Death of the Office Witch (28 page)

“It's just such a surprise.” I don't need more surprises. “I'm happy for you, of course.” You can't leave me. I need you. “What is it?”

“Beach-beer commercial. Hard hat. Coors.” He raised a glass of Pepsi on ice to her in triumph.

He certainly had the body for beach shots and the jaw for hard-hat stereotyping. “Isn't beach and hard hat kind of a funny combination?”

“There's a pickup instead of a volleyball net, and they're roasting steaks instead of baking clams but—see, after a hard day of building roads or whatever, a bunch of guys go to the beach, swim, pop a cool one, throw around a football, jock it up.”

“No girls? In a beer commercial?”

“Well, yeah, they come along and decide to join the party. But you know the best part? It's to air locally first.”

Some producer sitting home with his feet up after a hard day punches his remote and there's this fantastic guy on this beer commercial, and he thinks to himself this fantastic guy would be perfect for the part of Fantastic Guy. Producer's on the phone in seconds telling his minion to find this guy and line him up for an audition. Actors.

Oh well, all Charlie's writers were going to hit the
New York Times
best-seller list or win an Oscar—most of them both. She looked down at the disgusting mess on her plate. Mom or Pop—they were both women—had said she had just the thing for an ulcer. The man at the next table was turning green merely watching Charlie eat it. But it was strangely soothing. A poached egg with a soft yolk on a piece of toast with hot milk poured over it, salt and pepper to taste. “So how long will it take to shoot it?”

“Three, four days, probably.”

“And you're willing to give up a steady paycheck and medical insurance for a few days of work?” Why not? You'll be discovered in a week and a superstar in a year.

“What else can I do? I've used up my vacation time. Look, I don't want to be an assistant all my life, same as you don't want to be a housewife. Okay?”

“Okay, but what if I could convince the Vance into letting you have a week of unpaid leave for that time? Just in case new work doesn't come right away after the commercial's shot?”

“Fine by me if you can work it, but you're not going to get Irma to go for that. Might not be good for dear Richard's business.”

“Let me see what I can do.” Let me see if I can't just do a little blackmailing on my own.

Charlie cornered Irma Vance in the ladies off the VIP hall. Talk about taking unfair advantage. She stood outside the stall door and waited for the woman to stop peeing. “I want you to talk Richard into giving Larry a week's unpaid leave starting a week from next Monday.”

Irma waited to flush and come out to wash her hands, meticulously of course, before bothering to answer. “And how do we expect me to do that, Charlie dear?”

“We expect you to figure out a way.”

“And why should we do that? And since when have we demanded such favors in this office?”

“Since we found out about Scarborough House.”

Irma's eyes met Charlie's in the mirror over the sink. Richard once said Irma's sharp stare could slice a man's balls thinner than home fries before he felt the blood in his shorts. Charlie didn't back away, but she had the urge to.

“You found the tapes. Yesterday afternoon when you were here alone. Yet they were here when I came in this morning. Why did you put them back?”

Charlie shrugged. “My turn to have secrets. About time, too.”

“First Gloria. And now you. Where does it end? Mr. Morse already knows about Scarborough and so does Mr. Congdon. Besides, I can support myself now. What is it you expect to do with this information, Charlie?”

“I expect I'll think of something, Irma. And you'll never know when that particular gun's going to go off, will you? It'll be just like before Gloria died.”

“I'll see what I can do. But little girls shouldn't play with fire, Charlie dear.”

Maurice didn't even smile when Charlie passed him on her way back to the office. Luella made a point of avoiding her all afternoon.

Tracy passed Larry by and brought James's script right to Charlie's desk, said nothing, and left. If Dorian came in, Charlie didn't see him. Richard seemed to be bouncing back, though. Richard was like that. Edwina would have called him rubbery. Charlie preferred elastic. But the biggest surprise of the day was that the deal memo from ZIA arrived by messenger. Would Tina Horton begin work on the pilot at once?

“This does not happen in this town,” Richard Morse said and drafted a leak to the trades. “Nothing so quick and easy. Then again, don't look a gift horse in the asshole, I always say.”

He handed Irma the rough copy, but she didn't rush off to key it in. She stood there and cleared her throat. Then she tilted her head toward Charlie and coughed.

“What, Irma? You can speak. You are among friends. Oh that's right, I forgot. So Charlie, you're trolling for favors for your friends instead of yourself? That's not smart, baby, but it's your tush. What will you do without Larry the Kid for a whole week? And who will help out on the front desk? You? We're already shorthanded around here. Everybody's working two jobs the way it is.”

“Relieve me of all detection responsibilities and I'll help out on the phones. Or you could hire a temporary.”

“Jesus, remember the last time we hired a temp? Shut down the system. Lost business. And we should do it again so the Kid can take a trip or something? Charlie, I thought we were on the same side in this war. Maybe I was wrong.”

“Not all temporary receptionists are as bad as the last one, Richard. And these are hard times, as you so often tell us. Extraordinary measures are needed at times like this. And I, in the last week, have laid ‘Southwestern Exposure,'
Phantom of the Alpine Tunnel
, and
Shadowscapes
on your plate—and you still think you're going hungry. Maybe I need to look for another job.”

With that Charlie Greene sashayed her terrified ass out of the boss's office and left the agency early to get ready for a stupid dinner at a stupid yacht club.

She left an office suite once full of colleagues and now full of enemies. An office that supported her and her bastard child and saved them both from depending on the bile of Edwina Greene. Charlie didn't burn bridges, she dissolved them. Maybe Libby was right, maybe she should latch onto a safe older male with money.

Incredibly, after all she'd been through and all she still faced at work, at the doctor's, at the Beverly Hills P.D., and at home, Charlie had a good time at the yacht club dinner in Long Beach that night.

She broke her word to Dr. Williams and had a couple of glasses of wine and a small beef fillet swimming in a naughty sauce with strange herbs, mushrooms, liqueurs, garlic, and probably cream and butter. It was Friday night, and after her week she was taking a well-deserved break from stress in her own way. She danced with Ed and she danced with strangers. She applauded as he and they presented each other with trophies for some regatta. She was assailed in the powder room by women wanting to know what it was like working in “the industry” and how they could get their niece, daughter, neighbor an audition or their book published. She was assailed outside it by men wanting to know about the murder at the agency and how they could get their son, nephew, friend an audition or their book published.

She even went out to look at Ed's boats. A smaller thing with a mast and sails he used for racing and a larger one with motors he used for travel. There were quite a few signs of Dorothy about on this one. They talked about murder, standing on the deck watching city lights twinkle just like people used to watch stars.

“Everybody has a motive, and damn few of them have alibis,” she told him. “And I've pissed off all my friends at work and probably my enemies, told off the boss, and decided to solve Gloria's murder on my own and hope when I do the reason for Mary Ann's death will become clear. Ed, I think I've lost my mind.”

“I hope you're not being set up for a dangerous situation, Charlie. I hope the Beverly Hills P.D. is prepared to offer you some protection, since they seem as open about involving you in the investigation process as your boss is. I hope this Lieutenant Dalrymple is not depending on your so-called psychic powers to protect you here. I hope Dorothy will start speaking to me again.” He lit a cigarette and tossed the paper match overboard. “I'm sorry. I am trying to quit, but you are not helping at all.”

“I'm not surprised Dorothy isn't going for this. I'd have thrown you to the sharks by now. Would it help if I spoke to her? Assured her that there's nothing happening here?”

“Frankly, Charlie Greene, I don't think it would be wise for her to meet you. That's a compliment, you know. I'll never understand how women think. They chart such hidden, tortuous routes to the simplest mental destinations, and then make such sudden, accurate darts into harbors on no map I'm familiar with.” He threw the barely started cigarette into some poor fish's living room. “I always talk like this after a few drinks and the yacht club.”

“You explained how harmless our relationship is and why we entered into it and she didn't buy it.”

“Right.” A Marine patrol boat glided out to the Queen's Gate in the breakwater. “Charlie, you are lovely. Lovely trouble.”

Ed gripped the metal pole railing that topped the gunwale, and Charlie ran a finger up and down its cold surface, felt a big grin concerning something completely unrelated to him answer this poor man's confusion. She may just have discovered the blunt object that killed Gloria Tuschman.

Charlie woke up the next morning to find Lori gone, Libby home, and Jesus Garcia in her front yard.

“But UM, I don't want to go shopping on Rodeo Drive. Lori and I need to practice our cartwheels and handstands.” Shimmery strands of platinum sailed across Charlie's peripheral vision as Libby threw her hair over her shoulder in outrage. “Thought you wanted me to be a cheerleader. I can't make the squad without practicing. Besides, I thought you were mad at me about having to go to court Monday.”

“You don't want to go shopping on Rodeo Drive?” Charlie swung the gray Toyota onto the ramp to the 405 and headed them north. “You've been begging to ever since we moved to California.”

“You wouldn't buy me anything anyway. It'd be too expensive.”

“We might find a bargain.” Personally, Charlie detested shopping. One more thing to eat up time she'd rather spend otherwise. But lately it had been a way to get her daughter away from friends and television and blasting music and into neutral territory where communications weren't so blocked. “I'll take you out to a nice lunch.”

“And then won't let me eat half of it. When
I
run away from home it won't be anywhere you can call somebody's mother and check up on me, I promise you that.” The dangerous flush of anger, near tears, and “it isn't fair” suffused the skin over Libby's cheekbones and all around those lovely eyes.

Charlie wondered how long before her daughter simply refused to get in the car when Charlie ordered it, and realized there wasn't a great deal Charlie could do about it. “Why did Lori suddenly change her mind and go home this morning?”

“Her mom was going to make waffles. Not the toaster kind. Real ones. With bacon in them, or berries on them, and homemade syrup. They've got this great old black waffle iron, a round one from her grandma's mother. Lori wakes up and that's all she can think about, talk about. Lori's a wimp.”

“I don't know, sounds delicious. And maybe we can get back in time for you to get in some practice.”

When they pulled onto Wilshire, Charlie explained she'd park in her reserved slot under the First Federal United Central Wilshire Bank of the Pacific because it would be free.

“You are so cheap you creak.” Libby's disdain cut cruel slashes in Charlie's already wounded motherhood. “Look at this car, for instance.”

“What's the matter with it? It was brand new last year … well, the year before.” Did you notice the rusted hulk that delivered Jesus the stud?

“It's gray. It's depressing. It's obviously a year-end model they were selling off to tightwads cheap before the new cars came out. Who else would buy something the color of dead fish guts just because it's cheap?”

29

Charlie slid them into her slot under the FFUCWB of P in the smoothly purring car that didn't break down in traffic and leave her stranded to the terrors of the 405, that didn't eat up more of her income with costly repairs. Charlie was not fond of gray, either, but she had a cancerous attachment to this little number. It didn't turn on her, asked only for fuel and occasional tune-ups. She turned off the engine, which was so quiet you could barely tell the difference, and stroked the dashboard in a sudden fit of superstition.

She's just a dumb kid. Don't listen to her, okay? We need you, baby.

Charlie had her door open and was half out of the fish-gut colored Toyota when Libby said in what almost sounded like awe, “Is this where you work?”

“You know, I've meant to bring you here, honey, but one of us is always too busy. And you have to admit it's often you. Your social schedule is—would you like to run up and see the agency before we shop? I doubt if anyone will be there, but it might be fun to see … if we don't spend much time at it.”

Charlie took Libby's insolent shrug as affirmative and guided them both up to Congdon and Morse Representation, Inc. on the public elevator. She let them into the suite with its hushed rustlings, the soft whirring of the invisible blower circulating air, the gurgle of the refrigerator in the utility niche, the creaks and rattles in the walls, all the sounds you never heard during bustling business hours. Charlie took her daughter past the front desk to the inner hall, around the corner, through Larry's cubbyhole into her own office, explaining the use of each room along the way.