Killer Chameleon (21 page)

I wasn't sure what to do. Even if I called the police, they in turn would have to call the bomb squad or a safecracker to get past his front door. The unnamed government agencies had seen to it that Plato's residence was as secure as Fort Knox. Was he sick? Or dead in there, surrounded by his phalanx of computers?

I finally gave up and left. Somewhere in my files was a number he'd given me for emergencies. I hoped I could find it before I'd have to start dressing for the party for my actress friend, Bev.

The trip from Georgetown back to Southwest ate up what little goof-off time I had left. I parked the Corvette in an unreserved spot in the garage and crossed my fingers that it was close enough to one of the overhead lights that the Bernard woman might think twice before cutting loose with any more spray paint.

Upstairs, I indulged in a quick shower, then raided the closet, wondering just how much of an occasion this party was going to be. It didn't matter; I still hadn't unpacked any fancy duds, so casually dressy would have to do. I yanked the raspberry peachskin pantsuit off its hanger, found my black T-straps and pantyhose, claret-colored bra and panties, and began dressing.

I was still seminude when I remembered precisely where Plato's in-case-of-emergency number was in my files: in the box in the trunk of the Chevy, which, in turn, was in the possession of the D.C. Metropolitan Police Department. Dammit! But I couldn't get Plato off my mind.

I finished dressing; made a light pass with blusher, eye liner, and lipstick; draped a skein of gold chains around my neck and put studs in my lobes; checked the full-length mirror; and pronounced myself middlin' decent.

I was weeding out essentials to transfer to a smaller black bag and had just stuck Bev's Chicago review in it to get it autographed for Nunna when a key rattled in the deadbolt.

“Honey, I'm home,” Duck called, and chuckled at how clever he was. I heard the door close, the locks engage, and a second later he stuck his head into the bedroom and whistled. “You look great. You know, I'm gonna like having you around on a permanent basis. The whole place smells like Cashmere Mist.”

Face it, you've got to love a man who remembers the name of the scent you wear.

“Ready to go? How 'bout I run you over to Helena's?” Leaning against the doorsill, he was trying his damnedest to appear casual.

I wasn't fooled. “Sorry, love, but I'd rather drive myself. That way I can leave when I want. Tell you what, I'll come home by ten at the latest. I'll call you, and you can come down and take us for a spin.”

His smile of delight reduced him to a ten-year-old being presented with a new skateboard. “It's a deal. How did your day go after I saw you?” He came in, sat on the end of the bed.

This is what I would relish about our being under one roof: rehashing the events that had transpired since we'd last seen each other. My recital didn't take long, but at least I could pass along the news about Ms. Bernard, traffic surveyor.

“For how long?” Duck asked, clearly unhappy knowing she'd been under our noses all the time.

“Neva couldn't pin it down but she's sure for several weeks.”

He lay back and propped himself on one elbow, thinking. “What time does the dry cleaner close? If Roland's wife knows Bernard's first name, I could check it against your arrest record. Even if she lied about her name, chances are she used one with the same initials.”

It was a good idea. “They're open until nine on Fridays. There's a receipt on the plastic bag over the trench coat in the closet, if you need the phone number. One more thing: Plato didn't answer his door, and the emergency number he gave me was in the box in the trunk of the Chevy. Any way you could convince someone to dig it out and give it to you? I'm really worried about him.”

Duck's decidedly mixed feelings about Plato dePriest showed in his hesitation, but he finally nodded. “I'll try. You're probably worrying for nothing. Knowing him, he's squirreled back there in his computer room with earphones on, listening to the Grateful Dead. Any news from Tank or Tina?”

I had forgotten about them, and he added them to his list of things to do until I returned with the Corvette. I kissed him good-bye, reminded him that he had Helena's number if he needed to reach me, and hit the road.

Helena Campion, the hostess for Bev's party, lived on one of the side streets edging Rock Creek Park, the city's piece of paradise, our own version of Central Park. I scouted for a parking space, uncertain whether I should chance leaving the Corvette on the street or block Helena's driveway. This was one of the District's toniest neighborhoods, but the thought of coming out and finding the Vette gone sent chills down my spine.

A woman came out of a house two doors beyond Helena's and bounded down her steps. She got into a Beemer and in one smooth maneuver eased away from the curb and sped off. I pulled up, craning to see if there was enough room for the Vette. It looked manageable, just barely. It took a couple of tries but I finally got it in, relieved no one was watching. Duck would have hooted his head off.

I pried myself out, locked up, and started back when a late-model Town Car stopped in front of Helena's. A handsome hunk in a dark suit left the driver's seat, strode around behind the Lincoln, and opened the rear door. A white pants leg appeared, then another. “Leigh?”

I stopped at the foot of the steps and waited. With no idea who else Helena had invited, I couldn't be certain who had called my name. “Yes?”

“Leigh!” Beverly Barlowe bounded from the backseat, resplendent in white slacks and a fuzzy white turtleneck sweater. She grabbed me and began jumping up and down, almost suffocating me in all that angora and necessitating my hopping up and down with her or get stomped on. “Gawd, girl, it's so good to see you! How the hell are ya?”

I hugged her back, delighted to find that she hadn't changed. She was the same effusive, loud, zaftig, occasionally profane screwball she'd been back in law school. “I'm fine, Beev. How long has it been?”

“Shit, don't ask. I don't acknowledge anything that reminds me I'm over thirty. You called me Beev! It's so good to hear that again. Hey, gorgeous,” she called over her shoulder, “hand me my coat, will ya? Thanks for the ride. I'll call when I'm ready to go back.”

She accepted the full-length fur he pulled from the backseat, draping it carelessly across her arm. He gave her an amused smile and mock salute, then got back in the car.

Bev watched him go and sighed. “Not only married but with four kids. Oh, well. Come on,” she said, looping her free arm around mine. “Jesus Christ, will you look at all these steps! That's Helena, still playing Queen of the Mountain after all these years. Hey, Campy, we're here!” she bellowed. This was one actress who never needed amplification onstage.

The door opened and three heads peered out: Helena, Debra Anastasio, and Mary Ellen Flaherty. Helena shouted, Debbie squealed, and Mary Ellen shrieked, a ritual begun one night when we were all three sheets to the wind and they were spoofing the way in which the members of their college sororities greeted one another. Bev and I had never joined one and had simply contributed to the cacophony by laughing our heads off.

“Y'all remembered,” Bev said now, tearing up, a talent of hers. Bev could bawl her head off at the drop of a derby. “Oh, it's so good to see y'all.”

“Somebody find the damned Kleenex,” Helena said, pulling us indoors. “Let's all have a good cry and then we can get down to some serious merrymaking.”

“Manischewitz?” Bev demanded, glaring at Helena nose to nose.

“Manischewitz.” Debbie, standing behind Helena, held up the bottle so Bev could see it.

“Awwww.” Bev dropped the mink on the floor, folding Helena in her arms, tears streaming down her face. Debra moved in, draping her arms around the two of them.

“Group hug, group hug!” Mary Ellen joined them, yanking me into the mass of bodies. “The Bitches of Brandywine Hall, together again!”

I'd forgotten the appellation our study group had been given by the lone male who had assumed he would be the leader and found the position usurped by Helena. He'd considered it a slur. We adopted it as a title complete with sweatshirts with the name silk-screened across the front. He never quite got over it and eventually dropped out.

“Enough,” Helena announced, and ducked out from under all the arms. “Let's eat, drink, and be merry.”

Thus the party proceeded, after the obligatory tour through the house, which was a darned sight larger than it looked from the street. Forty-five hundred square feet of hardwood floors, ten-foot ceilings, contemporary Italian furniture, a sauna, hot tub, exercise room, and small indoor pool. In other words, money. Helena had done herself proud.

We settled in her family room, plopping down on the floor around a coffee table as big as my bathroom, our backsides cushioned by a thick jewel-toned Persian rug. The table fairly groaned under the weight of a dozen varieties of hors d'oeuvres and an assortment of wines and soft drink bottles. It was much the way we'd spent any number of weekends, sitting on the floor while we demolished tons of carryout food and argued about the law.

The years had been kind to my old friends. They wore maturity well. Helena was still bony and angular but far more polished now, the hard edges that had once put people off buffed with the best sandpaper money could buy. Mary Ellen was as drop-dead gorgeous as I remembered, a red-haired, green-eyed beauty, smarter by half than everyone else around the table and with no patience for those who judged books by their covers. Deb-ra, on the other hand, was usually written off as plain when one first met her. Her hair was a veritable mane, dark and unruly, her brows thick over pale blue-gray eyes. In a crowd she was easily missed, especially since she was quiet and rarely indulged in idle chitchat. Put her in a courtroom however, and she was someone you'd never recognize as the same person, and you damned sure wouldn't forget her afterward. She could be passionate in her defense of her clients, with a way with language that bordered on the poetic. She rarely lost a case.

Then there was Bev, who could have modeled for the Old Masters. There was a lot more of her than was fashionable. She was, in a word, voluptuous, with an hourglass figure that had been compared to Mae West's in a number of reviews. With a porcelain complexion under a smooth cap of thick blond curls, she also had something of the Kewpie doll about her. And, as Helena was wont to say, she could act her ass off. Onstage, she could appear frail or lithesome, mousy or flamboyant.

She'd gone into law school to please her father, who considered trodding the boards an unsuitable occupation for a woman able to trace her ancestry back to those arriving at Plymouth Rock. Bev had stuck it out for a year and a half before phoning her dad and telling him to stuff it. From there it was Yale Drama School, a stint at Actors Studio, summer theater, theater in the sticks, off-Broadway, you name it, paying her dues. She wasn't a household name yet, but was certainly well known by those who counted.

We stuffed our faces, rehashing the old days and bringing one another up to date. Bev entertained us with the foibles of members of the repertory company, of a Romeo who loved garlic, a Hamlet with a case of poison ivy.

“Well, I take it everything went okay in Chicago,” I said, wiping away tears of laughter. “The reviewer practically frothed at the mouth about you.”

“Didn't he though? Here's to him.” She downed a mouthful of wine. “How'd you know? You read Chicago papers?”

“Not as a rule. You sent it to me, remember? Where's my purse? I brought the article so you could autograph it for Nunna. She's never forgotten you.”

Bev squinted at me nearsightedly. “And I've never forgotten her oatmeal raisin cookies. But, sorry, Leigh, honey, I didn't send anything to anybody. I don't even send reviews to Dad. What made you think it came from me?”

“Wait a sec.” I got up, which wasn't easy, and served as a reminder to forgo any more wine. I wound my way back to the living room, found my purse, and returned to the Persian rug.

“Here,” I said, unfolding it. “You're telling me you didn't send this?”

“I sure as hell didn't. Lemme borrow your specs, Debbie. I couldn't get up if you paid me.”

Debra's reading glasses were hanging around her neck, so she passed them over. “The right side is double strength.”

“Whatever.” Bev merely glanced at the review, then the writing on the bottom. “‘What could have been, no thanks to you.' What the hell does that mean? I didn't send this, honest Injun, Leigh.”

I slumped onto the sofa. “Shit, shit, shit. Her again.”

“Her who?” Mary Ellen demanded. “What's going on?”

“Give,” Helena ordered. “Maybe we can help. One for all and all for one and the like.”

“From the beginning,” Debra said, maneuvering into a lotus position. “And don't leave anything out either.”

I poured myself a glass of Pepsi and slapped a pillow behind my back. As much as I normally resisted boring others with my problems, there was something nostalgic and comforting about sharing it with these four. We'd done it often enough in law school.