Perfect Sax Page 12

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Oh yes. And I…recognized…the name Wesley Westcott. He has a favorite agent at my office on Sunset who keeps her eye out for special properties for him. I knew your Wesley bought and sold, of course.” Caroline Rochette batted her thick lashes. After staring at her for the past half hour, I was startled to find I was beginning to like the look on her. “It was a quick search of my multiple-listing recent-home-sales database and…I found the address of this house.”

  Just like that. If I had any illusion that I was hidden or safe, I had just lost it.

  “Now I’m through playing twenty questions,” she said, standing. She swayed slightly, her narrow high heels finding the flagstone path uneven. “Give me Albert’s papers and I’ll return them to him with all my apologies. Then we can be done with it.”

  “I can’t do that,” I said.

  “You what?”

  “I don’t have them here, for one thing.”

  “Then let’s go back to your house.”

  “No.”

  Caroline dropped the girlfriend act fast. “Bitch. You think you can shake Al down for more than the thousand, you are just dreaming.”

  “This isn’t about money, Caroline.” I turned and began walking back toward the guest house. Our conversation was at an end.

  “Oh, come on! Everyone can use some extra cash. Be real.” She followed me on the trot. “Who pays for your nails? Your shoes? Your hair?”

  “We’re finished talking. Get out.”

  “Don’t walk away from me!” she screeched, frustration making her small voice climb to the upper registers. She lunged for me, and, by some instinct, I quickly stepped to the side.

  A small splash accompanied her yelp.

  “Oh my God!” I couldn’t believe my eyes as Caroline Rochette, dainty knit suit, taffy blond hair, face-lift, and all, sank to the bottom of the pool. Before I could react, Cesar and Rolando came on the run. Cesar threw off his hard hat and Rolando pulled off his shoes.

  Caroline was not bobbing to the surface. Perhaps the shock of hitting the cold water had temporarily struck her senseless. Perhaps she couldn’t swim.

  One two three, we all jumped into the pool to rescue her. The last thing I saw before I hit the cold water was Wesley running toward us.

  I got to her first, and with the faint memory of some Red Cross certification training from a long, long distant summer camp in Wisconsin, I hooked an arm under Caroline’s chest and dragged the small, sopping woman to the surface, kicking and sputtering. She swore at us all as she was pulled to the shallow end, but adrenaline was working its magic and I wouldn’t let go of her until I had her up on the steps and out of the pool. Frankly, I doubted I could remember CPR, and after watching her smoke all those cigarettes, I was determined to avoid experiments in mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

  “Don’t squirm,” I told her. “You might have drowned.” Holding on to her, I got a close look at her tight little face and its expression of shock and fear.

  “I must get,” she panted out, “insurance.”

  Cesar had recovered Caroline’s tiny handbag and Rolando fished around and captured one of her pale pink leather pumps. They handed the dripping accessories to her as she continued to curse at us all.

  My soaking jeans weighed a ton as I slogged out of the pool. Wesley came over to me and put his arm around my shoulder. “Are you okay? I saw the entire thing. That woman just ran into the pool. I think she meant to push you in.”

  With what little dignity she could muster, Caroline stood up straight and stepped into the shoe Rolando had rescued. “This has been an absolutely horrific couple of days,” she said. “I don’t know what has gotten into me. I just don’t know. No man is worth this, honey,” she said, giving me a disgusted look. “No man. You can quote me.”

  I don’t know if the dunk in the pool had cooled off her temper, or if she was going on pure realtor instincts. In the presence of a great client like Wes, a man who bought and sold a lot of expensive properties, she was probably trying to undo any professional damage she could. In any event, she seemed to revert to the “polite” social manners that were the mainstay of her trade. She opened her bag with a snap, sending off a small cascade of droplets, and pulled out the cash. I noticed the bills were fairly dry. She handed a hundred each to Cesar and Rolando, who both said, “No, no, señora.” Eventually, they were persuaded to take their tips and went on back to the roofing job.

  “Everyone in L.A. needs a little extra. Call me,” Caroline said, with a wink. She was trying to pull off good-natured and jaunty, but there was definitely something uneasy about that wink. Then she turned and, dripping wet, left the property.

  “Can you believe that woman? I mean, can you believe her?” I was staring after the spot where she had disappeared around the main house, noticing the wet footprints she had left on the path.

  Wesley just shook his head. That’s when Holly came through the back gate, holding the carton full of Albert Grasso’s papers that she had just taken to be copied, missing running into Caroline Rochette by seconds.

  Holly checked out my wet face, my wet hair, my wet clothes. “What’s going on? Why is Madeline soaking wet?” she asked, looking from Wes to me.

  “It’s a long story,” Wes said, “which Mad is about to tell us.”

  “Ew,” Holly said, pointing into the pool.

  But when examined more closely, the big, black bug that had grabbed Holly’s attention turned out to be nothing more menacing than one of Caroline Rochette’s eyelashes, gone dismally astray.

  And while we found it easy to laugh at the bizarre woman and her bizarre visit, I began to wonder if she wasn’t really more of a threat than I gave her credit for. Had any of the things she told me this afternoon been true? The birthday-gift plans? The briefcase accident? Her real reason for coming to see me, even? Was it to get Grasso’s papers or to find out what I knew and how well guarded I was here? Damn.

  The breeze blew against my wet jeans and shirt. I began to shiver. I am not one to make enemies if I can help it. But for the first time in my life, and over a discarded pile of junk, I realized I had just made a few serious ones.

  I looked at Holly holding the cardboard box of paperwork that seemed to be at the center of my troubles. I would turn it all over to the police. We would look through the copies and see what we could see. But what then? My home was a crime scene and it appeared anyone who knew a real estate agent could track me down at Wesley’s place in a matter of minutes. Plus Caroline Rochette had actually been here, scoping out the lay of the land. I began to wonder again why Sara Jackson had been killed at my house. Had she seen something that put her in danger?

  Holly said, “You should get out of those clothes, Mad. It’s getting cooler out.”

  “You’re right,” I said, trying to return her smile.

  But as I followed her back to the guest house, I remembered Caroline’s warnings and couldn’t stop shaking. What should I do? I was away from home too often to keep a dog. I seemed unable to keep a boyfriend. But a gun…

  “Who’s Sorry Now?”

  Wes and Holly and I had spent hours in Wesley’s guest-house living room examining Grasso’s private papers. We pored over the copies Holly had made of what had once been, if we were to believe the scheming Caroline Rochette, the contents of Albert Grasso’s briefcase, but understood no more than before. As for the originals, I had left a message for Honnett. I wanted his advice on what to do with Grasso’s junk. The police, it turned out, didn’t want to take custody of it. When I called my local station, they politely suggested I toss it all out.

  The pathetic fact was: Nothing new leaped to our attention. If there was something in the papers that warranted the sort of apoplectic reaction that Grasso had displayed, we were missing it. There were no notes of dirty deeds, no confessions of criminal activity, no admissions of illicit love. Nada.

  “Okay, here are the pictures,” Holly said, having neatly reorganized the X
erox copies of the fifty-some documents and photos once again.

  Wesley was typing a master list into his laptop. He swiftly keyed in the names and inscriptions he found scrawled across a dozen autographed eight-by-tens, all from grateful Albert Grasso celebrity clients. Among others, the fivemember boy band that made ten-year-olds swoon. The aging Vegas diva, a woman who was certainly due a free liposuction if her plastic surgeon gave an incentive gift for every dozen nips or tucks. The airbrushed faces of several young hopefuls who had become recent celebrities on American Idol. The legendary screen star from the fifties, Catherine Hill. Her face brought a smile to my lips. This glamorous old MGM superstar had become a “close personal friend” of mine, as Wes and I liked to joke. Catherine Hill and I had actually met several times. And in Hollywood, Wes and I had learned, any slight acquaintance (Phil Collins’s plumber? Charlize Theron’s optometrist?) seemed to be all it took to claim intimate relationships with the stars. And then there was the photo of the former president with the smiling young woman.

  “I’m guessing that’s Albert’s niece or daughter,” I said, rechecking the image. “Damn, I should have thought to ask Caroline if Albert had a daughter while I had her here, answering questions.”

  Wes pushed a few keys and was soon deep into a Web search on Albert Grasso. Duh. I mean, why hadn’t I thought of that?

  “Here he is,” Wes said, his eyes scanning the screen. “I’ve pulled up his biography.”

  “What’s it say?” Holly asked.

  “Usual sort of things. He was born in Oklahoma City. He studied voice at the University of Oklahoma on scholarship. Opera. Broadway. Yadda yadda.”

  We waited. “Says he arranged music and did vocal work with Sonny and Cher way back when. And worked on their show.”

  “All these people,” I said, “who surround the stars. They all manage to make a living, don’t they?”

  “As do we,” Wes pointed out. That got all of us thinking for a minute. Then he said, “Here’s all it says about his personal life. ‘Albert Grasso lives in the Hollywood Hills. His daughter, Gracie, is a recent graduate of Georgetown University and attends Harvard Law School.’”

  “Bingo!” I said, feeling rather pleased with myself. “She must be the intern in the picture with Clinton.”

  “Ew,” said Holly. I was surprised at her reaction. Frankly, Holly still had a crush on the former president. I looked at her and raised a brow. She asked, “How can you name a kid Gracie Grasso?”

  That was something to think about another day. “Can we look through the documents one more time?” I asked.

  “I have just about finished logging them,” Wes said. “There are seven letters of thanks or recommendation from various celebs and academies. There are four requests for donations to charities or thank-you notes from foundations. There are six receipts for various items.”

  “Can we go over those again?” I asked.

  “Sure. One from CreateTech for an item called Digital Performer—”

  “That’s recording software,” Holly commented. “You know, so you can turn your Mac into a recording studio sort of thing.”

  “One for clothing, specifically two Armani Collezioni suits and various shirts from Boutique Giorgio Armani Beverly Hills; one five-page itemized account from the Four Seasons in Las Vegas for a ten-day trip last October; one from a place called Art-4-Less for an oil painting entitled Dog Living in Luxury with Cigar; one sales slip for Grasso’s Audi A6; and the deed to a luxury condo on Prince Edward Island.”

  “So what does that tell us?” I asked. “Nothing.”

  “Maybe Grasso has a love nest in Canada,” Holly tried.

  “Holly, don’t blame our neighbors to the north,” Wes said.

  “He’s dressing up in the new Armani,” Holly continued, “driving his Audi out to Vegas, setting up private recording sessions—”

  I finished, “And hooking up with the cigar-smoking dog?”

  Wes laughed. “If Albert Grasso was sticking up a gas station one day, and one of these receipts proves he was in the area and busts his alibi—we’re never going to know that.”

  “Maybe Albert had to buy those suits to replace two identical models that he ruined by spilling someone’s blood all over them.”

  Context. Any little thing could be innocent or much more dangerous if one knew the context.

  “So we agree,” Holly concluded, stacking the papers up again, “we definitely don’t know what we know.”

  “Comforting,” Wes said, looking over at me, concerned.

  “I left a message for Detective Baronowski. Since this carton of Grasso’s things had been stored at my house at the time of the break-in, maybe he’ll take a look.”

  “Good,” Wes agreed.

  I picked up the phone and dialed the number to get the messages off of my home voice mail. I was ready to handle the accumulation of work and backlog of messages that had piled up since yesterday. We often get called on the weekend. Party anxiety can hit our clients at the oddest times.

  There were several events-related items: a couple who were picking dates for a September engagement party, a public relations agent who wanted to make sure we had allowed extra space for the paparazzi at her beach barbeque soiree, and already a call about the Woodburn flower-arrangement class/luncheon we’d been asked to schedule so soon. A flurry of short, sweet messages came in from Zenya Knight, Connie Hutson, Dilly Swinden, and four other Woodburn ladies, with praise for the Black & White Ball and thanks for putting on such a fabulous party. These women may have suffered a drunken celebrity auctioneer, a major robbery, and a hundred-thousand-dollar loss to their auction revenues, but you couldn’t tell it by their warm thank-you calls. Had their mothers beaten these manners into them as small children, or was such graciousness genetic?

  Surprisingly, there was only one message about the police activity at our house. My neighbor Nelson Piffer was wondering what all the fuss on the street was about. He’d heard a terrible rumor from another neighbor—a woman he detests with a yippy dachshund—who said the coroner’s van had been spied on Whitley Avenue around 4 A.M. It sounded like Nelson was angling for some details, although he was much too well mannered to ask directly. He signed off by reminding me the Whitley Heights Homeowners Association meeting had been canceled for the month, and that, as always, Teuksbury sent her love.

  The most intriguing message came last. “Hello, Miss Bean. It is Albert Grasso calling with deep and very sincere apologies. I seem to have made a royal ass out of myself last night. I was extremely upset, as I don’t need to remind you. But, clearly, I was taking out my anger on the messenger, and what a charming and beautiful messenger you were, too.

  “As for the terrible misunderstanding, all has been explained to me by Caroline. She came over this afternoon and told me everything. What the hell can I say? She begged for my forgiveness and she begs your forgiveness, too, of course, and whatever Caroline did, she meant well. I am so sorry our foolish little drama has impacted you in such a nasty way. Look, the point of this call. I’d like to apologize in person. You’ve been a trouper through this whole fiasco. If it is at all possible, I would love to get my papers back. Please drop them off at your earliest convenience.”

  I played that one back twice and then hung up.

  “Million messages?” Holly inquired.

  “Always,” I answered. “The Woodburn ladies loved the party, despite the several glitches in their fund-raising efforts. Not our responsibility, of course.”

  “Thank goodness,” Wes said.

  “And a few other calls. Zenya Knight wants to talk to me. It’s sure to be about her weird husband. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was in jail after the way he was driving last night. And there was a call from their auction-bidding rivals, the Hutsons.”

  Wes looked up. “What did they want?”

  “They’d like to plan a birthday party for their twelveyear-old sax genius. They suggest holding a ‘battle of the jazz players’ kind of com
petition.”

  “Oy,” Holly said, and giggled.

  “And then I got a call from Mr. Albert Grasso, very sorry and all that.”

  “Really?” Holly looked shocked.

  “So maybe he’s just a blowhard kind of guy. Big blowup last night, and apologies today.”

  “Men are weird,” Holly said.

  “Hey,” Wes said.

  “I think I better give him back his junk.”

  “Really?” Wes was surprised.

  “Well, I realize Grasso was rude as hell to me last night. Unfortunately, that crime is not yet recognized in the state of California.”

  “Your problem is you are too forgiving,” Holly said.

  “If Grasso and Caroline are apologizing for their craziness, that’s more than you usually get from the assorted loonies we work with.”

  “But—”

  “And look at this stuff.” I tapped the box that was piled with the man’s items. “We have his passport and his therapist’s report and his detailed Bible-study notes and his book proposal for How to Sing Like a Bird. There are three handwritten letters from his mother from like thirty-five years ago. Those have to be precious to him.”

  “True,” Holly agreed reluctantly.

  “And we’ve got all that other stuff he’ll need, like the copies of his divorce papers. And the detailed inventory of his coin collection and those papers from Mid-Pacific Insurance and North American Home Insurance and every other legal document he’s going to need in his life.”

  We all sat and thought about it.

  “But, Maddie, what about Sara…?” Holly said, shaking her head.

  “We don’t know what happened to Sara, Holly. Maybe it was just a junkie looking for something to steal, something he could hock for drug money. And then Sara showed up and she…If someone was breaking into the house and got scared, they might have followed her up to my room. Maybe she ran…”