Madeline Carter - 01 - Mad Money (36 page)

I backed out of my spot and drove past the
café, honking to get Emily’s attention, wanting her to know that —
with the exception of a few bad moments — Plan A had actually
worked and we were underway.

And then I headed for home.

* * *

We managed to get up the canyon without
mishap, but once I’d parked I realized there was no way the
semi-comatose girl could manage the cliffstairs alone, and I didn’t
want to leave her while I ran and got Tyler. It was while I sat on
the hood of my car waiting for Emily, one eye constantly on
Jennifer still in the back seat, that my hands started to shake.
And I didn’t mind. Some type of delayed shock. Better delayed, I
thought, than at the scene.

Emily showed up after about ten minutes and,
between us, we managed to shift Jennifer from the car, down the
stairs, to Tyler’s front door. Tasya looked at us wide-eyed, not
quite comprehending, calling for Tyler while she ushered us in.

“Madeline! Jennifer! Oh my God,” Tyler swept
the teenager into his arms.

She woke slightly at the movement.
“Daddy?”

“What’s wrong with her?” Tyler demanded.
Tasya put a hand on his arm.

“I’m not sure. Drugs I think. Though I don’t
know what kind or... or if they were self-administered or given to
her to keep her docile.”

“What happened?”

“Tyler,” Tasya interjected. “Not now.
There’s plenty of time for that later. Let’s see to Jennifer first,
please.”

“Does she need a doctor?” Tyler demanded of
me, but Tasya answered.

“No. Look at her,” Tasya had pulled open one
of Jennifer’s eyes and checked the pupil’s dilation. She opened the
girl’s mouth and looked at her tongue and the color of her gums.
She managed all of this with the quiet, competent air of someone
who knew exactly what they were doing. I realized that there was
more to Tasya — and her background — than met the eye. “She needs
to sleep. Please, put her in her room, let me see to her.” All of
Tasya’s attention was focused on Jennifer, for the moment Tyler had
ceased to exist. “Please, Tyler. No more standing,” there was no
room for argument in her tone. “Take her now.”

Emily and I hovered around the foyer until,
after a very few minutes, Tyler came back and motioned for us to
follow him into the kitchen. He called a GP friend of his who said
he’d make a house call in half an hour. Then, while he put water on
for tea, Tyler looked me directly in the eye and said, “You want to
tell me what the hell is going on?”

“It’s sort of long story,” I started,
lamely.

He indicated for us to sit at stools at the
big kitchen island. “We’ve got time.”

Emily and I sat and I told Tyler about
tracking Corby down and arranging to meet him in Malibu.

“You told him you were auditioning him for a
movie?” Tyler asked, incredulous. “Where did that come from?”

“Air, kinda. Plus, when I went to these surf
places, it seemed like a preoccupation. Being in movies.”

“What were you guys thinking? Do you have
any idea how dangerous this could have been? To you and to
Jennifer?”

We nodded, both of us feeling like chastened
schoolgirls. “I think, really, we just wanted to see if Corby was
involved and maybe see if we could find out where he had her or if
he knew where she was.”

Emily spoke for the first time. “We were
completely blown away when she turned up in the van with him.”

“And then you just grabbed her?” Tyler
fumed.

“Pretty much,” I said nodding.

Though, for a few minutes, he’d looked ready
to kill someone, with a single sigh, Tyler seemed to give in to
whatever he was feeling. Part relief, I thought. And part defeat.
He put his head in his hands. “What the hell was it all about? Do
you think she did it? The kidnapping stuff. Or was it all the
kid?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “Maybe it was all
just some stupid prank. You’re going to need to talk to Jennifer.
Later. But, even if she had nothing to do with it,” I knew I was
approaching shaky ground, so I moved with caution. “There’s been
stuff going on with her. With you and Tasya. Stuff that’s maybe
just beginning to manifest itself in weird ways.”

Tyler’s shoulders kind of slumped at that.
“I know. I just wish I knew what the hell to do.”

“Just love her, Tyler,” Tasya said as
entered the room, coming up behind her husband and putting her
hands on his shoulders. “I know you do, but I think she needs to
see it more. The way, perhaps, things were before I arrived.”

“Oh, Tasya. No,” Tyler started to protest,
but Tasya shushed him.

“I’m not going anywhere, Tyler,” she smiled.
“But she is your baby. And, no matter what, she won’t be with us in
this house forever. She’ll have her own life some time. Maybe soon.
Right now she needs more of you,” Tasya said firmly. “Perhaps more
than you were able to give her before. It’s not too late, my love.
But it will be if you don’t act soon. I can see it.”

Motioning to Emily that we should go, I told
Tyler and Tasya that I’d be out all afternoon, but that I was
anxious to hear how Jennifer was and that I’d love to be able to
come by and see her later.

Tyler assured me he’d call me later in the
day. “And come by anytime Madeline. You too, Emily. Don’t even
knock.”

“Do you think that Corby kidnapped her?”
Emily asked when we were back at the guest house.

I shook my head. “Not so much, really. At
least, however it ended up, I think she started it.”

“God, Madeline. When I was that age, I
thought acting out was cutting a class to see a movie with my
friends. Not staging a kidnapping so I could go to acting
school.”

“You think she did it.” It wasn’t a
question.

“I guess. Don’t you?”

I shrugged. “What I think doesn’t matter. I
know I like her, Emily. I think she’s a good kid who is troubled
right now. But I think they’re good enough people,” I pointed at
the ceiling, towards Tyler and Tasya’s house, “that they can get
her through it. Though some professional help probably wouldn’t be
out of order, either.”

“Look, I gotta go,” Emily said, getting up
and collecting her bag. “I was supposed to be on set an hour ago,”
she grinned. “I have a good excuse though. Let’s talk later, OK? I
want to hear how it goes with the kid.” I nodded agreement: so did
I.

When Emily was gone I sat and collected my
thoughts for a minute. Two self-kidnappings in one week was more
than I could handle. In Jennifer’s case, it had been for attention.
With Ernie it was definitely more complicated. Or was it? I had to
find Arianna.

I showered, wincing when the hot water met
my raw knees. Afterwards I dressed carefully — the Prada again: I
need to looked like a well-heeled matron. Anyway, long pants would
cover the road rash I’d acquired skidding after Jennifer.

Outside the Brentwood cafe where I’d met
Mrs. Billings, the billboard was where I’d remembered. Thankfully
it hadn’t been plastered over. And there was the name: “Beverly
Marston, Brentwood’s Number One Realtor since 1997.” Despite the
Anne Rand debacle, it stood to reason that if she
had
used a
realtor to find the home she’d told me she and Ernie had rented,
Arianna would have secured the services of the very best one.

I used a pay phone to call Ms. Marston. I
was in luck: she was in her office doing some paperwork. If I
wanted to buzz on over, she told me, she had the time to discuss my
needs.

On the stairs on the way up to her office, I
belatedly remembered the naked condition of the third finger of my
left hand. I wear my grandmother’s engagement ring on the center
finger of my right hand: a talisman. She gave it to me when I moved
to New York; she had remarried and had a shiny new ring from her
shiny new husband. Secretly I thought she wanted me to wear the
ring because she hoped it would magically attract some keeper I’d
actually keep. So far it hadn’t worked, but I wore it because it
was simple and lovely and a part of my grandmother I know was dear
to her. At least until she met Henry.

On the stairs, I skooched this ring off my
right hand and transferred it to the ring finger on my left. It was
loose, of course, and not actually a wedding ring, but — with the
stone turned inwards — it could do in a pinch.

In person, Ms. Marston looked perhaps ten
years younger than her photo had indicated. Such can be the case
with photos shot to make the subject look more beautiful and
glamourous. They do both of those things, but often at the price of
youth. Something in the preservative chemicals of the make-up. Or
the grade of linoleum the photo was shot through. In person, she
was an average-looking fifty, rather than the beautiful sixty the
photo had led me to expect.

We sat on either side of the Queen Anne desk
in her exquisitely appointed office. A notebook and a Waterford
fountain pen were ready on the desk beside her. As we spoke, every
so often she paused to scratch my answers — or her interpretations
of them — down for future reference.

“You’re looking for a new home?” she said
once we’d gotten introductions out of the way

“That’s right. My husband has just taken a
job out here,” I watched her face carefully while I spoke. “He’s
heading up a local company. Based in Culver City. We’ve decided to
rent in Brentwood while we get to know the area. We’ll decide where
to buy later on.”

Scratch, scratch, scratch. “Where do you
live now?”

“Connecticut,” I said, remembering what
Arianna had told me. “And we’ll keep the house out there, of
course. But, for now, we need something rather special. We both
like our privacy and...” what would Arianna want in a home? “And
something with a good address and in a neighborhood that’s not too
crowded.”

Scratch. Scratch. “Children?” She asked.

“Not yet, but at some time, perhaps.”

Scratch. “Do you work also, Mrs. Carter?

“No, no. Not anymore. I have my charities.
My... interests.”

She regarded me thoughtfully for a few
moments. “You know, it’s uncanny, I rented a house to a couple just
a few weeks ago with very similar needs.”

I suppressed my urge to punch my first into
the air and shout,
Yesss!
Instead, I forced a bored look
onto my face and said, “Oh, really?”

It was her turn to look closely at me. “Yes,
you know, you even look very much like her. Like the woman of the
couple, I mean.”

“And you rented them my house, I suppose?” I
said it with a careless laugh. I was leading, but would she
follow?

“Yes, I suppose I did. It’s a splendid
place, on Oakmont Drive. Do you know that area?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know Brentwood
that well. But I like what I’ve seen. It seems quite pleasant. Just
what we’re looking for.”

“Oh, from your description, Brentwood is
exactly
where you and your husband will want to be. If you
have time, perhaps I can take you out there for a peek? We won’t be
able to go in, just drive by. But it will give me a better idea of
what you’re looking for, help me hone in on the type of place you
and your husband might like.”

This was more than I had been fishing for. A
guided
tour
to Arianna’s house. I had been hoping she’d say
the street name: which would at least make my haystack a little
smaller. And she had: Oakmont Drive. But now she was actually going
to take me out there. I was very pleased with myself. Realtors,
like brokers, are hungry creatures. Promise them food and they’ll
take you anywhere. I settled myself into “call me Bev”’s Mercedes —
dove gray S600 — and enjoyed my tour of Brentwood Heights.

The Carmichael Billings house was set well
back from the street in an old Brentwood neighborhood.

“It’s not an ostentatious place at all,” Bev
said. “Which is why I wanted you to see it. It wouldn’t be
everyone’s cup of Djarleeng,” she looked pleased with her joke. I
smiled thinly. “And it’s just five bedrooms and the teensiest
little pool. Some people looking in this price range want something
more... impressive. But it really is one of the better
neighborhoods. That seemed important to the people I told you
about, so... I thought it might be to you, as well.”

I assured her that it was just what I was
looking for and, though she insisted on taking me past several
other places on a circuitous route back to the office, I told her
that the first one was exactly what I wanted and the others she
showed me wouldn’t do at all. She told me she’d put together a list
of things to show me and would call me in a few days.

* * *

I pulled into the driveway on Oakmont
without much apprehension. Arianna had been forthcoming enough with
me and open enough to chatting that I didn’t think she’d mind my
dropping by like this, though it amused me somewhat that it had
been easier to find out where she lived than getting her phone
number would have been. And she was the one who’d sicc’d a private
investigator on
me
. I didn’t think I’d call her on it — I’d
told Anne Rand I wouldn’t, for one thing — but it did sort of mean
Arianna owed me.

I wanted to talk to her for two reasons: Why
had her car been spotted near Camp Arrowheart the day before? And
had she had any type of contact with Ernie?
If
she’d tell me
that, of course. But the fact that Ernie and Paul had staged their
little “murder” made me think that whatever was happening was now
happening fast.

When she answered the door, Arianna stood
looking at me for a moment as though trying to place me. She
appeared slightly disoriented. Looked, in fact, as though she’d
been crying.

“It’s me. Madeline Carter. From the cafe the
other day.”

“Of course, Madeline. Pardon me, it’s just
that... just that...” she seemed close to coming apart. “Oh, come
in, please.”