Pie A La Murder (22 page)

Gesturing to the kitchen stool, Roxanne said, “Sit.”

I sat.

“Put both hands flat on the seat of the stool, then turn your face and torso toward me.”

I did.

While she was positioning me, I saw Liddy and Shannon slip out of the studio.

Roxanne raised one of the several cameras that rested on a small worktable next to her, looked through the lens, adjusted the focus, and fired off a few shots.

“Now, without moving your body, take your hands off the seat and let them lie relaxed in your lap,” she said. “Stomach in. Chest out. Don’t slouch.”

When she was satisfied with my posture, she moved around me, a few inches at a time, snapping different angles, stopping sometimes to make a minute alteration to one of the standing lights.

When she paused to change cameras, I said, “Will you be going into business for yourself?”

She examined a lens. “I have to earn a living. It’s going to be hard. Alec was the celebrity. The big clients never knew how much of the work I did. Sometimes his only act was to press the button after I’d set the lights.” She said that matterof-factly, with sadness, and without any trace of resentment.

“That must have been painful for you sometimes, not to get the credit you deserved.”

“No, not at all. He was a genius. I just take pictures. I loved him so much.” She made a sweeping gesture at the studio. “We were a team, but I’m not going to be able to keep this house without his income.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Isn’t there life insurance?”

She shook her head. “We thought we were too young for that—and we don’t have children to educate. Because this is
Hollywood
”—she scowled on that word—“we had to keep up a front, go to all the big-ticket events, be seen everywhere, drive the best cars, have this great house. . . .”

Her voice trailed off, then she straightened her shoulders. “We lived the good life, spending, spending—like squirrels who don’t save any acorns to eat during the winter.”

I thought this was my opportunity. “Have you thought about who had a grudge against your husband?”

She looked up at me, frowning. “Don’t they have the person who killed Alec?”

“There’s no real evidence against him.” I tried to sound casual. “Do you have any idea who the police should talk to?”

“Everyone loved Alec. If one of us was going to be murdered, it should have been
me
. Alec was my best friend—I don’t have anybody else.”

I saw her eyes fill with tears. She took a tissue from her pocket, turned away, and blew her nose. After a moment, she said, “Sorry. Allergies.”

I knew it wasn’t allergies, and I suddenly felt as though my visit was not just a pretext to investigate, but a cruel hoax. I wanted to tell her how sorry I was that I had invaded her grief, but I couldn’t do that, so I said gently, “My husband died. I know how you feel.”

Roxanne froze. “Do you? You’ve got a career of your own. Alec was my whole world.” She tossed the crumpled tissue into the wastebasket below the worktable and said briskly, “Go put on that beige silk blouse.”

It was almost two hours into the photo session and I was wearing the third outfit that Roxanne had approved as camera-worthy, the blue sweater and black slacks.

Liddy and Shannon had come in and out of the studio several times. Whenever one of them returned I tried to read her face, but if they had found anything, they were keeping it to themselves.

Shannon had said she needed to make some phone calls and she was going outside so she wouldn’t disturb us.

Roxanne, intent on photographing me, waved one hand in assent. This time Shannon had been gone for half an hour.

Liddy’s new pretext for leaving the studio was to ask if Roxanne would like something to drink.

“No,” she said, without looking at Liddy. “We’re almost finished. If you’re thirsty, the refrigerator in the kitchen is full of soft drinks. Help yourself.”

Liddy thanked her and left the studio again.

Roxanne Redding hadn’t seemed to have noticed their coming and going. As a photographer, she was meticulous, completely into her work. I doubted that she would have noticed an earthquake if one hit the area while she was concentrating on taking a picture.

But it wasn’t an earthquake that interrupted us. It was the ringing of the doorbell.

At first, she didn’t appear to have heard it. But the third time the person outside pressed the bell, long and insistently, she looked up from the camera lens and cursed.

Liddy appeared at the entrance to the studio. “Do you want me to answer the door?”

“All right. But don’t let anybody in. I’m busy.”

I heard Liddy going down the hallway, her steps light and quick, the sound of the front door opening.

Then I heard her gasp.

Heavy footsteps pounded toward us.

Roxanne Redding lowered her camera and I half rose from the stool just as a large male figure appeared at the entrance to the studio.

“What the hell is going on here?” demanded John O’Hara.

John wasn’t alone. Close behind him was Hugh Weaver. When Weaver saw me, his eyebrows shot up toward his receding hairline.

Liddy, the tail on their kite, stopped behind them and pressed her back against the archway’s curve. She looked as guilty as I felt, but John and Weaver weren’t staring at her.

I decided to brazen it out. “John, hello.”

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Having my picture taken.”

Weaver’s brows came down and met in a glower of skepticism.
“Here?”

I considered pretending to be offended at his implied accusation, but decided to play bland innocence. “I need new photos, and Mrs. Redding is a wonderful photographer.”

John turned his laser gaze on Liddy. “And what’s your part in this?”

“I . . . we . . .”

“Liddy’s helping me,” I said.

“Helping you to do
what
?”

At that moment, Shannon came into the room. The bright smile on her face died when she saw John. “Oh, dear.”

John was as shocked as she. “Shan?”

Shannon moved to Liddy’s side, clutched her hand, and said in a small voice, “Hi, honey.”

Roxanne Redding put down the camera she’d been using and stepped toward John. “Detective . . . O’Hara? That’s your name—O’Hara? You know these women?”

Weaver gave a snort. “Oh, we know ’em all right.”

John glared at him.

Liddy said, “Los Angeles is actually a small town.”

At some five hundred square miles, Los Angeles is far from a small town, but no one paid attention to her facile comment.

Making my tone casual, I told Roxanne, “We do know each other. John O’Hara and my late husband were detective partners. By coincidence, we’re all social friends.”

“
Is
this a coincidence?” Her voice was heavy with suspicion. “Is something going on here?”

I said, “Mrs. Redding, I appreciate you taking the photos I need. Will you let me know when I can see them?”

“Yes, but—”

“I don’t want to interfere with whatever John and Detective Weaver came to see you about, so we’ll just clear out of your way.”

“We’ll get the rest of your clothes,” Shannon said.

Shannon and Liddy snapped out of their rigid positions and headed for the curtained-off dressing room.

John gave Weaver a silent signal. Weaver lumbered over to Roxanne, took out his little notebook, and said, “Sorry to interrupt, but we wondered if you could fill us in on a few details.”

John clamped one hand on my arm and drew me off to the side. “What are you doing here?”

I pulled my arm from his grip. “Don’t
do
that. I was having my picture taken. Liddy and Shannon came along to help with clothes and makeup.” That was my story and I was going to stick to it.

Shannon and Liddy emerged through the curtain, laden with my other outfits and Liddy’s makeup case.

John growled to me, “Later. And I want the truth.”

Shannon blew John a kiss. “See you at home, Johnny.”

He managed a smile for her, but I knew he was angry with me.

The three of us hurried out of the studio and down the pathway to my Jeep and Liddy’s Rover.

“I found out something,” Liddy whispered.

“Maybe I did, too,” Shannon said, “but I don’t know what it means.”

I heaved the armful of clothes into the back of the Jeep. “My house. So we can talk freely.”

Back in my kitchen, with Tuffy on his bed by the refrigerator and Emma curled up at the base of the computer monitor on the desk, I put my pantsuit jacket over the back of one of the kitchen chairs and we sat down to compare notes.

Liddy, grinning, took her spy camera out of her pocket and put it on the table. “I found the folder with their income tax returns for last year and photographed all the pages. I didn’t get a chance to study their expenses for more than a few seconds, but I found out that they have five phones: two landlines at the house, and three cell phones.”

“They’re two people. Why do you suppose they need three cell phones?” Shannon asked.

I speculated, “For private calls? Maybe private from the other spouse?”

“Could be,” Liddy said. “The bills for one of those cell phones are addressed directly to a business manager, Birnam Woods, instead of going to the house like their other bills do. I recognized the name of the management firm because it’s the same one that handles our money.”

“If they have a business manager, why do any bills go to their home?” Shannon asked.

“Maybe they do what we do,” Liddy said. “I go over all the monthlies that come in to make sure they’re accurate, and then send them over to the business manager for him to pay out of whichever account is appropriate, household or business. That way, by tax time, they already know what we can deduct and what we can’t. I also found out the Reddings have a huge mortgage, pay big property taxes, and have a lot of credit-card debt.”

“That substantiates Roxanne’s fear that she may not be able to keep the house without her husband’s earnings. She also told me they didn’t have life insurance policies.” I turned to Shannon. “Did you have any luck?”

“I found out their housekeeper doesn’t vacuum under the bed. That’s probably why Roxanne has a box of pictures there—under her side. I could tell whose side was whose because she has a picture of him on her bedside table, plus harlequin reading glasses that no man would ever wear.” She took her spy camera out of one of her pockets and put it on the table next to Liddy’s. “They photographed each other
nude
!”

I felt my eyes widening in surprise. “Both of them nude?”

Shannon gestured to her camera. “I took some pictures of the pictures. Whoever photographed him—I suppose it must have been her—took pictures of his assorted body parts.”