The Rita Farmer Mystery series Box Set Page 25

  “No.”

  Eileen shook her head again, then lowered it almost to her chest. She looked up at me with forced brightness, tears streaming from her eyes. “That bitch. That stone bitch.”

  Chapter 32 – The Key To It All

  Tracy Beck-Rubin had, by the looks of her, gone without sleep last night to work on the questions she wanted to put to Eileen on cross-examination. Her cartoon-cat face with its blurry corona of hair was pouchy and anxious. It was clear to everyone she’d been put at a disadvantage by Eileen’s testimony.

  Eileen sat with her head level, her body straight and balanced, symmetrical in the chair, her spine poised in space. Her face was relaxed yet with an exquisite wariness rooted in the corners of her eyes, a wariness meant clearly for Beck-Rubin. I watched the jury respond to Eileen, adopting wariness toward the prosecutor themselves. It was incredible.

  This, the cross-examination—the unscripted, reactive challenge—was improv day for Eileen.

  That morning, everything in the courtroom went on below the surface. I mean, Beck-Rubin went on the attack against Eileen, and Eileen withstood it, but heavy, heavy feelings ran through her; everybody perceived it. I tried hard to quell my natural hysteria about Petey, to steel myself to focus on the trial since I could do nothing for him except wait tonight for Janet’s call. Emotion coursed beneath everything that day like groundwater flowing from the mountains to the sea.

  Eileen answered the prosecutor’s questions, showing her grief and pain just under the surface. Beck-Rubin bore in, holding in check her feelings of being one-upped, or trying to. She really didn’t understand how this shift had occurred. The jury didn’t understand. No one else did either, except me.

  Eileen had taken everyone in that courtroom and massaged their cerebral cortexes with the same magic that makes us cry when Ingrid Bergman turns reluctantly into Paul Henreid’s arms on the tarmac. The same magic that makes us writhe when Anthony Hopkins discusses the flavor of human flesh with Jodie Foster. The same magic that makes us laugh when Diane Keaton disses Woody Allen.

  Man, she had it.

  I was glad Oatberger wasn’t there.

  Beck-Rubin got going on Eileen’s use of Valium: “This designer drug—”

  “Objection!” from Mark Sharma.

  Beck-Rubin: “OK, this drug we’ve heard described as ‘designer’—you’ve testified you took it as needed. You needed it a lot, didn’t you?”

  Mark, on his feet: “Object!”

  Beck-Rubin: “Your Honor, I’m pursuing a valid line of questioning here.”

  The exchange ended pointlessly with Eileen testifying that she used to take half a Valium tablet once or twice a month. She denied that she’d taken any the night Gabriella died. The prosecution had no one to say otherwise, no sheaf of prescriptions from ten different doctors to brandish, nothing like that.

  In spite of my resolve, thoughts of Petey kept ramming through my brain. When I let myself feel too much, I heard a wah-wah-wah sound in my ears, like when a high wind buffets you. I think it was my blood pressure. Over and over again I forced myself into an approximation of calmness. I could only help Petey if I stayed sane and smart.

  Next Beck-Rubin decided to hammer on Eileen’s habit of truthfulness, or lack of it.

  “Have you ever read LA BackChat?” she asked in a scornful tone.

  “Oh, yes!” answered Eileen with warm enthusiasm. “I used to pick it up every week!”

  The jury broke into laughter at Eileen’s frank ardor for the trashy tabloid.

  Irritated now, bitchy now, Beck-Rubin said, “But no more?”

  “No.”

  “It’s hard to run down to the corner store to get it when you’re in jail, isn’t it?”

  Mark Sharma sat still. It cost him effort to do it, but he could see Eileen was taking care of herself.

  “Now.” Beck-Rubin paced in front of the witness box like a patient cougar sizing up a rabbit hole. “As we’ve heard, in the space of two years, LA BackChat has run fourteen items mentioning you. And we’ve heard testimony that showed you yourself placed calls to their columnists.”

  “Yes,” agreed Eileen patiently.

  “So you don’t deny making those calls, feeding gossip to this publication?”

  Eileen looked at her. “I don’t call it gossip.”

  Beck-Rubin stopped pacing, the toe of one pump touching the carpet. “What do you call it, Mrs. Tenaway?”

  “Shaming the devil.”

  The jury got it, and loved it. Tracy Beck-Rubin almost staggered from the impact of Eileen’s gentle wit. I expected a referee in a white shirt and bow tie to run in and throw a standing count in front of her eyes.

  But she kept her fists up, wanting victory, now bearing in on something Eileen had said about Gabriella. That, at bedtime, she had seemed “restless.”

  “When a child is restless, sometimes it gets annoying, doesn’t it?” prompted Beck-Rubin.

  “Objection,” said Mark Sharma, crisply and instantly. “Sustained,” said Judge Davenport. “Come on, Tracy.” Beck-Rubin touched her hands to her hips and paused. Then she said, “Had you ever found yourself irritated by Gabriella’s restlessness?”

  Mark looked anxious, but Eileen stared down Tracy Beck-Rubin as if she pitied her for her cluelessness and said, “She wasn’t alive in this world long enough for me to have ever been irritated by her.”

  Collectively, again, the jury exhaled with satisfaction.

  It was, of course, a barefaced lie—any mother will tell you that—but Eileen made it sound like the most beautiful truth ever spoken.

  In Tracy Beck-Rubin’s hour of desperation I found her no less fascinating than ever. I sat there trying to put myself in her position. How would I handle it? The momentum has shifted to the other side, but it ain’t over. You gotta gather your guts and do the best you can.

  She did, question after question, insinuation after insinuation, but Eileen held her own.

  I was proud.

  The defense rested.

  _____

  Janet called at nine that night.

  “First, let me talk to Petey,” I said, my vocal cords tight.

  “Sorry, he’s sleeping. Wasn’t easy to get him there, and I’m not about to wake him up.”

  “God damn you.”

  “Whatever. So?”

  I said, “I have directions to where the key is.”

  She grunted in impatience. “I told you to get the key.”

  “Well, I’m scared,” I said. “Plus you said this was an opportunity for me. You meant you’re going to cut me in, right?”

  Cautiously, Janet said, “Yes.”

  “For half, right?”

  She paused. “Whoa. Whoa.”

  “A third, then. Because without me tonight, you’re nothing.”

  “Whoa. Still.” Then, clearly, she got smart; I could practically hear it over the line. “How ’bout ten percent?” she said slyly.

  “Well, OK. Yeah.”

  Obviously she had no intention of giving me anything. Maybe she even thought she’d kill me once we uncovered the treasure. My aim was simply to exert a measure of control over her: I wanted her to get used to negotiating with me.

  “So,” I said, “we’re going to get that key together, and we’re going over to the locker, wherever it is, together. I’m your insurance, and you’re mine. See? It’s better for both of us this way.”

  “But what if—”

  “Look, Janet, you don’t want to hurt my boy, right, you just want your rightful property. Right?”

  “Essentially.”

  “Then drive over to that Starbucks right now, the one where we met before.”

  I hung up without waiting for a response.

  She’d ditched the blue Audi for a beige Toyota. The streetlights, pushing back the city darkness, helped me make out drivers’ faces. As soon as I saw her I ran over and jumped into the passenger seat. “Let’s go,” I said in a TV-cop voice.

  Surprised, s
he stepped on it, and we peeled out east on Santa Monica.

  “Turn around,” I said, “and go to Eileen and Richard’s house.”

  She did it. Her eyes scanned the road like cat eyes, back and forth. I could smell the nervousness in her, there beneath her phony, insane coolness.

  She was taking direction from me.

  “My boy OK?” I asked.

  “He’s fine, he’s fine.” She braked for a wheelchair person waiting in a crosswalk.

  Coldly, I said, “I’m getting warped by all this stress. Janet, just swear to me my baby’s going to be all right.”

  “Well, hon, that’s gonna be up to—”

  “When I get stressed,” I interrupted, “I tend to start puking all over the place.” This was not true, but I wanted her to tell me more about where Petey was and who was with him. “In fact—oh, God!—right now I think—”

  “Whoa!” cried Janet. “Hang on, girlfriend. I need you, OK? I guarantee your boy’s OK. OK? He’s fine.”

  “But to think of him all alone, it makes me want to cut my throat.” I drummed my hands wildly on the dashboard. I wanted her to think I was unpredictable.

  “Well, that one I can—I mean—he’s not alone, OK?” Janet maneuvered the car through the night traffic on Santa Monica. “He’s not? Who’s with him?”

  “Uh...”

  “You just said he’s not alone.”

  “Well, he is and he isn’t.”

  What the hell does that mean? I said, “I know you can’t tell me exactly where Petey is, OK, but just—I mean, but if he’s under some bridge with a bunch of drug addicts, because he has a phobia about filth and bugs and strangers—”

  “Well, this person won’t bother him. I do not hang out with drug addicts. He’s not under a bridge, Rita, come on. He’s not in a particularly ghettoey area, it’s really a fairly nice neighborhood. And it’s quite a clean place, actually. I’ve been doing a lot of cleaning lately, actually.” She gave a short laugh. “Hey, I’m doing everything I can to make Petey comfortable.”

  “Then would you do me the courtesy of calling there and letting me speak to whatever person is looking after him tonight? Because Petey has a—he has a heart condition where he needs to sleep with his feet elevated. And it’s way past his bedtime. Would you? Please?”

  Janet let out a tense little sigh. “I can’t, really. I mean, I would if I could. But this person isn’t exactly able to talk to anyone.”

  “You mean—”

  “They’re really not in any shape.”

  “You mean they’re drunk?”

  “Uh...”

  “Or stoned or something?”

  “Uh...”

  “Or deaf-mute? or what?”

  “Mm, it’s a little more serious than that. I don’t want to lie to you, Rita, yet—”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “Just relax, Rita, ’kay?”

  “You mean somebody’s there but that somebody isn’t alive.”

  Janet sighed with relief. “Yeah, yeah. I must admit. But it was an accident.”

  Now I really felt like throwing up. “An accident? You’re storing a corpse in the same place you’ve got my son? What kind of—”

  “Goddamn it, Rita, it’s not what you think! Don’t go to pieces on me.” She braked emphatically to a stop at a red light. “Look, sometimes it’s necessary to hide a certain situation. Right?”

  “Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Oh, my God.” Be rational, be rational.

  “Look! Let me be clear. The body—this person—is not just sitting out on display. I’m not a sicko, OK? I’m being methodical, which is what you have to be when you’re trying to accomplish something. And what works in a case like this is Pine-Sol. Many bottles of Pine-Sol.” The light changed, but Janet didn’t notice. “I came upon that fact by chance.”

  Be rational. “You have the green.”

  “Oh, thank you. I’ve been running all over town buying more Pine-Sol. Original. I mean, the dumpster is the first place they always look—they never think of the bathtub! So I’ve been thinking I need to wait awhile. You’ve never needed to dispose of—uh—have you?”

  “Of a dead body?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No, I can’t say I ever have.”

  We glided past the restaurants and wine shops of West Hollywood.

  Janet said, “Plus I’m such a procrastinator anyway. But I’ve got the shower curtain drawn, I mean, so everything’s fine. Petey only needs to go in there to use the toilet. So as long as he doesn’t pull back that shower curtain, he’s in quite a wholesome environment, overall.”

  For the first rime, I could smell the evil. This woman knew what she was doing. She really did. Order, for her, simply translated into chaos for everybody else.

  “So,” I asked, “who is it?”

  “Oh! It’s irrelevant. I mean, that person is not relevant to our situation.”

  “I see. I feel calmer now.” Anything she blurted I might be able to use against her, if not now, then in the future. “Nice car,” I commented, in a changing-the-subject tone. “How’s the gas mileage?”

  “Uh, it’s a rental.” She tapped out a Benson & Hedges and lit it with a purple plastic lighter. I noticed that the car lighter had been removed, indicating a nonsmoking vehicle. As if she’d give a shit.

  “By any chance,” I asked, “are you dating a guy named Jeff?”

  “No, why?”

  “Just wondering. Say, I can’t wait to get some of that money and stuff. You said—what—fifteen million’s worth in there?”

  “Probably a lot more. Yep, I think so. Oh, it’s gonna be great, Rita!” She bopped along, driving. The cigarette was warming her up. She took a long drag, then exhaled into the windshield. The smoke kicked back into our faces.

  “Is it all in, like, boxes, or what?” I asked eagerly.

  “The stones are in plastic bags, heavy ones. Body-bag-weight plastic bags, then cardboard boxes.”

  “How do you know how thick body bags are?”

  “Just guessing, just making conversation. I myself do not know. I mean, they have to be thick so the body doesn’t fall out. I could’ve used one.”

  “What’s the first thing you’ll do,” I asked, “once you get your hands on it all?”

  Janet laughed as if I’d told a good dirty joke, then said, “Oh, I’m sorry. Like one?” She offered me the pack.

  I could have grabbed the wheel and crashed us into any of hundreds of pairs of oncoming headlights. I could have brained her with the sixteen-inch pry bar I’d brought in my New Yorker tote bag. I could have jumped out and waved down a police car.

  I took a cigarette. “Thanks.”

  Up to then, I’d smoked about four cigarettes in my life, all in a stall in the girls’ room of my high school. I managed to puff this one down too. It was a communal act.

  I was operating purely on instinct. I would not be a sniveling victim. I would not.

  We got to the house around ten. The residents of Beverly Hills enjoy fine police protection as well as private security patrols. “Park on the next street,” I directed.

  We walked along the sidewalk, shadowed by grand trees. I’d worn a sweater; it was just cool enough for it. The air smelled dark-night green, automatic sprinklers clicked and hissed. Close though we were to Santa Monica—just more than a long block away—we could barely hear the traffic. A beautiful night for a walk.

  “The people here just shit money,” Janet whispered.

  “I’ll bet,” I whispered back.

  “I mean, I had a pony when I was a kid, but these people?”

  The mansions in this part of town sit back from the street behind broad lawns, some behind garden walls. All the showbiz big shots were indoors watching their plasma screens or, in fairness, helping their kids with their homework. Or figuring out where their next mortgage payment of $21,000 was going to come from.

  The Tenaway house, which I’d driven past out of curiosity when I began working with Eileen,
had that upper-crust Tudor look, with half-timbers on the gables and all that. Fortunately, those Brits like to make hedges do for fencing.

  We darted up the driveway and avoided the wrought-iron gate, finding a path to the garage right through the tall box hedge. In Beverly Hills you don’t really get acreage for your four million bucks, just a whole lot of location. The hedge sheltered the garage fairly well.

  A breeze came up, tossing the trees and skittering the odd piece of litter.

  We came to a doorway on the side of the garage toward the house. It was a very large garage, for six cars.

  The sturdy wooden door was windowless and locked. I simply attacked it at the bolt with my pry bar. I’d never broken open a door before, but the molding at the latch splintered, and after a couple of shoves, Janet and I were inside. I’d brought a flashlight, and Janet had a tiny LED one on her key chain.

  We flipped our lights around. The place smelled of grease and mold. Four cars, draped with heavy cloth covers, hunkered in the stalls like shrouded horses. One end of the garage was a little shop, with a bench and vise and red tool chests.

  “Did they have a chauffeur to deal with all this?” I wondered aloud.

  “Oh, no, Richard just did it all himself very half-assed.”

  I pointed with my light. “This car here.”

  We tugged at the elastic binding and the blue dustcover slipped off the fenders, raising puffs of dust as it went. I threw it on the floor and we stood looking at a gorgeous Jaguar sedan with an almost flawless emerald-green paint job. I say almost flawless because a dent the size of a cantaloupe marred the right front fender. Janet went silent, and I glanced at her. She was staring at that dent in pure horror.

  “Oh, my God,” she breathed.

  I noticed some scroungy stuff adhering to the dent. Bits of fluff, interspersed with dark crustiness.

  There was a mighty ca-chunk inside my head as I understood something suddenly and strongly, albeit partially.

  I looked at her, and she kept looking at the dent.