Читать книгу Kill the Mother! - Michael Mallory - Страница 8

FOUR

By seven the next morning, the Barney’s Beanery chili cheese burger and fries I had treated myself to last night after leaving Nora’s were still reminding me why I don’t treat myself more often. After getting up and downing an Alka-Seltzer, I stumbled into the shower and shaved, and by nine I knew I had a decision to make: I could stay home and feel lousy, or steel myself to go into the office and feel lousy. I opted for the latter. Grabbing my laptop, I headed out. My first stop was the bank, where I deposited the majority of my newfound wealth. “I held up a gas station,” I explained to the young female teller as I handed over the bills and, fortunately, she laughed. Ironically, my second stop after the bank was a gas station, where Exxon/Mobil held me up.

I got to the office a little after ten, beating the mailman. Powering up the laptop, I saw that there was indeed an email from Nora. Opening it, I found no personal message of any kind, not even “Hi,” simply a list of names. Nora Faust was certainly not one to leave a trail, even a digital one. Plugging the laptop into my aging laser printer, I put out a copy. The toner was starting to run out so there was a pale line running through the print (why is it that machines invariably know when you’ve suddenly come into money and respond by breaking or running dry?). The names on the printed page were:

Marta Wheeler, Denise

Leslie Brielle, Alexis

Carole Gould, Nathan

Monica Epper, Tiffany

Cristina Diaz, Hugo

The full names I took to be the mothers, and the second names the children, and of course, there had to be one called “Tiffany.” Finding them should be a cinch because I have at my disposal a tool about which Bogie, Mitchum, Dick Powell, Alan Ladd and Charles McGraw could only have dreamt. Sure, they had snappier patter and cooler clothes, and their celluloid adventures were definitely more thrilling than the run-of-the-mill stuff a real PI engages in, but they would’ve had to start pounding the pavement and following leads and clues to find even one of these women. In today’s investigative world, we have databases.

Within a half-hour I had addresses and contact numbers for four of the women on the list. Only Leslie Brielle remained elusive. But obtaining four was a pretty good start. Picking up the phone, I dialed the number for Marta Wheeler. After three rings, it went to a recorded message:

This is the Klaster-Wheeler household…if you are calling for Bob, Marta or Denise, please leave a message when you hear the beep…if however you are looking for anyone not named Bob, Marta or Denise, are selling something, or do not understand what I’m saying because you don’t speak English, do us all a favor and just hang up. BEEP.

“Hi,” I began, “I’m calling for Marta. My name is Dave Beauchamp and I’m calling regarding a new television show—”

“This is Marta,” a crisp voice suddenly burst in. It was the voice from the machine.

“Oh, you’re there.”

“I screen all calls. You just never know. Mr. Beauchamp, you said? Hi, how are you? I imagine you’re calling about Denise. Are you a casting director?”

“Actually, no—”

“Producer, then?” she asked before I could finish.

“I’m calling in regards to the reality show that Denise—”

“Junior Idol,” she blurted. “You must be calling from Max Gelfan Productions. Do you need her to come in again?” There was a sense of urgency, if not desperation, in her voice.

I jotted down the name of the production company and said, “No, Ms. Wheeler, I’m not part of Max Gelfan Productions, and I’m not in a position to offer Denise a job. I’m calling on behalf of Nora Fr—”

The phone slammed down before I could get the entire second syllable out.

I waited two minutes before calling back. After listening to the recorded message once more, I said after the beep: “Ms. Wheeler, it’s Dave Beauchamp again. I’m a private investigator. Someone has made a threat to the Brothers Alpha, Nora’s sons, and—”

The line picked up. “And that broodmare is accusing me?” Marta Wheeler screamed.

“She’s not accusing anyone in particular,” I said, trying to sound soothing. “She has merely asked me to check things out.”

“Let me tell you a few things about your client, Mr. Beauchamp. There isn’t anyone in this town who’s ever met her who doesn’t want to push her in front of a bus.”

I cleared my throat and said: “Well, I’ll admit she is a bit insistent—”

“She’s the stage mother from Hell! Nora Frost goes into casting sessions and insists that her two little cadavers be seen before anyone else since she considers it a personal insult that they are required to audition in the first place. I was at one call with her where she didn’t just bring one headshot of boys, she brought dozens, all autographed, and handed them out to the other kids who are there to audition, telling them that someday they’ll be able to say they had met the Brothers Alpha! She tapes their every breath with a cell phone camera, too, claiming that she’s making a documentary about them. I was told that she once actually locked another kid in the bathroom at the casting office so the boy couldn’t do his audition. When they finally found the kid he was in hysterics, and his mother, who thought he’d been kidnapped, had to be taken to the emergency room. That is your client, Mr. Beauchamp.”

“Um, if she’s that bad, why do casting directors put up with it?”

“They don’t more than once, but there are a lot of casting directors in town. Word hasn’t gotten to all of them, apparently. But she keeps coming back for Junior Idol. It’s supposed to be an American Idol for kids, but I’m frankly starting to wonder if this isn’t a talent program at all, but one of those conflict reality shows where they’re going to pit the kids and the mothers against each other. Believe me, Mr. Beauchamp, the Alphas haven’t been brought back because of their talent, because they haven’t any. Denise has been taking dance lessons since she was four, and voice and acting lessons as well. She’s a pro. A lot of the other kids are, too. There’s one girl named Tiffany Epper who’s got a singing voice you wouldn’t believe. Another kid, Hugo somebody, does impressions. He’s ten or eleven, but he can do the best SpongeBob you ever heard. And Denise, of course, like I said, she’s got it. But the Alphas, they’re synthetic, they don’t respond like flesh-and-blood human beings, let alone normal child performers.”

“Thank you, Ms. Wheeler, you’ve been very helpful, so please forgive me for asking this, but simply for the record, have you sent a letter to Nora Frost making any kind of comment about Taylor and Burton, even if it was not meant to be taken seriously?”

“No…I…have…not. Were I to send some sort of letter, it would not be to threaten the boys, who I actually feel sorry for. But as I’ve told you, I sent no letter of any kind. Until now, I never even knew their names, only the Brothers Alpha. Now I really think I’ve said all I need to say about this.”

“Thank you for your time, Ms. Wheeler, I certainly appreciate it,” I said, to a dead phone line. She had hung up around the word you.

I sat back at my desk and contemplated the best course of action. I could tell Nora that I would not be pursuing the case, and return the ten-thousand dollars, since there was no signed contract, or.…

Oh, who was I kidding? Even if my client was a gene mix of the Wicked Witch of the West, Nurse Ratched and Elizabeth Bathory, I was not in a position to throw away ten-grand. Having finally discovered the price of my soul, I figured it was nonreturnable, like a damaged package. Besides, someone had threatened the twins, either seriously or frivolously—and let’s face it, these days the latter can be mistaken for an act of terror—no matter what Nora Frost was like personally.

I managed to speak with two more of the mothers, Cristina Diaz and Monica Epper, each of whom basically reiterated what Marta Wheeler had told me on all levels. Cristina revealed that she could not cut loose with what she really wanted to say because her son Hugo, the pre-teen mimic, was within earshot, but Monica had no such problems. Her vocabulary made that of Nora Frost’s sound like a kindergarten teacher’s. I contemplated going to the emergency room to have my ear swabbed out. But both denied sending the letter. What was perhaps more pertinent, both had a reaction similar to Marta Wheeler’s, which was that no matter what they would like to do to their mother, they would not have threatened the children. What I found particularly interesting, however, was that like Marta, Cristina Diaz and Monica Epper did not know the boys’ given names. They were all familiar only with their showbiz moniker, the Brothers Alpha. Yet the writer of the note had mentioned them by name.

That shifted particular weight to either Carole Gould or Leslie Brielle as being the sender of the letter, but since I was unable to find a number for Leslie, and the message I’d left on Carole’s machine had not yet been answered, I had no way of verifying my suspicion. But I really had no illusions that simply calling them up and asking if they were guilty was going to yield results. That sort of direct confrontation only worked on Perry Mason. I might have better luck with Max Gelfan, or someone on his staff who had seen all the women and all the kids in one room together. I Googled Max Gelfan Productions and learned that while it was not as well established as the operations formed by Merv Griffin or Vin di Bona, it seemed to have a solid enough reputation as a game and reality show producer. Finding an address for the company was easy, too; it was just over the hill in Hollywood.

I headed out, deciding to forego lunch, since the chili cheese combo from Barney’s was still singing an aria in my stomach. I don’t know which is weaker, a voice said inside my head, your brain or your belly.

Be quiet, Mitchum. I have a job to do.

Traffic on the 101 was kind, meaning I made it down to Hollywood in about forty-five minutes. Max Gelfan Productions was headquartered in one of those almost-studios that called themselves “production centers”—multi-level buildings containing small television stages somewhere inside, but consisting mostly of offices. This one was located on Gower, south of Hollywood Boulevard. I managed to find a parking place on the street (which effective used up my quota of luck for the next two months) and walked into the lobby area. A young, dark-haired, heavily-tatted woman sat behind the desk. “Can I help you?” she asked.

“Max Gelfan Productions,” I said.

“Who do you wish to see?”

“The person in charge of casting.”

The eyes narrowed, and I was able to read her thoughts enough to well realize I had as much chance of actually coming face-to-face with the talent coordinator for Max Gelfan Productions as I had dining with the president. Maybe less.

“Do you have an appointment?” she asked.

“No, but I’m here on behalf of Nora Frost.”

The woman’s demeanor changed as though digitally morphed. The defiance disappeared and was replaced by weary resignation. She muttered something under her breath—I thought it was Oh, Christ, but I wasn’t certain. “Are you an attorney?” she asked.

“I used to be, but I got over it,” I replied. “Now I’m a private investigator.”

“Oh, god,” she moaned.

“Look, ma’am, I’m not here to cause anyone any trouble, I promise. I’d just like to put a few questions to the person who has been auditioning kids for Junior Idol. If you tell me I can’t, I’ll accept that and leave, though I hope you won’t.”

She sized me up and down and apparently decided I wasn’t one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, even if my employer was, and so punched a number into her desk phone. “Terrence, it’s Cassandra, down front. Could you come down here please? I know, I know, but I think you might want to anyway. Someone’s here about the Brothers Alpha. Okay, thanks.” She hung up and said, “Have seat. Mr. Holving will be with you in a minute.”

“Thank you very much,” I said, and made my way to a circular sofa that probably looked good on the pages of a design magazine, but was uncomfortable as all get-out to actually use. About three minutes later, a forty-ish, very thin guy with close-cropped hair appeared and Cassandra pointed him in my direction. “Hi, I’m Terrence Holving, talent coordinator for Gelfan Productions, and you are.…”

“Dave Beauchamp,” I said, sticking out my hand, which he wetly shook.

“What’s this about, Mr. Beauchamp?”

“Can we go somewhere and talk?” I asked.

“My office,” he said, turning and heading toward the elevator. I followed, and within seconds we were on our way up to the fourth floor. “So,” Holving said, “how are the Brothers Alpha?” The last two words were delivered with the kind of sarcastic bite in which Paul Lynde would have taken pride.

“Creepy and unnatural as ever,” I said, truthfully.

Terrence Holving burst out with a choppy, gaspy laugh, like he’d been punched in the stomach with a joke book. “Well, at least I know you’re acquainted with them,” he said, as the elevator doors opened onto the fourth floor. “This way.” We went down a very convoluted hallway, which I doubted I could have navigated on my own, and past a reception desk emblazoned with the “Max Gelfan Productions” logo. The knockout blonde seated behind the desk smiled as we walked by. Finally we came to a small, but well decorated office. There were posters and mementoes from any number of past projects covering the walls. Holving closed the door behind us. “Please sit, Mr. Beauchamp,” he said, motioning me to a chair, and then seating himself behind his overburdened desk. “What do you want to know about the Brothers Alpha?”

“First, Mr. Holving, please understand that while I am a private investigator who has been hired on a matter by Nora Frost, I am in no way here to threaten you or anyone else in Max Gelfan Productions. I don’t as a rule start conversations with that kind of disclaimer, but in the short time I’ve known Nora Frost, I understand how it might be best to get that out in the open right up front.”

“She’s some piece of work,” Holving said. “But hiring a detective? What in god’s name does she think we did?”

I explained as best I could the written threat to the boys, and how I had already contacted several of the other mothers involved in auditioning for Junior Idol.

“Oh, good god,” he muttered. “How like Nora to think everybody’s out to get her little darlings. It’s people like her that sometimes make me wish I’d stayed in Topeka and become a high school music teacher. All the moms want their kids to shine, but Nora thinks hers shit rainbows, pardon my French.”

“But what about the other moms?” I pressed. “Could her fears be warranted? Have you seen anything that might be construed as vindictive behavior?”

“No. One of the mothers actually pulled her daughter out of the running because of Nora.”

“Would that have been Leslie Brielle, by any chance?” I asked.

He smiled suspiciously. “You seem to have all the answers already.”

“Not at all. It’s just that Nora gave me a list of five other moms, which I took to be those she encountered in the course of these auditions, and the only one whose name did not pop up immediately on the database was Leslie Brielle. That would indicate that she doesn’t really want to be found, which I would think is something of a liability for this kind of business. Or, it may indicate that she is overly protective of her daughter on a personal level, and is afraid someone is going try to get to her, which would be in line with pulling her out of a contest at the first sign of trouble. So was it Leslie Brielle, right?”

“Yes, it was Leslie, and she pronounces her name Brie, like the cheese. Lexy…Alexis…that’s her daughter, desperately wants to be in the spotlight, but for some reason that makes Leslie nervous. She goes along with her daughter’s wishes, but reluctantly. Lexy, in fact, seems to be the dominant one in the relationship.”

“What does Lexy’s father think of all this?”

“Leslie mentioned one time that she was divorced, but winced as she said it, as though the word itself hurt and frightened her. I think it must have been a bad breakup.”

“So you don’t think there’s any way possible that Leslie could have sent a nasty letter?”

“No, no way. Lexy, now.…”

“Are you serious?”

Terrence Holving gave me a wry look that indicated he was not. “Oh, in ten years, maybe. I don’t know. Look, Mr. Beauchamp, all of us around here grit our teeth and do what we can to get through every visitation by Nora, but in answer to your question, no, I cannot think of anyone who would actually threaten the twins…oh, pardon me…the brothers, with violence. It’s not their fault.”

“True, but if someone wanted to hurt Nora, really hurt her, wouldn’t that would be the easiest way? Do you happen to have a contact number for Leslie Brielle? Just so I can cover all the bases and earn the money I’m being paid.”

Holving sighed and reached for the desk phone that was on the executive table, jabbing in a number and waiting. “Hi, Janelle? Could you get the phone number for Leslie Brielle and bring it to me right away? Thanks.” He hung up. “Mr. Beauchamp, I’m not going to ask you what Nora is paying you to investigate this, but whatever Nora it is, I’ll double it if you could somehow convince her to never enter this building again.”

“Can’t you do that by not calling her in?”

“That’s just it, I don’t call her in. I called the boys in for an audition when we first started work on Junior Idol, based on their photos, but it was clear from that session that they didn’t have what we were looking for. Even their camera slate took multiple takes. As far as I was concerned, we were finished with them, but Nora keeps showing up. Somehow she knows when we’re holding callbacks. I don’t know how. But it has gotten easier to just run the boys through their paces and send them home than to fight it, so that’s what I do. If you can discover how she’s finding out about our calls, I’d appreciate it, because it’s not me who’s inviting her back.”

“Have you specifically told her to stay away?” I asked.

“God knows I should, but in an audition situation, sometimes the path of least resistance is the easiest way.”

“Couldn’t you inform her through a letter?”

“I suppose so, but—” He stopped and regarded me with a narrow-eyed stare. “Are you accusing me of sending that threatening letter to her?”

“I’m just covering the bases, Mr. Holving,” I said, as innocently as I could.

“Have you even seen this supposed letter?” he demanded. “Are you sure it exists, instead of being some figment of her demented imagination?”

I had not planned on showing him the actual letter, but now I pulled it out, unfolded it and set it down on the table. “As you can see, it specifically tells her to keep the kids away.”

“Shit,” he said, sliding the letter back to me after having read it. “I cannot state this emphatically enough. I had absolutely nothing to do with this. Threatening the boys would be a way of giving them attention, and I don’t want to give them attention. I want Nora and the twins to go away, move to Arkansas, or somewhere.”

As I refolded and returned the letter to my pocket, I heard a light tapping on the open door and a young woman came in holding a sheet of paper. It was the blonde who had smiled at us from the reception desk, now fully upright and visible. Usually I don’t gawk at women, but it was hard not to stare at this one. Barely concealed under a painted-on tee shirt emblazoned with the logo for the game show Brain Trust, which I assumed Max Gelfan Productions produced, the young woman’s bust thrust forth with the kind of 3-D effect of which James Cameron could only fantasize. Her lower half, though, was petite. If this woman ever tired of her job with Gelfan she could start a new career on Sesame Street by turning sideways and playing the letter P.

“Here’s the number you asked for,” she said, handing the paper to Holving.

“Thanks, Janelle,” he said, barely looking at her. Either he couldn’t have cared less about her figure, or had grown used to it, and although I had known him but a few minutes, my money was on the former.

Forcing myself to concentrate on her face, I saw that her upper lip was a little too large to be natural. Clearly she had undergone a collagen treatment, but the end result was to turn her lips into a parody of her body: heavy on top, light on the bottom. Maybe that was the point. She bounced out of the room, and I continued to gape at her with every step.

“She has a boyfriend, you know,” Holving said, passing over the paper containing Leslie Brielle’s information.

“Oh, yeah, well…she’d have to, wouldn’t she?” I stammered, trying not to blush. “She kind of overdid the lip, though.”

“I really don’t like to gossip about my staff,” he replied.

“Sorry.”

“But you’re right, she did. God knows why. She was cute enough before doing it. The guys around here who care were dropping down and biting sticks in half just at the sight of her. When she first got the lip done, though, I thought she’d been assaulted in the parking lot.”

“How much does a procedure like that cost?”

“Cost? I don’t know. Why? Are you thinking of plumping your lips?”

“No, I’m just wondering where she got the money for it. Does Max Gelfan pay everyone so well that the assistants can afford cosmetic tweaks?”

His face darkened, and I could see him trying to follow my thoughts. “What are you suggesting?” he asked.

“You believe that someone in this office is passing information onto Nora Frost without your knowledge, someone with access to all the phone numbers. Someone who might be compensated under the table.”

“Good god, you think Nora was paying her to be informed about callbacks?”

“Would you put it past Nora?”

“No, but I’d like to be able to put it past Janelle.”

“There’s one easy way to test her,” I said, and then outlined a plan to him, to which he listened with a grim expression.

“All right,” Holving said. “We’ll walk out past her desk.” Getting up, he led me down a different maze-like hallway, until we came to a reception desk at which Janelle was seated. Somehow, the affect of her torso was even more enhanced while seated. “So,” Holving began, following my plan, “if you would tell Leslie that we’d really like to see her and Lexy on Friday, that would be great. Two in the afternoon. We’ll call the others from here.”

“Will do,” I said. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Holving.” As he headed back to his office, I turned to Janelle and smiled. “Nice meeting you,” I said. “Um, could you tell me how to get out of here?”

“Sure,” she said, standing up and shading the desk. “Go down here, turn left, and you’ll come to the elevator. It will take you down to the lobby.”

Thanking her, I set out into the labyrinth. Fortunately, her directions were correct, and hopefully, she did not realize she was being set up. I had no intention of telling Leslie Brielle anything about an audition on the twenty-fourth, but if Nora and the boys suddenly showed up at two o’clock on Friday we would know there was only one place she could have gotten the information. I hoped I was not getting Janelle fired. Then again, I doubted she would be out of work long, as she appeared to possess the natural attributes for getting ahead in Hollywood that have been in place since the days of Mack Sennett.

As I went back to my car, which I was glad to see was still there, and unticketed (the police in Hollywood materialized out of thin air to cite you and then disappeared in a puff of smoke, like Nightcrawler in X-Men). It was like a sauna inside the car, which is what happens when you leave your wheels out on warm day and forget to crack the windows open. I turned on the engine and blasted the air as I sat behind the wheel and thought. It was seeming less than likely that any of the other mothers had sent that letter since it was the boys who were the focus of the threat, while everyone’s anger, at least those I had spoken with, seemed to be directed toward Nora herself. Despite his protestations, Terrence Holving, or perhaps someone on the staff I had not yet met, were higher on the suspect list. Holving, at least, had a reason for not wanting her to bring the twins back in.

Then another possibility entered my mind. It was one I didn’t like much, but it was not impossible. And, as Holving had said, threatening the Alpha Brothers like that would have been a way of giving them publicity. It also explained why their names were spelled out in the letter. Pulling out my cell phone I poked in Nora’s number, but got only her answering machine. I didn’t bother leaving a message. Instead I decided to go over to her house. If she wasn’t home, I’d wait. I would like to get my ominous suspicion cleared up as soon as possible.

It took almost as long to get to her house in Los Feliz from Gelfan Productions as it had to get to the Gelfan’s from the valley, thanks to the omnipresent city work crews that were tearing up half of the streets in Hollywood. On the way I was nearly broadsided by another driver, who apparently thought the red light was an early Christmas decoration. That was the price for living in Los Angeles: a near death experience every time you went out on the streets, but the heat’s dry.

Nora’s Lexus was there, so she was home. I was not looking forward to this, but, as Bogie might have once said, I don’t like being played for a chump.

If, as I was starting to suspect, Nora herself wrote that letter and hired me as part of a hoax to get publicity for the boys, I wanted to find out and then get out as soon as possible. I had no compunctions about keeping her money, either. Nora Faust had paid me handsomely to discover the source of the letter; if it turned out that she was the source of the letter, I had still fulfilled my duty.

Parking behind her car, I got out and went up to the front door, but saw that there was no need to hit the doorbell or knock. The door was half open. “Nora,” I called, but received no reply. I went ahead and knocked loudly on the open door. “Nora, are you there?” Nothing.

I went inside the foyer. The house was dark and still as the proverbial tomb. “Nora?” I called. “The door was open, so I came in.” There was no reply. Maybe she was in the bathroom, unaware that the front door was hanging open, and she was going to panic upon hearing me and pull a gun on me. “Is anyone here?” I called again. “Nora? Taylor? Burton?” What was the name of Nora’s assistant? Elena, that was it…like Elena Verdugo, the teenaged star of House of Frankenstein. “Elena?” I called, and received no reply.

I carefully moved into the dining room, and then toward the kitchen, which was also dark and empty. The only sound coming from it was that of ice cubes being dropped into the ice dispenser. I called everyone’s name again, but somehow knew that nobody was going to answer me.

That was when I smelled it. “Oh, sheez, no,” I muttered.

You see, unlike all the books, plays and movies in which bodies are hidden indefinitely somewhere in a house, and nobody knows they are there until they happen to stumble upon them, in real life bodies have a definitive calling card: they stink. Immediately upon dying a person’s bowels and bladder are released, a scent that is rather hard to miss. That latrine stench was what I smelled as I made my way through the Frost house. The kitchen was empty, and next to it was a breakfast nook, which was similarly empty. But on the other side of it was a bathroom, and the light was turned on. Steeling myself, I peered inside.

I wish I hadn’t.