Dim Sum Dead (15 page)

“Great.”

“But do tell us,” Helen Howerton said, “what’s for lunch?”

The group quieted down, waiting.

“How about a Wild Cherry Fettuccine with shredded duck and wilted mustard greens?”

“Oh!” Catherine Hill’s eyes lit up. “Oh! Someone may have to wake up Minnie for this feast.”

“Divine!” Catherine’s manager, Rosalie Apple, stood up and clapped her hands in happiness.

I was encouraged and went on. “To start, a salad of hearts of romaine with roasted corn and avocado and a garlic-lime vinaigrette.”

“Yum!” Eva James stood up on her long, if elderly, dancer’s legs and joined the applause.

“Lovely,” chimed in
Mike Heller
’s gal Friday, Helen Howerton, joining the others in an ovation to food, glorious, food.

And so, with such a ridiculously easy bribe, I was able to stay at the party. I only hoped I could string the courses out long enough to find out more about Dickey McBride and the book I felt was the root of so much that had yet to be explained. With enough good food, and enough time, I was de-

“
F
ive bam. Mah-jongg. Ha!”

The last ivory tile clacked down hard on top of Eva James’s red-plastic tray. At that point, she pushed several other groups of tiles from the lower edge of the tray up on top, exposing her winning hand.

“That stinks,” Rosalie Apple said, folding her arms over her gray blazer. “I was looking for one lousy three dot. And Eva had all four.”

“Be a big girl, honey,” Helen Howerton said. She lightly patted her hardcoat black hair to make sure, perhaps, it was still shellacked down. “Eva won. Pay up.”

I stood at the door to the billiards room. The women were seated at the far end of the long room at a mahogany game table, swearing and moaning at the money that they now owed Eva. They passed around the little circular plastic coins that represented winnings. These colorful gaming chips had holes in the center, which were kept on pegs at the end of each woman’s tray.

“Lunch is ready whenever you like,” I announced.

“Hallelujah.” Rosalie yelled, scraping back her chair. “We’re all saved.”

One by one, the elderly mah-jongg divas picked up their drinks and ashtrays and reading glasses, and whatever, and made their way out of the billiards room and down the long hall to the rear of the house. The luncheon had been set up in
Catherine Hill’s formal dining room with its lush view of the grounds in back.

While I had been busy in the kitchen, Catherine’s maid, Sonia, had joined me. I considered Sonia my sister in crime, of course. Sonia had been the one who gave me the heads-up about the proper day and time I could expect to find the mah-jonggers at the house. And as I stir-fried the shredded duck and finished off the soup, Sonia stuck by my side in Catherine Hill’s amazing kitchen. She insisted on helping, and I enjoyed her company. I had suggested she set the dining room table for four, not wanting to be too forward.

As soon as the group arrived in the dining room, they crowed and hooted and brayed in delight. Well, that’s how it sounded to me, like a barnyard of elderly farm animals at feeding time. I was immensely pleased. I enjoy cooking, but I also enjoy getting a big reaction.

The savory aroma of the freshly prepared Wild Cherry Fettuccine was hard to resist.

“Look at this!”

“I need a refill on Tommy Collins!”

“How beautiful, Beall. It looks too pretty to eat!”

As they were getting settled in their seats at one end of the mammoth burl walnut dining table, I stepped forward.

“I prepared a West Indian Calabaza Soup,” I said, and removed the lid of a splendid Royal Doulton soup tureen. Steam curled up.

“What is that, Beall?” Rosalie Apple had taken a strange liking to me, and it evidently had something to do with my new nickname.

“Please, sit down with us, Madeline,” Catherine Hill said. “Sonia, bring a place setting for Madeline.”

I sat down as instructed. “It’s a fresh tomato-and-calamari soup.”

“Ah.”

“And there’s a risotto cake that floats in it, you see.” I served a bowlful to the hostess as her guests looked on greedily.

“Well, this sure beats the hell out of corned beef and
tongue sandwiches on rye,” Eva said, crossing her long dancer’s legs beneath the table.

The bright afternoon light filtered through creamy French lace curtains at the tall windows. Beyond, I caught glimpses of a pool, a pool house, gardens, and stone paths winding among tall trees. If only Wesley could have been here. He’d have loved it.

The five of us sat clustered at one end of a stunning French antique dining table that could seat sixteen. The room became quiet, as is often the case when guests make serious the effort to get spoon or fork to mouth. I enjoy the quieting down as almost nothing else. Success.

“So you came bearing gifts,” Rosalie said, looking up at me and catching my eye. Her short-cropped gray hair gave her a businesslike appearance, unlike the three actresses she sat with. “So what’s the catch?”

“My word. That’s blunt,” Helen said, sipping at her spoonful of Calabaza soup.

Catherine Hill, in her golden turban, and blond Eva were the two biggest names in the room, and they both turned to see how I would answer.

“I am looking for information, ladies.”

“Oh, dear,” said Helen, crestfallen. “You’re not with the
Enquirer,
are you?”

Catherine Hill set down her forkful of fettuccine. “I had better not eat any more of this delicious bribe, then, until I know what I am expected to reveal.”

“No, it’s nothing about any of you. I’m not a reporter, but I could use your help.”

“You’re an actress?” Rosalie asked, crestfallen.

“No, not that. But I could use a personal favor. It has to do with Quita McBride, the one who died. The police are treating her death as an accident. She had been drinking, and then she fell down stairs. But I am worried.”

“Why?”

“I think she was troubled about something. It may have had to do with a book she was looking for. She said Dickey McBride had been writing a novel.”

“Dickey couldn’t write a to-do list, let alone a novel,” Rosalie said.

The other women continued to eat, but paid careful attention to my story.

“The sad part is, Wesley and I actually found a book.”

“You did?” Helen looked intrigued. I wondered if her old gal Friday role to
Mike Heller, Private Eye
was kicking in on a subconscious level.

“Yes. It was hidden in Dickey’s old mah-jongg case. But, unfortunately we lost it. The mugger dropped the mah-jongg case but took that book.”

“How mysterious,” Eva said.

“That last evening I talked to Quita, she talked about you, Miss Hill, and your mah-jongg group, and she said that Dickey wanted you to have the set when we got it back from the police. That’s why I brought it to you today. I was wondering if any of you know anything at all about that book?”

They looked at one another, but no one seemed to know anything.

I was finished here. I’d charmed and gushed. I’d wheedled and gossiped. I’d brought gifts and cooked, and then out-and-out begged. But I had nothing at all to show for it.

“I’m sorry, Madeline,” Catherine Hill said, picking her fork up again. “We don’t have the answers you are looking for. I hope you are not too disappointed.”

“Thanks for listening,” I said.

“You look so upset, my dear,” Eva James said as she finished another Tom Collins.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go get the dessert,” I said.

“Dessert. How splendid!” Catherine beamed at her guests. “I knew we’d have fun today. My horoscope said so.”

As they talked and teased each other, I went back through the butler’s pantry, the little room which led to the large blue-and-white tiled kitchen. The sound of a lawn mower droned from outside. I peeked out between the white plantation shutters that covered the butler’s pantry’s one small
window. In the intense afternoon sunlight, I could see the tractor mower moving across the side yard. The gardener was driving away, but as he turned to come back again, the sun glinted off of the man’s hand. The flare caught my attention, just as I was turning away.

There, on the mower driver’s hand, there must have been a piece of jewelry that just caught the light as he turned. The gold ring. I looked at the man as he worked his way across the lawn toward the house. He couldn’t see me, behind the shutters, but I saw him. The guy driving across Catherine Hill’s lawn was the chard man.

I forgot to breathe. The chard man. Here. What was going on?

I realized there was one method of getting information I had been a little too ladylike to try. I moved away from the window and tiptoed back to the door to the dining room.

“…brilliant chef. I think we were quite lucky.” That was Eva James, probably praising the lunch. I frowned and listened.

“Yes, and she didn’t press us about Dickey’s book. Thank heavens.”

Oh my God.

“If she knows about that, does she know about the payments?” That had been Rosalie Apple’s voice. I tried to quiet my breathing, and in my sudden excitement, I became superconscious of myself, scared I’d accidentally bang against the door.

“This is too dangerous. What if she suspects?” Helen was speaking.

“She’d be even more suspicious if we tried to keep her away. And what was I supposed to do? She just showed up here with Dickey’s mah-jongg set. I had to let her in.”

“But she knows about the book.” That was Eva.

“She knows nothing.”

“And you have it here, Cath? Is it safe?”

My stomach felt queasy with anxiety. They had all been lying to me. All this time. And the book. Here?

“It’s in a safe place. Trust Mama,” Catherine Hill said.
“All your secrets are submerged.”

“We all have secrets, Catherine. I’m sure there are things about you in Dickey’s diary.”

“Everyone has secrets. Dickey taught me that. Even her.”

“Yes, we all put up the money. We should burn the book together.”

“I can understand why you would want to burn it, Rosalie. Dickey wasn’t a fool. He kept financial records, dear. And your bookkeeping was not…”

“Enough, Cath! She’ll be back any minute. I wish she’d just leave us alone.”

“What?” Catherine Hill sounded aghast. “Play your parts, my dears. I, for one, would be very disappointed to miss dessert.”

On either side of the narrow butler’s pantry, glass-front cabinets reached to the ceiling. They displayed enormous collections of fine china and crystal. As I waited silently in the small room, I began to feel suffocated by Catherine Hill’s wealth and possessions. Eavesdropping made me feel anxious, sick, and nauseous. There was a pause in the conversation on the other side of the door, and then Catherine Hill’s voice spoke up.

“Did you hear about Bella? Her daughter had another baby.”

“No!” several voices responded.

The conversation had moved on. I had too many unanswered questions. What money had they all paid? And had these old women sent the gardener AKA chard man to steal that red book? They must have. I was unable to form one cogent thought.

“This is her fifth,” Eva’s voice was saying, “and that’s just too many children…”

The women continued to prattle on about their friend’s grandchildren, so I left my awkward lurking spot. Quickly, I walked across to the opposite door, the one that led into the kitchen, and shoved it open. Sonia looked up at me, startled. She was eating lunch while standing at the black-granite countertop.

“Oh, Miss Madeline,” she said, smiling shyly. “This is delicious. Thank you for making a plate with the duck for me.”

“Do you like it? I’m so glad.”

But while I made the proper small talk with Sonia, my mind was racing. I had to find that book. It was here, somewhere. I had to think.

I should do the right thing, I told myself. I should call the police. The red book was stolen property and thanks to Santa Monica Bike Patrol Officer Stubb, we had the police reports to prove it. I could call Honnett. He could get a search warrant and then…

But, no. He hadn’t cared much about recovering that book of McBride’s. And, even if he was convinced, it wasn’t so easy in this star-sensitive town to get a warrant to search a celebrity’s palace, let alone search the mansion of old Hollywood’s “most intoxicating beauty.” Catherine Hill had more power in Los Angeles than any police detective. She’d block it somehow. Or she’d destroy the book before they could serve the warrant.

I opened the brushed-aluminum door of the large Sub-Zero and picked up the heavy cut-crystal bowl containing my Tiramisu. I’d prepared it that morning and had just popped it into Hill’s refrigerator an hour earlier to chill.

Where would the book be, I wondered? I shook the dessert slightly to test the firmness of the custard. If I were an old red book, where would I…? Catherine Hill had said something about all their secrets being “submerged.” Could she be hiding the book out in the pool area? That made no sense at all. I thought about it as I turned.

Silent, standing just behind me, was Eva James.

“Dear, I’m just going to give you a little hint,” she said to me while handing her empty Collins glass to Sonia. The young woman got up immediately to prepare a fresh one.

“Yes?” I stood there, my breath coming a little heavily, holding the chilled bowl of Tiramisu.

“That book that you are interested in…”

“Yes?” I put the bowl down on the counter.

“Dickey had many affairs. Some ended badly, of course. I remember a girl named Jade, I think. Dickey was engaged to
her back in the old days. Now what was her name…” Eva thought about it. “It might have been Jade something or other. And then, the first name might not have been Jade, at all.”

Now what was all this about? Was she just blowing smoke? I had enough to keep straight without being thrown off the scent by Eva James and her story of some old affair.

“You should ask Cath. She knew all about that affair. Cath was working with Dickey at the time. In the Orient, I think. Was that
East Meets West
? No, it was another one. The one where Cath sang. Oh, Lord, that was awful. God love her, they had to dub over every damn note. Marni Nixon did it. She did all of the singing in those days. But not for me, of course. Honey, God gave me a throat, and I sang like a bird.”

I tried to get Eva back on track. “And that’s when Dickey McBride was having a hot romance with a woman whose name might or might not have been Jade? Okay.” Good try, Eva. I think not. I smiled pleasantly. “Well, thanks. That might help.”

Sonia quietly returned with Eva James’s fresh drink and set it down on the counter. Just then, Catherine Hill entered the kitchen, her famous face floating above that large turquoise muumuu. She looked concerned. “So here you are.”

If food has power, dessert has the most. I was counting on it. I had a plan.

“It’s time,” I said, “for Tiramisu.”

“Yes?” Catherine perked up immediately. “Oh, goody.”

And then, into the kitchen walked an amazingly fragile old lady, the size of an elf. Her snow-white hair wisped down around her small head from a gold turban. She was dressed exactly like Catherine Hill, down to the gold ballet slippers and flowing turquoise shift.