in as a stand-up comic. Tina’s a dancer, like me, and Earl is a doctor. He was a second-year resident at U.C.L.A. Earl looks like a basketball player with a tall-skinny figure and close-cropped hair.

I said hello all around as best I could and didn’t introduce Lansky. The set up was just perfect. Mickey and I are old buddies. Mickey threw his arm around me and flagged down the cocktail waitress.

“Bring my lady here a gin and tonic,” he yelled.

“Mickey, I’m driving!” I yelled back.

“So have some potato skins first. Here!” Mickey crammed a sour cream filled skin into my mouth. I laughed and tried not to get it all over my skirt. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Lansky sulkily pull up a chair and sit down. The next thing I knew, Mickey had pulled me onto the floor and we were off.

I met Mickey in a partnering class in college. We danced together the second day and it was like we’d always been partners. Something just clicks when Mickey and I dance together. It took a year of dating to find out our partnership was limited to the dance floor. But we’re still good friends, and we love to go dancing.

I hoped that when Lansky saw me and Mickey he’d throw in the towel. No such luck. I have to give the guy some credit for persistence. He even managed to get something of a conversation going with Earl.

Unfortunately, I had to share Mickey. Earl dances, but he’s such a klutz Tina goes crazy if she doesn’t get to dance with Mickey every so often. I decided to rest.

“So why don’t we blow this joint?” Lansky said in my ear.

I noticed he was drinking from my gin and tonic.

“Why?” I asked. “I’m having a blast.”

“What about something coming up?”

“The only thing coming up around here is the dance contest, and Mickey and I are going to win it.”

“But you came here with me.”

“Lansky, face it. This relationship is going nowhere. You’re an okay guy, but you’re not my type. It was a nice try. I appreciate it.”

Lansky grumbled something and left. Tina came up and dared me to go to the bathroom with her. Laughing, I went.

Tina wanted to know who Lansky was, so I told her as she washed her hands. That led to Mrs. Sperling’s generous arrangement with my career.

“You lucked out,” said Tina. She turned off the water.

“You’re telling me.”

“But this murder thing. Is she a cop?”

“Well, a private eye.”

Tina looked around for a towel. “No shit.”

“By all accounts, she’s pretty good at it.”

“Sounds kind of creepy to me.”

“Hey, the bucks are coming in, and I’m not living at home. I couldn’t ask for more.”

“Yes, you could.” She shook droplets of water all over me. “How about a leading role in a major motion picture starring also your best friend?”

“And how about an Oscar on top of that?”

“How about several million dollars?”

“How about numberless gorgeous men falling at my feet?”

“How about… Oh, damn! You topped me again.”

I pushed her out of the restroom.

Mickey and I won the dance contest, but I have to admit it was close. I knew the other couple were pros also. I’d seen them at auditions. I offered Mickey the prize money since I was working.

“No, my dear,” he replied. “We’ll split as usual. I just signed a contract with a lovely little club down in Hollywood. It’s called the Laugh Factory.”

“Mickey! That’s wonderful!” I screamed and threw my arms around him.

“It seems you’ve heard of it. I’ll only be there for three weeks. But the pay should feed me for somewhat longer. I’ve got some residuals, too, so I’m in the black for the time being.”

We all danced a while longer then mutually decided to call it a night. Earl and Tina left first with Jan and Lee. Mickey and I did one more song, then Mickey insisted on walking me back to my car.

It was definitely the element of surprise that knocked Mickey over. Neither of us could figure out quite what happened. We were almost to my car on the top floor of the parking structure when all of a sudden Mickey landed on his backside and my head was in a hammerlock. Lansky’s voice slurred as he cursed me.

“What’s Sperling got on me?” he growled. “Huh? What’s she got?”

He choked me so badly I couldn’t speak. Then I fell under two bodies, each scrambling for the other. Groaning, I managed to crawl out from under Lansky and Mickey.

They rolled together. Mickey showed on top and pulled back for a punch. It landed on Lansky’s jaw but didn’t do much. Lansky latched onto Mickey’s throat. Mickey broke the hold but fell backward. Lansky popped up. Mickey dodged just in time and staggered to his feet. So did Lansky.

The two men gasped as they glared at each other. Lansky danced in and swung first. It connected with Mickey’s eye. He faded back as Lansky came in again, this time to the stomach. Mickey got in a punch to Lansky’s nose. Lansky landed two more in Mickey’s stomach. Mickey stepped back and bumped into the retaining wall. Lansky grinned. His hands shot out and grabbed Mickey by the throat. Mickey grabbed on for dear life.

I watched in horror. At first, I couldn’t even yell, I was so scared. Lansky started pushing Mickey over the wall. That’s when I got angry. I ran over and pounded on Lansky’s back. Mickey broke his grasp and pounded on Lansky’s front. Lansky sagged to the ground.

“Oh no.” I started crying. “Is he still alive?”

Mickey checked him. “Oh, yeah. He’ll be sore in the morning but fine.”

“Are you okay?”

We staggered over to my car.

“I’m fine.” Mickey slid on his best Irish brogue. “I’m an Irishman. I love a good fight.”

“Mickey, that’s not funny. And you’re half Swedish. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine.” He held me by my shoulders and looked into my eyes. “I relaxed with the punches and he didn’t hurt me.”

“Okay.”

I sniffed again and Mickey kissed me. It was one of those wonderful, full kisses that had kept us dating for a year. We both sighed as we came apart.

“It’s mighty tempting,” Mickey said. “We wouldn’t last five minutes, but it’s mighty tempting.”

“You think..? No. No way. I don’t want to get messed up in that again. What are we going to do about him?”

“Leave him. You gonna come see me at the Laugh Factory?”

“With as many friends as I can drag down there.”

“Great. I’ll call you.”

“Or I’ll call you. As soon as the next dance contest comes up.”

“Right.” He took my keys and opened my car door for me. “There you are, my lady.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

He shut the door for me, then waited while I coaxed the Altima’s engine into starting. We waved as I drove off.

 

 

mystery fiction, mystery serial

Chapter Four

I left the house the next morning with an apple and a piece of toast in hand. All was silent. I got back at ten-thirty and didn’t see anyone on the way to the shower. I was out and dressed by eleven. Wondering what to do, I wandered into the living room, then the kitchen.

Mrs. Sperling was enjoying either a late breakfast or an early lunch. Mrs. Osgood took something sweet and spicy smelling from the oven.

“Good morning, Donna,” said Mrs. Sperling without turning to me. “Did your class go well?”

“Pretty good. I’m a little stiff. I haven’t worked out in three days.”

“Do you like ginger snaps?” Mrs. Osgood asked, smiling.

“Sure,” I replied.

“Please sit down and join me,” said Mrs. Sperling. “You’re probably quite hungry.”

“Based on what clues?” I teased, sitting down.

“You were just strenuously exercising, which also means you ate very little before your class if anything at all.” With only one false start, she located an empty plate on the table and filled it. “We’re indulging in red meat for brunch today. Steak and scrambled eggs with mushroom sauce, grilled potatoes, and green peas. Mrs. Osgood takes very good care of us and makes sure we get the really fattening stuff early in the day, so we can work it off.”

“Thanks. Not so much, please. I’m not a heavy eater any time of the day.”

“Do you drink water or milk?” asked Mrs. Osgood, placing a glass and silver next to my hand.

“Milk’s fine. Thanks.”

“Ah, another fighter against the scourge of osteoporosis,” observed Mrs. Sperling.

“Not really,” I answered. “I just like milk. I’m glad you have low fat. I can’t stand milk you can see through.”

“Nor can I abide the taste of nonfat. I have tried and tried, and I still don’t like it.”

I chuckled in agreement. “So. What’s up today? You said you needed me at eleven.”

“I said that would be the earliest. There’s a young girl I’m tutoring at the Braille Institute. She called and said she was sick today and couldn’t make it. I suspect she hasn’t got her homework done again. But alas, I have no evidence. Nonetheless, it is a fortunate cancellation. We shall finish our meal at leisure, then call on Sergeant Michaelson.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No.”

“But what if he’s not there?”

“All the better. We shall be able to read the reports without his bias.”

Sergeant Michaelson was on his lunch break when we arrived at the Beverly Hills Police Station.

“Mrs. Sperling, those reports have not been released to the general public,” sighed a smallish clerk in a uniform. His nameplate said Bradley.

“Since when am I the general public?” Mrs. Sperling countered.

“I know, but…”

“Must I bother Chief Matthews?”

Bradley threw his arms in the air and searched through a file cabinet.

“You’re lucky he’s your cousin,” he said, handing her a file folder.

“I’m even luckier he owed me one.” Mrs. Sperling smiled and handed the file to me.

I waited until Bradley had left the room. “What did the chief owe you?”

“A major case, and his life. He wanted to give me a medal and the substantial reward that was being offered. I asked for free access to all Beverly Hills police reports, past, present and future, and got it. He suggested he would rue the day, but he has yet to. By the way, I am counting on your complete discretion.”

“Nary a word, ma’am.” I opened the file. “Let’s see. We’ve got photographs of the room. There’s some suitcases under the cot. I don’t think I mentioned that.”

“No. How interesting. Mr. Hoffman mentioned that Mr. Stein and his wife newly separated. I suspect Mr. Stein was living in his gallery. Were the contents inventoried?”

“Uh, yeah. Here they are. Twelve shirts, nine pairs of pants, thirty-one pairs of briefs…”

“Hm. Obsessive about clean underwear. Go on.”

“Twelve pairs of socks, four belts, eight sets of suspenders, seven tank tops, nine t-shirts, eight pairs of jeans…”

“How many suitcases were there?”

“Three. Um, two bathrobes, one pair of slippers, and eight pairs of shoes.”

“That’s everything?”

“Yeah. They didn’t list colors.”

“No pajamas.”

“Nope.”

“That’s interesting.”

“He probably slept in the raw,” I said and looked over the report again. “I didn’t see any toiletries listed either. There was some soap, toothpaste and a toothbrush in the bathroom, but nothing else. He should at least have shampoo and deodorant, more likely he’d have everything that Glen has spread out all over the bathroom.”

“Odd. Glen is an excellent housekeeper.”

“Not in the bathroom. It’s clean and all. There’s just lots of clutter.”

“Oh. As for the late Mr. Stein, I take it there is no shower in the gallery.”

“You take it correct.”

“Then no toiletries. I would venture to guess that Mr. Stein is a member of a gymnasium in the local area, and has a permanent locker there, and that is where his toiletries are.”

“Of course.”

“We should verify that. If the toiletries are indeed missing, that could be an important clue, and their actual location an even better one. What else does the report say?”

“It just describes the room, and our statements, and the conversation with Mr. Hoffman, and Bedelia Parrish, his landlady.”

“It’s early, yet, but there wouldn’t happen to be a coroner’s report, would there?”

“Yeah, here. He died between eight-thirty and ten o’clock. He received a blow on the head, in the back, close to the time of death. It was definitely carbon monoxide poisoning. The body had been moved since death. Stomach contents were potatoes, ketchup, mustard, pickles, reconstituted onions, hamburger, bread, cola.”

“Oh, the poor man! Fast food for a last meal.” Mrs. Sperling shuddered.

I grinned. “He’d eaten two to four hours before he died. He’d had at least one hernia operation, probably as a child, and apparently no other surgeries. There was a long scar on his leg, a cut sewn together, also fairly old. No signs of needle marks or other illegal drugs, beyond some scarring in the lungs typical of moderate marijuana use.”

“Has he been formally identified?”

“Yes, by his wife, Ramona Bistler.”

“Ramona Bistler? No wonder they were splitting.” Mrs. Sperling frowned. “That was a terribly catty thing to say. But unfortunately apt.”

“You know her?”

“Not well. A friend of a friend. I’ve met her at several parties. Her husband was never with her, nor did she tend towards fidelity, I’m sorry to say. I have eyewitnesses on that account.”

“Hm. Well, the lab report confirms everything else we know. Oh, there’s a note here that the print in the room is being authenticated.”

“And I just got a call before lunch that it’s genuine.” Sergeant Michaelson’s voice startled me. “Dear Mrs. Sperling, taking advantage of the Chief’s graciousness again, I see.”

“Blood tells, dear Sergeant.” Mrs. Sperling smiled primly.

“So what conclusions have you drawn?”

“None yet, except that Mr. Stein was slightly obsessive about underwear. You didn’t happen to go through it, did you?”

“As a matter of fact, I did. So?”

“Was it in good repair?”

“It all looked brand new to me. Come to think of it, I thought he’d been saving it over the years. It was a lot of underwear. But I didn’t see any signs of wear.”

“Ah. A very orderly, clean person, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yeah. His desk was in pretty good shape.”

“Then why was there bird seed all over the place?”

“That’s easy,” I put in. “Birds are a mess.”

“But all over the room?” Mrs. Sperling frowned. “Usually the mess is somewhat contained.”

I shrugged. “It blew around. My sister had birdseed all the way to the bathroom when she had a bird.”

“But is your sister neat and orderly? Mr. Stein was.” She thought about it, then brushed it off. “Well, that piece of the puzzle shall eventually fit. Is there anything else in the report, Donna?”

“Not that I can see.”

“Anything to add, Sergeant?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. A couple salespeople from two different shops in the neighborhood said that on Wednesday they saw Stein arguing with a customer. It was pretty loud, and a piece of pottery got broken. One of the witnesses identified the customer as Devon of Devonaire. Does that ring a bell?”

“No,” replied Mrs. Sperling.

“There’s a store on Melrose called Devonaire,” I said. “It’s women’s clothing.”

Michaelson shrugged. “I think somebody said the guy, is a clothing designer.”

“That’s very interesting,” Mrs. Sperling said. “We’ll have to talk to him about it.”

“That’s all I’ve got for you,” Sergeant Michaelson said.

“Fine. We shall vacate, then. Oh, one thing more, Sergeant. The officer patrolling the neighborhood of the gallery. Did he happen to note the presence of any cars in that alley that night?”

“Officer Willoughby was on duty and, uh, made no such notation.” Sergeant Michaelson shifted.

“You have reason to doubt the officer?” Mrs. Sperling had caught his unease also.

“Not per se. The local security patrol didn’t note any suspicious vehicles either. Willoughby just gives me a bad feeling is all.”

“I see. Perhaps we should press Officer Wiyybybyloughby on this matter. If you would be so good as to give me his address, I will do so.”

“I’ll go you one better. Here he is right now.”

Officer Willoughby was a fairly young man with blonde hair. Tall and slightly filled out, he was wearing a worn polo shirt and faded jeans. Sergeant Michaelson waved him into the detectives’ room.

“Yeah, Sergeant. What’s up?” Willoughby growled passively.

“This is Mrs. Delilah Sperling,” answered the sergeant. “She’s taken an interest in the Stein murder.”

“You’re off duty,” Mrs. Sperling observed.

“Uh, yeah.” Willoughby looked puzzled. I, too, wondered how Mrs. Sperling figured that one out.

“If I remember correctly, your shift should end at six thirty in the morning,” Mrs. Sperling said to the unasked question. “What brings you here at this time of day?”

“Got a friend on the cross-over shift. We’re gonna play racquetball when he gets off.”

“Ah. I see. I understand you were patrolling the alley and neighborhood around Mr. Stein’s gallery the night before last.”

“Sure.”

“And you did not notice any suspicious cars?”

“No.”

“None?”

“None.”

“Odd.”

“I don’t know what anyone else is saying, ma’am. But I did not see anything out of place in that alley all night.”

“Very well, then.” Mrs. Sperling rewarded him with a smile. She signaled me, and we bade good-bye to the two policemen and left the station.

We headed back to the gallery. Mrs. Sperling wanted to find out some more about Mr. Stein’s psychology. Most of the people in the neighboring stores knew him, but nobody knew him very well.

“He was one of those loner types,” sighed Geraldine, the owner of the clothes boutique next to the gallery. “He was real nice. And responsible, too. Always showed up at our merchants’ association meetings. On time, which is more than I can say. He always said hi when he saw me. But I can’t say I knew him. Hell, I didn’t even know he was married until I heard about the split.” She sniffed. “I’m gonna miss him. He was a real hot dresser. Really had style, not like some guys you see, all trendy and no panache. Or worse yet, complete rebellion. Poor Josh. He really knew how to dress.”

Geraldine was the most expansive on Mr. Josh Stein’s personality. Most of the other merchants muttered platitudes about Mr. Stein’s nice nature, and that was it. Until we met Mr. Leon Dresser.

He was one of the salespeople Sergeant Michaelson had mentioned. Dressed in a bright blue jumpsuit and beret, he was an average sized man with cropped blond hair, and earrings parading all along the edges of his ears.

“Oh, who knows what they were arguing about!” he gushed. “I certainly didn’t care. Devon is about as obnoxious as they come. He thinks he’s the only person with taste on the entire West Coast. Have you seen his stuff? I’ve seen better on the beds in the Sears catalog. Of course, I was surprised. Shocked, even. I mean Josh, well it took a lot to get him mad, if you know what I mean. But there they were, yelling at each other. Then the pottery went, I’m not sure how, and Josh lost it. That’s when I left. Seeing a man lose his temper like that is not a pretty sight, nor one for strangers.”

Mrs. Sperling agreed with a sigh.

“Kind of suspicious, huh?” I said as we walked to the gallery and the car.

“Not necessarily,” replied Mrs. Sperling. “We shall have to wait and see if the argument is truly significant. Eleanor, halt. This is the alley?”

“Yeah.”

“Anyplace near the gallery that a car could hide?”

“Not really. There’s a large metal trash bin two doors down. But that would only hide a small car, and from this end only. There’s a major cross street a block down.”

“The car could have come and gone between both patrols. It wouldn’t have needed to stay long.”

“Five minutes, max. So now what?”

“That’s a good question. I recommend home for the moment. We have to find where Mr. Stein’s gymnasium is. I’ve a feeling we shall have to find out from Ms. Ramona Bistler, and that will require strategy. Yes, home is definitely the place.”

“Right away, Mrs. Sperling.”

As I drove into the driveway, Glen pulled in behind us and whipped around to the other end of the drive. I let Mrs. Sperling out near the kitchen door, then garaged the DeVille. I had to chuckle as I looked at the driveway. At one end was the garage which sheltered Mrs. Sperling’s bright red V.W. convertible and her traditional black Cadillac limousine, in addition to the DeVille. Along the side of the garage were parked my Altima, Glen’s beat-up Toyota sedan, and a Triumph Spitfire that belonged to Mrs. Osgood. The three older cars looked as though they were huddling together, bemoaning their derelict appearances amongst so much wealth.

Inside, Glen tried to get information out of Mrs. Sperling.

“You mean you have no idea?” he groaned.

“I have some, but it’s much too early to form a hypothesis. There are many more facts to be gathered first.”

“Bitchen,” he sulked. Mrs. Sperling cleared her throat. “Oh, sorry. Nobody else thinks it’s a cuss word.”

“Nonetheless, it’s insulting to female dogs.”

“Yeah.” Glen sighed. “I guess what I really want to know is how am I going to get my real Niedeman?”

“That is something the lawyers will have to decide,” Mrs. Sperling replied. “I’d best warn you, you may not.”

Glen held back a barrage of profanities. “That’s all I need. I’m already out several hundred dollars, if I can even find one.”

“I’m sorry, Glen.” Mrs. Sperling was genuinely so. “But don’t panic yet. A lot depends on how involved Mr. Stein was in the counterfeiting business. If there are criminal charges against him, the court may put a lien on his estate. It might also see that you are recompensed. It all depends on how the questions are answered, and how you present your case.”

The doorbell rang and Glen hurried off to answer it. I followed Mrs. Sperling into the living room. Glen arrived with us.

“It’s Mrs. Delgado,” he said. “Are you receiving?”

Mrs. Sperling perked up. “Norma? Of course, I will. Show her in.”

Glen left.

“Um, should I excuse myself?” I asked.

“Not unless you want to.”

Mrs. Sperling turned to greet her guest. Norma Delgado was probably around Mrs. Sperling’s age, and easily as well kept up. Her black hair showed slivers of grey and was drawn into a neat bun at the back of her neck. She was shorter and rounder than Mrs. Sperling. Her shirtwaist dress was a polished cotton with the kind of detailed tailoring that meant money.

“Delilah, I just happened to be in the neighborhood, and I thought I’d take a chance and see if you were in,” she said with sincere warmth. Just a hint of an accent belied her Hispanic ancestry.

“We’re fortunate, then,” replied Mrs. Sperling. “I just got back. Please have a seat.”

“Thank you.” Mrs. Delgado smiled at me. “Is this a new friend or employee?”

“Oh, this is Donna Brechter, my new chauffeur. Donna, this is Mrs. Norma Delgado.”

“Pleased to meet you,” I replied with a quick nod.

“Go ahead and sit down, Donna,” Mrs. Sperling directed.

I sat down on the edge of the sofa.

“What happened to Jimmy?” Mrs. Delgado asked.

“He sold too many books,” said Mrs. Sperling. “His publisher sent him on a publicity tour, and he had to leave before I could get another chauffeur. He felt very bad about it, in fact, I had quite a time convincing him he should go. I survived with taxis in the meantime, and Glen, when he wasn’t in class. But now I have Donna, and she’s been most satisfactory.”

“Thanks,” I muttered and blushed.

“Good.” Mrs. Delgado smiled again. “Actually, I was going to call you. Have you heard about Ramona Bistler’s husband?”

“Oh, yes.” A mischievous smile crept onto Mrs. Sperling’s lips.

“Oh, no. When I heard he’d been murdered, I had this strange feeling you’d be up to your elbows in it, or about to be.” Mrs. Delgado looked Mrs. Sperling over. “Well, am I wrong?”

“Very right, I’m afraid. We found the body.”

“And have been investigating ever since. Then maybe you will be interested. Alisa Montrose is having a party tonight, after the viewing.”

“I’m not sure…”

“I know Alisa is unbearable, and frankly, I don’t blame you. But the party is for Ramona, to cheer her up, not that… Oh dear, I can’t help it. Not that Ramona needs it.”

Mrs. Sperling sighed. “I’m afraid Ramona does ask for a certain amount of talk behind her back.”

“I know. But I hate being catty. It’s bad enough having to be pleasant to people like Alisa Montrose. I don’t want to be like her. I’m serious. If it weren’t for Mario depending on her vote, and everyone else’s, I’d make it a point to avoid her.”

“Such is the burden of a politician’s wife. And how is the judge?”

“Working like a dog, as usual. He’s beginning to worry about being re-elected. Then there’s all the work he has to do as his job. I say he’s crazy, but he loves it, so I’m happy for him. Fortunately, my business keeps me occupied when I want to be. Oh, Mario said to invite you to dinner next week. He wants to talk to somebody without campaigning.”

“Certainly. Is Friday good?”

“Perfect. As for tonight, the viewing is from six to eight, party from eight-thirty to whenever. I don’t mean to scare you off, but Alisa specifically asked me to invite you. I think it’s ghoulish curiosity. Still, I thought that if you were looking into the matter, it would provide you with an opportunity to talk to Ramona.”

“It would indeed.” Mrs. Sperling lapsed into a brief daze. She snapped out of it quickly. “I suppose I shall suffer through it. I take it you’ll be there also?”

“Of course. I’m going to be partying from now until the election next June. I’ve got to do my bit to keep Mario on his bench.”

“Let me know what parties you’ll be going to, and I’ll try and fit a few into my schedule.”

“Delilah, you are a doll.” Mrs. Delgado got up. “Masochistic, but a doll. I’m going to hurry on now. I’ll see you tonight. Don’t get up. I’ll see myself out.”

“Donna,” Mrs. Sperling said when we were alone. “I don’t think I’ll be needing you for the rest of the afternoon. But have the limo ready at eight-fifteen.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Did you have plans for tonight?”

“Strictly tentative.”

“Well, unless they’re early, don’t cancel them. I doubt I’ll be late.”

“You don’t have to do that. I don’t mind working.”

“I’m sure you don’t, and normally I wouldn’t. But I seriously doubt I’m going to be spending much time at Alisa Montrose’s.”

 

mystery fiction, mystery serial

Chapter Three

As soon as the tab was settled, we returned Dolores to her gallery. I pulled out, then stopped for a red light at the end of the block.

“Well, now what?” asked Glen.

“Donna, did you hear the address Dolores gave me?” Mrs. Sperling countered.

“Yes, I did.”

“So we’re going to talk to this Gonzagos dude?” Glen gulped.

“You needn’t be so nervous, Glen,” said Mrs. Sperling. “I did say that the evidence points away from him.”

“We’ll just hope he’s not drunk,” I teased.

“If he is intoxicated, we’ll merely beat a hasty retreat,” Mrs. Sperling replied to Glen’s groan. “In vino is not necessarily veritas.”

“Oh.” Glen frowned. He had no idea what Mrs. Sperling meant, but he wasn’t about to admit it.

Fred Gonzagos’ house was in the Fairfax district. It was an apartment in a larger house with a pink stuccoed Spanish exterior and a black wrought iron staircase sweeping up to his door. The building had probably been built in the thirties. The neighborhood was quite neat and almost sleepy. I decided that if Gonzagos was suffering from racial oppression, he didn’t do too badly by it. Then I remembered his other career.

Mrs. Sperling decided to stay in the car. I guess she didn’t expect much success. I felt brave, so I left Glen with her, and went to the door myself. Mrs. Sperling was right. I got no answer, at least not from the apartment.

“Hey! Who are you?” called a matronly voice with a thick Spanish accent below me.

I cautiously came down the stairs. “Um, I’m looking for Mr. Gonzagos. I understand he has some Niedemans for sale.”

“I don’t give a damn what you here for,” growled the woman, a stout Hispanic lady whose age and bearing matched her voice. “I want to know who you are.”

“I’m a customer for Mr. Gonzagos.” I remained firm.

She threw up her arms. “Well, you can’t talk to him. He’s been out of town since yesterday. And don’t get no fancy ideas. This whole house got more alarms than the White House, and they all connected to the police station.”

“I believe you.” I backed off. “Any idea when he’ll be back?”

“Few days, few weeks, who knows?”

“Know where he went?”

“If I knew that, I know when he come back!” She waddled back into her abode, grumbling under her breath in Spanish.

“Well?” asked Glen upon my return.

“A big fat zip,” I grumbled. “He’s out of town since yesterday, which sounds kind of suspicious to me.”

“It does,” agreed Mrs. Sperling. “Any return date or location?”

“None.”

“Even more suspicious, but not at all likely to stand up in court. Could be a very convenient coincidence for the real killer.”

“Where to now, Mrs. Sperling?” I asked, starting the engine.

“Home,” she answered. “I do have a life outside of counterfeit serigraphs and murders, and you, Donna, have some moving to do.”

“That’s right. Will I need any towels or anything like that?”

“Just your personal toiletries. Do you think you’ll be able to return by six? I’d like to let Mrs. Osgood know how many to expect for dinner.”

“I don’t know. I’ll just hit a drive-thru.”

“Ooph! I’ll ask Mrs. Osgood to save you a plate.”

“Thanks.”

The first thing I did when we got back to the house was phone my mother. She was thrilled to hear I was definitely employed and moving out. I found out how thrilled when I got home. She had called Dad home early from their store and had him dismantling my bed by the time I got there.

“My room is already furnished, Mom,” I told her. “I thought I said so on the phone.”

“I know, dear. But we’re turning this one into a study. Dad’s computer is going in here, and my desk. I don’t know, Walt. What do you think of mauve?”

“It’s okay,” grunted my father, struggling with the box springs.

“Walt, are you even listening to me? I’m trying to make a decision here, and I need your help.”

Smiling to myself, I went and got the suitcases my mom was letting me borrow. I doubted Mom would get any help from my dad. As much as I love him, I have to admit I’ve never heard him give an opinion on anything.

As I left, Mom grabbed her purse and followed me out the door.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“To the paint store. I’ve got an appointment with the decorator there.”

“So much for empty nest syndrome.”

“Oh, Donna.” Mom sighed as she stopped and looked at me. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I know you’ve had plans for my room for a while.”

“Well, your brother and sisters are gone. I guess I’ve been so used to you being gone so much, it felt like you didn’t live here. That, and I’ve already been through the separation process. You know how bad I felt when Debbie left. Of course, she was my baby.”

“And going to live with her boyfriend.”

“At least they got married last year. What a mess that was. I think that’s why I’m acting like this. Get it over with right away. Short and sweet.” She suddenly hugged me. “My firstborn angel. I’m gonna miss you.”

“I can stay,” I teased.

“Hell, no! Oh, Donna! You know what I mean. I’m serious, darling. If this doesn’t work out, you come right on back. I don’t want you to be afraid of that. You’re always welcome here. I said that to Peter, and Denise, and Debbie. I’m still saying that to Debbie.”

“You are never going to forgive Ernie, are you?”

“She was only eighteen, and he was nineteen. How were they supposed to support themselves?”

“Well, they did, and still are, better than I was for a long time.”

“That’s different, dear. Maybe your father didn’t understand, but I knew there are just some things you have to get out of your system.”

“Yeah.” I sighed to myself.

“Now, are you gonna be alright?”

“Oh, sure. Mrs. Sperling is a perfect lady.” With a penchant for murder. But I wasn’t about to tell my mother that.

“At least she isn’t a man. I am a little worried, but you know best. Why don’t you come home Sunday for dinner? Peter and Elise are coming, and Denise said she might show.”

“If Mrs. Sperling doesn’t need me to take her somewhere.”

“Call me, then. Oops! I’d better get running. Take care, darling.”

“You, too, Mom.”

I kissed her, then got back into my old Altima, and headed west to Los Angeles and my new life. I couldn’t help sighing. While I didn’t dare admit it to my mother, or Mrs. Sperling, I still hadn’t gotten the show business thing out of my system. I found myself wondering how long it would take to save up for new pictures, and whether I could get a night or two off for classes, or maybe an afternoon or morning to go to auditions.

The dream of making it was still as strong as ever. I doubted I’d ever be rid of it. But one thing my folks always taught me was that if you make a commitment, you don’t break it. I had promised I’d be self-supporting when I turned twenty-six, and at last, I was.

Well, I had moved out at any rate. My new home was a fair-sized room, decorated with a Louis Quinze escritoire and chair, a matching breakfront, lush rose-colored carpeting, and a simple bed covered by a tapestry style bedspread featuring lords and ladies being pastoral in eighteenth-century dress. The walls were bare to allow me my own tastes. A full-length mirror was bolted to the closet door. The closet was huge and had plenty of extra shelves built in.

The only drawback to the whole set-up was that I had to share a bathroom with Glen. Upon the departure of my predecessor, he had spread out. The counter was littered with mousse cans, gel tubes, blow dryer, soaps, creams, shaving equipment, aspirin bottles, tissues, nasal decongestants, and nameless other containers. Stuck to the mirror were pictures of various art, mostly women. The bathtub/shower had its share of bottles and several hangers with drying sweaters and pants hanging from the curtain rod.

It was a pity the room was such a mess. It would have been a gorgeous bathroom otherwise. The tub and counter were both black marble. The cabinets were lovely white French Provincial, and the fixtures were bright brass with white porcelain. The counter, fortunately, had two sinks. The linens were lush soft towels in grey, navy, and white, and were laying on the floor.

I picked one up.

“Oh, you’re back,” said Glen, as he came in.

“Yeah.” I looked at him. “You are worse than my brother and two sisters combined.”

“I, uh, gotta clean up. Set your stuff down here and go eat dinner. The plate’s in the oven, salad in the refrigerator. No feeding Eleanor.”

“Okay.”

I wandered through the house until I found the kitchen. The lights were on, and a large black woman dressed in a white uniform and apron bent over something on the stove. She looked up and smiled when she saw me.

“You must be Donna,” she said with a slight Jamaican rhythm. “I’m Mrs. Osgood. I cook for Mrs. Sperling. The dinner is in the oven. Help yourself.”

“Thanks.” I retrieved the plate and got the salad out of the refrigerator. I was almost afraid to eat, the plate looked so lovely. There were two lamb cutlets, perfectly pink, browned swirled potatoes, and carrots and zucchini that were just starting to lose their bright color from the wait in the oven. “You do this every night?”

“Not always lamb. I cook many other things.”

“But so fancy.”

She let out a big, well-rounded laugh. “I am trained at the Cordon Bleu. I have been a cook at many of the best restaurants in Los Angeles. But I do not like it. I work for Mrs. Sperling and do things like this. You see? A beautiful demi-glace. This one must wait overnight for the full flavor to come out. You cannot always do this at a restaurant. There it is always fast, and good cooking will not always take that.” She breathed in the steam coming from the pot and sighed in pure pleasure.

She finished up while I ate and left. I continued my meal, browsing through the mail I had brought from home. It was all ads, and my Backstage West. I spread the trade paper out and forced myself to read the front of it before skipping to the casting notices. I heard soft clicking, then saw Eleanor morosely look up at me.

“I’m not supposed to feed you,” I told her.

The dog whined, then padded over to the refrigerator. I went back to dinner and reading.

About five minutes later, I became aware of hot breath on my hand.

“Eleanor! Get down!” Mrs. Sperling’s well-bred voice commanded.

Eleanor removed her paws from the table top and slunk over to her corner by the refrigerator. Mrs. Sperling stood in the doorway.

“How…” I stopped myself from asking the rude question with a great deal of stammering. “Oh, uh, hi.”

“Enjoying your meal?” Mrs. Sperling headed for the pantry with her own exquisite grace.

“Yeah. It’s terrific. Mrs. Osgood informed me that you always eat this well.”

“When I’m here, I do.” She opened the pantry door, reached in, then frowned. “Unfortunately, Mrs. Osgood considers the kitchen her domain, which makes it a little awkward for me when I want a snack after she goes home.” She pulled out a box of powdered milk and sniffed at it. “Are these my biscuits? No.” She rummaged again. “Ah. These. Arrowroot biscuits. One of my greater weaknesses. Now, if she just hasn’t moved the milk.”

She negotiated the refrigerator door and Eleanor and rescued the carton of low fat.

“Are you all moved in?” she asked, sitting down with a glass, the milk and cookie box.

“Not completely. I still have some clothes and books and odds and ends at my folks’ place. I’ll be retrieving them as time goes on.”

“That’s convenient.”

“Umm.” I looked her over carefully. “I don’t know if this is too personal to ask…”

“But you’d like to know why I’m investigating a murder when I am obviously not a member of the police department.” Mrs. Sperling smiled, completely unruffled by my nosiness. “Given that I have you assisting me, you certainly have a right to know. I’m a private investigator, by avocation. I have a license just for credibility’s sake, and I occasionally accept fees.”

“Oh.” I frowned. “But this morning, we were only going to find out about the forgery, then you went ahead after the murderer. Aren’t you supposed to have a client before you do that?”

“Well…” Mrs. Sperling let out a lady-like, but merry giggle. “It’s only a matter of finding one. I’ll admit, it’s a rather backward way to go about it, but it works. Glen has agreed to act as my client for the time being. There is another who might be more interested, but he, alas, is not home. By the way, Glen usually screens my calls, but you may answer the phone, also. Leave any messages for me on the voice recorder next to the hall phone. You might also want to write them down just in case.”

“Sure.” I went back to eating. “Have you heard any more on the Stein murder?”

“Not much. Sergeant Michaelson questioned Mr. Hoffman more extensively than I did. Mr. Hoffman claims he worked late because of the power outage, then went out with friends, the latter part of which the good sergeant has already verified. Mr. Hoffman’s landlady confirms that Mr. Hoffman came in when he did, and says he got up at his usual time of seven o’clock. At least she heard his clock radio go off. According to the sergeant, she rather belabored that point. Apparently, Mr. Hoffman is in the habit of turning the volume on quite loud and forgetting to turn the thing off. She lives under him.”

“I guess Hoffman’s out, then.”

“Not necessarily. I have too few facts to begin ruling out suspects. Still, it doesn’t seem likely that Mr. Hoffman is the killer. He didn’t strike me as being terribly intelligent, and this particular murder was quite cleverly put together. Perhaps not the murder itself, but the way the body was left…” Mrs. Sperling slowly froze as she became immersed in her thoughts.

I didn’t really notice. “Maybe it was Gonzagos, then. Maybe he blew his stack and hit Stein, then took advantage of it and left him in the car.”

“It doesn’t really fit what we know of Mr. Gonzagos’ psychologically. He is only violent when he’s drunk, and inebriated, he could never have set up the body that way. Still, it would give him access to Mr. Stein’s keys, which were not found, by the way.” Mrs. Sperling snapped out of her daze and went back to dunking cookies in milk. “It’s far too soon to say for sure. The counterfeiting motive is an awkward one, as it is an obvious attempt to discredit Mr. Stein. Furthermore, despite his suspicious disappearance, we cannot say anything definite about Mr. Gonzagos psychologically until we’ve met him. Dolores is extremely accurate in her perceptions of people, but one can misconstrue motives.”

I grinned. “How’d you get into investigating? I mean, well…”

“That my blindness would seem to be an insurmountable handicap in the detection field?” She laughed. “It can be a problem if I can’t get accurate detailed descriptions. But a lot of detection is understanding the psychology of the criminal. The rest is merely applying logic. Even the most unbalanced and insane behave to a logic of their own. The trick is in discovering it.”

“That’s some trick.”

“One merely adds up the discrepancies, and there’s always a logical reason for them.”

“But still…”

“Everyone makes the art of deduction harder than it is. You deduce things every day.”

“How?”

“Well, you look out your window in the morning. Your room is quite nice and warm. But outside the sky is overcast. What do you do?”

“Put on a coat when I go outside because it’s cold.”

“But what if it’s June?”

I laughed. “I’d put on my shorts. The clouds will have burnt off by one.”

“Brava! You made a deduction based on clues. Because I have no sight, I have to rely on other clues than you and make more deductions just to survive on my own. Maybe that’s why I’m such a good detective. I also tend towards an orderly mindset.”

“So you just started snooping one day.”

“Not really. My father used to read to me quite copiously when I was young, there not being nearly as many audiobooks available that there are now. He was always a fan of detective fiction, Rex Stout and Raymond Chandler being his particular favorites. They weren’t mine. I didn’t have any sympathy for the characters, and I always guessed who did it long before Father did. Then Father read Whose Body? to me, by Dorothy Sayers. I’ve been an incurable Lord Peter Wimsey fan ever since. I still figured them out rather quickly, but at least I had sympathy for the characters, and for detecting. In my innocence, I decided that if Nero Wolfe could get away with never seeing the scene, so could I, and without being a pompous old poop about it.” She sucked on a milk-soaked cookie before eating it. “It was terribly juvenile, but I was determined to prove that I could do it, which I did.”

“But why keep on, especially if you’ve made your point? Unless you need to for a living.”

“My living was made for me years ago.” She chuckled and soaked another cookie. “I keep on for the same reason actors continue to act after they’ve made their fortunes or CEOs continue to go into the office when they could comfortably retire. You’re not going to stop dancing when you’ve made your fortune.”

“Well, no. Not that it’s likely I’ll get my chance.”

“Either way, you’ll still dance. It’s what you are. And I am a detective. I can’t stop any more than you can.”

“Hm.” I looked at her carefully. “Do you resent being blind?”

“No. I’ve never seen, so I don’t really know what I’m supposedly missing. I don’t know that life is that much harder. I’d like to drive myself, perhaps. But even when I didn’t have a chauffeur, I always found public transportation to be sufficient.”

“It wasn’t too limiting?”

“Occasionally. Life is full of limits. There are some things that you simply cannot do. But do you spend much time grieving over it?”

“No.”

“Neither do I.” She smiled. “I did resent being different as a child. However, given the perspective of time, I realize that I would have still been different even with sight. My parents are unusual people. They believe in convention only so far as it prevents anarchy. My father always said to stay on the right side of the law but live on your own terms. He and my mother truly do.”

“Are they retired?”

“More or less. My father spends about four months out of the year overseeing his business interests. The rest of the time, he and my mother travel.”

“Lucky stiffs.”

“They’re extremely lucky, mostly because they’re blessed with the ability to be happy wherever they are, and they’re hopelessly in love with each other.”

“That’s great.” This time I heard Eleanor at the same time as Mrs. Sperling. “Hey!”

“Eleanor, to your room,” commanded Mrs. Sperling.

Sulking, Eleanor padded out.

“How long have you had her?” I asked.

“Three years now.”

“Did the school name her Eleanor, or was that your idea?”

“Mine. I changed it the third day I had her. It seemed more appropriate. Her full name is Eleanor Roosevelt.”

“I don’t get it.”

“She’s such a buttinsky.”

“Ah. You’re a Republican.”

“My father is, vehemently so. My mother is a devout Democrat, a fact she’s hidden from my father all their lives. She comes from a time when women catered to their men, not that she ever did. She merely thinks that they have such a nice relationship, why muck it up with nonessentials?” She stood. “I’d best get back upstairs. I have a recording to make for a friend of mine. Just leave your dish in the sink. Help yourself to breakfast.”

“Thanks. Um. What time will you be needing me tomorrow?”

“Eleven, at the earliest.”

“Good. There’s a dance class in Hollywood that I usually take. It goes from eight to ten. I’d kind of like to keep it up when it doesn’t interfere. I don’t want to get out of shape.”

“Especially if a good role comes up.”

“Uh, yeah.” I sighed. “But this job comes first.”

“I understand. You’re a dancer. Do you still have an agent?”

“A commercial one. My theatrical agent I’m dropping. He almost never sends me out.”

“Too bad for him.” She put the milk back in the refrigerator, then paused. “Donna, if you do get an audition or job, please tell me. I’m willing to work around things.”

“You are? Aren’t you afraid I’ll get too tied up in it?”

“Not if we’re communicating. And although I’m confident you are very talented, I also know the odds. Even with a great deal of talent, innocents like you have a harder time making it than others. I seriously doubt there will be that many conflicts. But keep trying, Donna.”

“Thanks,” I muttered, utterly surprised and awed by her generosity.