Night Night, Sleep Tight (6 page)

Chapter 10

T
he phone started ringing the next morning at eight thirty. Deirdre missed the first call and the second. The third got her out of bed. She caught the tail end of her mother leaving a message as she stumbled into the living room. “. . . I’ll be there as soon as I can. By late tonight, I hope. Henry, Deirdre? I love you both.”

Before Deirdre could pick up the phone, her mother hung up. Seconds later, the phone rang again. Deirdre grabbed it. “Hello?”

“Hello, Gloria?” Not her mother. A man’s voice.

Deirdre took a breath. “No. This is her daughter, Deirdre.”

“Ah, Deirdre. This is Lee Golden, a friend of your dad’s.” Deirdre knew the name. A set designer? “I just heard what happened and I wanted to reach out to you and Henry . . .” Deirdre sank into Arthur’s lounge chair and held the phone away from her ear. When the phone went quiet, she thanked Lee Golden for calling and promised to let him know about funeral plans.

That was the first of a deluge of calls she took that morning. There’d been an article about Arthur’s death in the paper. Callers danced around what they really wanted to know: How on earth could Arthur have drowned during a daily regimen that he claimed kept him as fit as any thirty-year-old? Deirdre thanked each caller, took names and phone numbers, and tried to get off the phone as fast as possible. Finally she surrendered and let the answering machine pick up, half listening as message after message was recorded.

None of it woke Henry, who lay on the couch in exactly the same position Deirdre had left him the night before. Deirdre let the dogs out and filled their food and water bowls. There wasn’t much in the way of people food in the house other than leftover Chinese. Desperate for coffee, Deirdre found a dust-covered percolator in one of the kitchen cabinets, along with an unopened can of Maxwell House, its sell-by date long past. Soon the pot started to rumble and pop, sending out wafts of reassuring coffee aroma.

The doorbell startled her. Her first thought: the police were back. She wasn’t dressed. Hadn’t even combed her hair. At least the bag with her brother’s pot was no longer in the house. She waited for the doorbell to chime again but it didn’t. By the time she opened the door and looked out, no one was there, but four cellophane-wrapped food baskets were lined up just outside.

One by one, Deirdre carried them into the kitchen. One was from Linney’s Delicatessen. Bagels, cream cheese, lox, babka, some rugelach. The card read
Condolences from Billy and Audrey Wilder
. Arthur would have been over the moon.

She poked open the cellophane wrapping and sniffed. The smell took her back to Sunday mornings when she’d stood, holding her father’s hand in front of the sloping glass deli counter at Nate’n Al’s on Beverly Drive, watching the clerk hand-slice belly lox from a long filet and dollop cream cheese into a container. He’d wrap up four whole smoked, bronze-skinned butterfish, which Arthur would fry the minute he got home. She remembered the feel of warm bagels through the paper bag she carried to the car.

She hooked a bagel and took a bite. Closed her eyes. It had the perfect chewy crust, soft inside, and yeasty taste. In San Diego there was no such thing as a decent bagel, and you were lucky if you could find packaged, precut smoked salmon.

When Deirdre returned to the living room, Henry gave a phlegmy cough and turned over, his arm dropping like deadweight off the edge of the couch. He mumbled something, pushed himself up, and looked around. His expression said
Huh?

“Morning, sunshine,” Deirdre said. “Mom called.”

Henry scowled. Then registered that she was eating. “What’ve you got there?”

“Billy Wilder’s bagel.” Deirdre took a bite. “Mmmmm. Delicious. Hungry?”

Henry uttered a profanity that Deirdre chose not to hear, then he rolled off the couch and stumbled toward the bathroom.

Coffee aroma reached Deirdre. She went into the kitchen for a cup and was on her way back when the phone rang again. She paused to listen to her father’s greeting.
Beep.

Another well-meaning friend of Arthur’s, this time a woman,
Just calling to say how sorry I am to hear . . .

Henry was back, standing in the doorway and scratching his crotch. “So what did Mom say?”

“She said she’ll try to get here by tonight. Take a shower, then get yourself a bagel and coffee.”

“Coffee? You made coffee?”

Twenty minutes later, Henry was in the kitchen pouring himself coffee and eating a bagel. The dogs started barking and swarming the front door, and seconds later the doorbell rang.

Deirdre went to answer it. Standing on the doorstep was Sy Sterling, still trim but with a toupee where for years he’d worn an elaborate comb-over. Sy dropped his briefcase and held open his arms. Deirdre choked up and let herself be folded into a soft hug, enveloped in the scents of aftershave and cigar.

When she pulled away, Sy drew a handkerchief from his trouser pocket, blew his nose, and wiped away his own tears. “Such a pair we are.”

She nodded and dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “Everyone keeps saying it, but it really doesn’t seem real.”

“It should not happen,” Sy said, squinting at her, his eyebrows sprouting white hairs like sparklers. “Arthur swam every damned day.” He shook his head and his gaze shifted over Deirdre’s shoulder.

Henry had come up behind Deirdre. He held two cups of coffee. “We’re still in shock,” he said. He gave Sy one of the cups and took his briefcase. Deirdre closed the door behind them as Sy followed Henry inside.

“You?” Sy said, giving Deirdre a sympathetic look. “You found him.”

Deirdre’s throat tightened and she swallowed a hiccup.

“You should have called me right away. I could have been here for you. They took him—where?”

“To the city morgue,” Henry said.

Sy shuddered. “Of course. Unattended death. There will be an autopsy. And then?”

“Westwood Memorial Park,” Deirdre said.

“Good. Your father? He would want his urn next to Marilyn’s. You called Gloria?”

“She’s on her way,” Deirdre said.

“Good, good.” Sy harrumphed. “Well, of course none of this is good. But it is what it is. Come, children.” He headed for the dining table. “We need to talk.” He settled into the chair at the head of the table, pulled a cigar from his pocket, and chewed on it. Then he sat back, shifted the cigar to the other corner of his mouth, and chewed on it some more. In all the years Deirdre had known Sy, she’d never seen him actually light a cigar.

“I promised your father, if anything happened to him, I would be here for you. A promise I hoped I would never have to keep.” He reached across the table to clasp Henry’s and Deirdre’s hands. The diamond in his chunky pinkie ring caught the light. “I am here for you now. You know that? Right?” He gave Deirdre’s hand a squeeze and held her gaze for a few moments, then shifted his attention to Henry. For a moment his expression seemed more questioning than reassuring. Then he sat back. “So.” He undid the two straps and unlatched his battered briefcase.

Sy set his cigar on the table and took out a sheaf of papers. He handed Deirdre and Henry each a packet like he was dealing cards. Deirdre looked down at hers. On the first page, it said
L
A
S
T
W
I
L
L
A
N
D
T
E
S
T
A
M
E
N
T
.

“Your father? He was a dreamer, but I am afraid reality had him by the short hairs,” Sy said.

“Not sure I like the sound of that,” Henry said. “How bad is it?”

“There is still the house. You two will own it once the will is through probate. There is a mortgage, of course, but you will be able to get quite a bit more for the house, even”—he gestured to the water-stained ceiling—“the way it is. Your father may have already lined up a broker.”

“I think he did,” Deirdre said.

“Did he?” Henry said, and shot Deirdre a look. She hoped he’d let Joelen sell the house for them.

“So that is good news,” Sy said. “Bad news is that between Arthur’s debts and his assets, there is”—he paused, searching for the word—“overlap. When the estate pays what is owed you will be left with maybe twenty-five thousand. Of course I do not charge you for my legal services, but other expenses will have to come out of that. Burial and the funeral, of course.”

“But they made a fortune—” Henry said.

“Made and spent it. And I should not have to remind you that until quite recently your father had certain obligations. Financial obligations. So some of his savings?” Sy said, looking steadily at Henry, “
Pffft.
”

Henry stared back at Sy. For a moment it was a standoff.

“So,” Deirdre said, “is anyone going to tell me what you’re talking about?”

The dogs, who’d been lying on the rug in the living room, picked up their massive heads and started to bark, then scrambled over to the door before the bell chimed.

“Probably another fruit basket,” Henry said.

The doorbell rang again, followed by a rap and a sharp voice. “Police. Please open the door. We have a warrant to search the premises.”

Henry blinked. “Oh shit.” He jumped to his feet, knocking over his chair, then lunged for the front hall. The dogs were in a frenzy, barking and leaping.

“Just a minute,” Sy called out. “Henry, dammit, control your dogs.”

Henry turned in circles, probably realizing belatedly that the garbage bag was no longer by the door where he’d left it. He shoved Baby out of the way and pulled open the door to the front closet, looking for what Deirdre knew wasn’t there.

“Henry,” Deirdre said sharply, gesturing her brother over. Under her breath, she said, “I got rid of it.”

“Henry!” Sy said. He had one hand anchored on Bear’s collar while the dog jumped up and down, oblivious. Baby was barking, standing with her paws up on the door where the finish had long ago been scratched away.

“Bear, down. Baby, down,” Henry shouted. Both dogs went still. “Sit.” The dogs scooted back on their haunches. Baby put her head between her paws and whined. Sy relinquished his hold on Bear and Henry grabbed the dogs’ collars, one in each hand.

Multiple raps sounded on the door. Sy put a finger to his lips. He mouthed the words,
Let me do the talking,
then pulled open the door.

Four officers were on the other side. Deirdre recognized the one in the lead: Detective Sergeant Martinez.

“Officers. Can I help you?” Sy said, all traces of an accent gone.

Martinez looked past Sy to Deirdre and Henry. He glanced uneasily at the dogs. “We have a warrant to search the premises.” He held up a piece of paper. “We’ll need access to the garage and the cars. And, please, we’d appreciate it if you stay out of the way until we’re done.”

“May I see that warrant, please?” Sy asked.

“And you are?”

“Seymour Sterling.” Sy took a breath and puffed out his chest, a banty prizefighter still. “I’m the family’s attorney.”

Henry and Deirdre nodded like a pair of bobbleheads.

Martinez handed over the paper. Sy took his time, sliding a pair of reading glasses from the inside pocket of his jacket. “Search residence,” he said under his breath. “Property. Vehicles. . . .”

Deirdre’s heart lurched. Would they search her car?

Sy ran his finger from line to line. “Ah, probable cause. . . .” He cleared his throat and read. “ ‘The Beverly Hills Police Department has been conducting an investigation into the death of Arthur Unger—’ ” His voice dropped again and turned to a mumble. As his eyes scanned the page, the scowl on his face intensified. He stepped aside and the officers swept into the house, Martinez taking up the rear.

Chapter 11

C
an they search my car?” Deirdre whispered to Sy once they were outside, getting settled at the patio table.

Sy gave her a narrow look. “Where is it?”

“Parked on the street.”

“Then no.”

At least that was a relief. But as Sy started going over the details of Arthur’s will, Deirdre found herself barely able to follow. She strained to see over the bushes at the edge of the patio. The ground vibrated as the police investigators dropped item after item onto a plastic tarp spread out in the driveway. Crowbar. Tire iron. Shovel. Hedge clippers. Long-handled branch lopper. A candlestick lamp. All of them heavy blunt objects. Obviously they didn’t think Arthur Unger’s death had been an accident. He hadn’t been taken ill. They were looking for a murder weapon.

Deirdre tried to make sense of it. Maybe Arthur had surprised an intruder. He hadn’t turned on any lights, so the intruder didn’t realize he was out there. Arthur could be impulsive, belligerent, especially after a few drinks. Maybe he’d confronted the person. Thrown a punch, even. The intruder would have fended him off. Picked up something readily at hand. Something heavy. Swung it at Arthur and knocked him into the pool.

“Deirdre?” Sy was saying. “Do you understand what that means?”

“I’m sorry. I zoned out.”

“I said, your father named you his literary executor. You’ll need to go through his personal effects. His papers, letters, memos, photographs, keepsakes. Who knows what you will find. Early drafts of movie scripts. Unpublished manuscripts. He entrusted you with deciding what to preserve.”

Deirdre thought of Arthur’s memoir, sitting in the drawer in her bedside table. She was having fun reading it, but did it have historical or literary merit? “I’m hardly qualified—”

“Your father thought otherwise. Just take it item by item, one step at a time. First sort and cull. Then inventory what is worthy of preserving. If you are not sure, I can help. Try to imagine someone coming along a hundred years from now, trying to understand your father’s Hollywood. What you are doing: conserving his piece of it. His legacy.”

“Legacy.” Henry snorted a laugh.

“Okay,” Sy said, “your parents were not Comden and Green. But they were not hacks, either. Their films, and even some of the projects your father worked on later alone? Among the best of a certain breed. His collected works are emblematic of an era.”

“Still, Mom would make a much better judge—” Deirdre started.

“You do not get to decide. Your father selected you.”

It would be no small task, going through Arthur’s papers. Deirdre hadn’t been in his office on the second floor of the garage in ages, but she remembered it was lined with bookshelves and file cabinets. Then there was everything in the den. More probably in his bedroom. Maybe there were storage boxes. Her mother would know where all to look. It would be a huge chore, but secretly Deirdre was pleased. Flattered that her father had entrusted her with the task. “Of course I’ll want your advice—” she started.

Henry interrupted. “So there are no other assets? No life insurance?”

“No life insurance.”

“What about their movies?” Henry again. “Aren’t there residuals?”

“There were none back then. Who knew television would be hungry for old movies?”

Henry hunched over the table, absorbing this news.

B
efore the police left, a technician took Henry’s and Deirdre’s fingerprints. Martinez explained it was to eliminate theirs from others that they lifted. Soon after that, Deirdre and Henry walked Sy out to his car.

Henry glanced up and down the street. “So Sy, is that it? Will they be back?”

“Always, they can come back. But they will need a new warrant.” Sy stopped and turned to face them. “Listen to me, both of you. If the police do come back, you call me right away.” He took out a business card and wrote a phone number on the back. “In case I am not in my office or in my car, here is my home phone. Anytime.”

He handed the card to Henry and winked at Deirdre. Then he got into his car and rolled down the window. “I know you, Deirdre. You are a Girl Scout. You will want to help them with their investigation. But the police are not your friends. They want to fix blame and close the case. I know you think you have nothing to hide, but believe me, we all do.”

As Deirdre watched him drive off she felt a chill as a light breeze rustled the leaves overhead. “So, tyell me zis,” Henry said, lowering his voice and imitating Sy’s accent. He put his arm around her and squeezed harder than he needed to. “Where’s that bag?”

“In my car.” Deirdre crossed the street and opened the trunk.

“You might have told me you’d taken it out of the house,” Henry said. “Freaked the hell out of me.”

“You’re welcome.”

“That, too.” He reached for the bag.

“Back off.” Deirdre pressed down with the end of her crutch on Henry’s foot. Henry yelped in pain.

Deirdre opened the bag and foraged around in it, pulling out a half-dozen twist-tied baggies of loose pills. Another contained a handful of the pot she’d already smelled, along with a packet of rolling papers. She gave all that to Henry, then rummaged some more, past papers, old clothes, and what she thought at first were telephone directories but turned out to be Motion Picture Academy Players Directories, making sure she hadn’t missed anything else that was illegal.

Henry was on a slow burn. “What are you going to do with the rest of it?”

“You heard Sy. I’m Dad’s literary executor. I’m going take it up to his office and start executing. Maybe I’ll throw all of it away. Maybe I’ll keep it all. I get to decide. You just take care of that shit”—she indicated what she’d given him—“so none of it comes back to bite us.”

Henry turned and stomped back into the house.