Voices in the Wardrobe (17 page)

Charlie called Libby and left the message, “You get back home and relieve Doug Esterhazie or I'm selling your Jeep out from under you, sweet cheeks. And that will be just the beginning of my assault on your freedoms and privileges. And I mean instantly.”

“Oh, that ought to get you a long way,” the sheriff said.

“I know. It's just that she's so damn selfish.” Charlie looked past him to see wind-driven raindrops committing suicide against the glass doors to the balcony. Not that Charlie wasn't selfish at that age. She expected better of her daughter. “I guess it's a generation thing. You got kids?”

“Sort of. The oldest is more your age than your daughter's. You wanna talk generation thing. Their mom raised them mostly. They don't like my present wife. What about your ex, he help out?”

“I've always been a single mom. My mom helped me raise Libby. And there's another generation problem.” Charlie didn't know where to go from here, whether to continue to search for Maggie around the Islandia or follow her instincts to head for the Spa or what. What if she left and Maggie came back here? She closed the sliding glass door on a chilly wind. She wasn't dressed very warmly. “Maybe Maggie just got in a snit and she's sitting down in the bar now. Or she's over in the restaurant waiting for Luella and Nancy to come back. Or she's with Luella somewhere.”

“Someone decides to get lost in Southern California, it's pretty damn easy.”

“I wonder who all is home at the Sea Spa right now.”

“Deputy Saucier's on her way there to report back on exactly that information. You think there's a connection between the deaths there and the one here too, don't you?”

Charlie didn't answer, but he was right. “I should be doing something. I just don't know what.”

“Go on down to the bar. I'll call you the first I hear anything.” He was really a nice guy. Too bad he was the enemy.

But Charlie did as he said, just went to the bar across from the conference rooms. And sat down on a bar stool next to Kenny Cowper who was busy writing on a tablet—so neanderthal. Without looking up he said, “Any news of Maggie?”

“You didn't even see me, how'd you know it was me?”

“I can smell you.”

“Now don't start with that. I do definitely not need a massage. Jesus.”

“That was a compliment.”

“I do not wear perfume.”

“I know.” He crossed a t or dotted an i or placed a period, whatever, closed the notebook and turned to her with a theatrical sigh. “Good thing you don't live in Iowa. I'd never get any work done.”

The bartender came over to them, looked between them. “Your sister, right? You got the same eyes.”

“Cousin. What do you think?”

The bartender, short and cute, reminded Charlie of a younger Tom Cruise. He bent to search Charlie's expression. “Martini. Definitely in need of a martini. Up. Gin. Olive or lemon do you think? Bombay or Tanguray?”

Kenny swivelled his stool to face her. “I'd say olive and Bombay.”

“You got it.” The younger Cruise turned away and then back again. “We talking PMS, divorce, laid off from a job, here? What?”

“Murder,” Kenny answered and raised his glass. “And I'll have another.”

“Oh man, murder, that's two olives, guys, on the house.”

“I hate it when men order for me.”

“Hell, I'm buying it. And another for the lady on the other side of me.”

Sarah Newman, Grant Howard's sister-in-law and story editor at Troll's New York office, returned to sit with them. The widow was with Sarah's other sister for now. “Boy, is this the time I'm glad not to be an only child. She's a mess. I sure hope he made some money selling dreams. June has no marketable skills.”

“Do they have children?”

“A son who moved to Australia. Doubt if Rod will even come back for the funeral.”

The bartender set Charlie's martini in front of her and a bowl of salty party mix, and another of pretzels. They all automatically watched the TV above and to one corner of the bar, the sound turned down so low it was like the opposite of the TV in the wardrobe, seen but not heard. A Dodge Ram spewed digested ecology from its tires crossing a meadow of wildflowers. In the next commercial at least thirty people walked across another meadow like zombies while the flowers around them turned into purple pills with chartreuse stripes.

The martini was wonderful. Too wonderful. It is almost impossible to drink half a martini but those zombies chasing the purple pills were a good incentive. She did eat both the gin-soaked olives though and grabbed a handful of pretzels to go and her purse. “Thanks, but I've got to look for Maggie. Make an effort somehow.”

“Charlie?” Kenny Cowper stood to tower. “Keep in touch so I don't have to worry about you too. If I hear anything I'll let you know, okay?”

“Right. Good plan.”

Charlie checked the dinner restaurant on the other side of the swimming pool to see if Maggie had returned. No one had noticed if she had and she wasn't there now. She talked to people at the desk in the lobby and was in the parking lot when her cell summoned.

It was Mitch. He'd just heard about the murder at the screenwriters' conference, wondered about her safety. He was at the Marina del Sol and had called to see if she could have dinner with him there again.

There was some excitement there too. Somebody had driven a car off the cliff above the marina. Divers were searching for the driver. The car had been a white one according to witnesses he'd talked to.

“I'm on my way. I'll let you know when I'm close so you can meet me at the gate and let me in.”

Luella Ridgeway drove a white Lexus.

Twenty-Two

You do not know that was Luella's car or, if it was, that she or Maggie were in it. You are driving a huge vehicle through heavy traffic, much of it pedestrian. Get a grip now. You are liable to be badly needed and soon. Don't cause other innocent people trouble.

“If I've let Maggie down, I'll kill myself.”

No you won't. Others need you too.

“Detective Solomon? I'm on my way to the Marina del Sol. Thought you should know. There's been an accident.” Charlie kept blinking away those zombies floating across that meadow in pursuit of purple capsules ringed with chartreuse.

“I just heard. Where are you now?”

“Heading north to La Jolla, on Mission, I think.”

“I'll meet you at the marina. And Charlie? Be careful. It may well not have been your friends in that car. But there is something very scary going on at that Sea Spa. I can feel it.”

Now it was tears she was blinking back. The enemy wasn't supposed to talk like that. Thanks for caring, guy. “Thanks. I'll be careful.”

She navigated an area entering La Jolla where the street signs were purposely obtuse, too obvious to fake this confusion factor. And the deal was, it was confusing from either direction, as if the locals went out and changed the signs every other night to discourage foreigners. At least the concentration that required helped dry up the tear glands and return her vision.

She should call Kenny, but didn't want to encourage him to take off in his car after who-knew-how-many martinis. Charlie didn't need to have to worry about him too.

When Charlie and the metallic blue Dodge Ram arrived at the Marina del Sol the gate was open and a car dripped from the end of a chain on a boom or crane of some kind. Every type of emergency vehicle with lights flashing parked along a central pier. Charlie pulled the truck into a no-parking zone in front of the yacht club and walked down to the excitement with her heart in her stomach—her panic on hold, in protective shock, but still buzzing in her ears. Her feet felt as if they weren't quite reaching the wood of the pier, as if she strode on a layer of air down the center between parked vehicles and shops of all sorts that fueled and serviced private boats of all sorts. There was even a hot dog/fish and chips stand.

“Charlie, I didn't think you'd get here this fast. But I knew the gate was open.” Mitch put an arm around her shoulders and floated beside her.

There were two different TV news vans on the ground and a helicopter flying overhead. Two guys in wetsuits and diving gear climbed a ladder from a zodiac and two other divers replaced them. Her cell chirped in her purse and when she answered it, “This is Charlie,” her voice echoed in her head. She cut off her daughter's angst, “Libby, they've just pulled a car out of the ocean. Luella and Maggie may have been in it. I can't talk right now, honey. I can barely even breathe.”

She hung up on her only child and turned to Mitch, “Is it a Lexus?”

“Yeah.” He pulled her head to his shoulder and patted her hair. “One door was off. There wasn't anybody in it. They're just diving to be sure nobody went down with it, just a precaution, Charlie.”

“Wow, you don't waste time,” Jerry Parks said behind her. When Charlie turned, his photographer blinded her with a flash. “If I stick with you I seem to get first to the breaking news.” That eager boyish squint seemed almost theatrical and definitely silly. “Can you tell my readers who was in that car, Ms. Greene?”

“Don't let him bait you, Charlie,” Mitch said softly and led her away while Parks did his job by following and repeating his questions and his photographer came with him. The very end of the pier was roped off. They were allowed past the barricade which was backed by the San Diego County Sheriff's Department and some marina security armed with dogs. Jerry and friend were not. “Someone here you need to talk to. Don't let him bait you either. What do you want on your hot dog?”

“How did you know?” She hated when men did that.

“Heard your stomach rumble when we passed the Fins and Fangs. Charlemagne Catherine Greene, I'd like you to meet Charles Green.”

“Mustard, pickle relish, catsup, and onion,” Charlie told Mitch.

“Make that two,” Charles Green added.

“How about that, we're both Charlie Greens,” Charlie told the heavyset gentleman in Banana Republic khakis, “and we're both agents.”

“Excuse me?” He even wore a safari hat. Why would he want to stand out like that? His surprise did appear authentic.

“I'm Hollywood and you're FBI.”

By the time hot dogs, beer, and fries arrived via superstar, the other Charlie had regained his voice and the car still dangling from the boom on the barge pushed by a tug came dripping closer.

“I'm getting your e-mail,” Charlie told him.

“You can decode?”

“No, but the nearest teenager can.” Charlie stuck her hand in her purse as if looking for something, switched her phone off, and managed to hook a tissue to wipe her nose.

“Your daughter?”

“Actually she's the farthest teenager at the moment.” The divers off the end of the curve of promontory were still down. Oh please let those women be safe and dry and somewhere I can find them.

The three of them sat on a bench with a backboard, Charlie Greene in the middle, trying to keep dripping mustard and ketchup off their clothes and squint around lowering sun glare against water. The other Charlie's glasses were untinted prescription and the safari hat didn't seem to help much.

“So what were these alleged messages about?” He held a french fry out in front of him to inspect with suspicion and before he could get it to his mouth a passing seagull swooped by to steal it on the fly.

“You're not going to like it.”

“Tell me anyway,” he said, instead of “humor me,” like he would have on TV.

“He's investigating the Sea Spa up there,” Mitch warned. “Is that what the e-mails were about?”

“No, they were about the bombing at the Celebrity Pit.”

“Why wouldn't I like that?” the FBI asked.

“Won't play in the Bible belt or DC either. It was religious fanatics.”

“Well that should come as no surprise.” The other Charlie rolled his eyes and shook his head in ennui. “Who else do you think has been responsible for everything since 9/11?”

“They were our religious fanatics.”

“Jesus,” Mitch said softly, “is
your
computer about to become toast.”

While Agent Green was processing this information, Charlie asked, “So what are you investigating at the Sea Spa?”

But he didn't fall for it. Instead he pulled out a pill bottle, shook a capsule into his hand, swallowed it with beer, paused, shook out another, swallowed it too, pulled down his hat brim, and refocused on her eyes. “What do you mean ‘our' religious? Ours run charities and shelters and help the homeless. They don't bomb them.”

“May not have been after the homeless and addicts who sheltered there. The Pit did have a reputation for saucy entertainment, fundamentalists would consider evil.” Speaking of saucy, Deputy Saucier and her Detective Solomon came through the barricade and up to Charlie. “I wondered what happened to you.” She introduced them all.

Solomon shook hands with Mitch but not the FBI. His expression expressing a resigned, “now that's all I need.”

“He's here to investigate the Sea Spa.”

“The murders are my jurisdiction,” Gordy Solomon said carefully if not cordially.

The white Lexus lowered onto the pier and the red sun touched the sea. While the FBI and San Diego County concentrated on each other, Charlie wandered over to the ruined Lexus with her tissue to her eyes, looked into the car and turned away to slip behind a shed. “Libby, you're at Betty's? That's great. Is Doug still there? Excellent. Anybody else? Okay, listen hard—you can ream me out later. I'm not kidding here. Right now there is big trouble descending upon our happy little compound. I want you and Doug to take Mrs. Beesom and your computer and mine and probably the damn cat and both your cars and your cells and disappear to Doug's house. Libby, this is seriously necessary. Don't let anybody know where you all are.”