Christietown (12 page)

The same appeared to be true for Dov Pick, the fourth son of a podiatrist and a manicurist from Tel Aviv. Dov started off in the import/export business, which was vague enough to mean almost anything. Jeans? Hookah pipes? Automatic weap
ons? He hung around Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf on Sunset Boulevard in West Hollywood, schmoozing with the regulars while studying to become a real estate broker. Within a week of getting his license, he’d purchased the property next door, fondly known as the minimall of death. Everybody thought he’d bought it for land value, but within the month he’d slapped on a coat of paint, planted fifty palm trees, and leased every last space. When he sold the mall two years later, he quintupled his initial investment. That was the Icepick for you.

I read on.

Now it was getting interesting.

As it turned out, Christietown was peanuts to these guys. The big thing they had going was Dusk Ridge Ranch, a planned community in the hills west of Palmdale, which abut
ted Christietown to the east. Dusk Ridge Ranch had lain dor
mant since the original developer went into foreclosure, but Dov and Avi had negotiated with the lender to assume its debt and go forward.

Seven thousand two hundred homes, along with parks, schools, and recreation facilities. It was practically a city.

They’d broken ground last month. There was a nice picture in the
Antelope Valley Press
of Dov and Avi in hard hats stick
ing their shovels into a pile of dirt. There was also a Native American (not Joseph) waving something in their faces. The caption read “A tribal leader fanned sprigs of burning sage with his ceremonial eagle feather and blessed the dedication of the Dusk Ridge Ranch development.” The article was reprinted on someone’s blog under the heading, “Even the Injuns Done Sold Out.“ Many comments and questions followed.

[email protected] asked, “Are you sure that was a blessing going on?”

[email protected] asked, “Is a golf course in the plans for Dusk Ridge Ranch?”

[email protected] asked, “Are all of the former pledges regarding infrastructure to be honored?”

The latter struck me as a very good question, though I had no idea what it meant, much less what the answer was.

So I did what any logical person would do. I called my ex
husband’s fiancée’s mother for help.

C
HAPTER
1
6

he next evening Dot was waiting for me outside her
house, located on a quiet street in Glendale, a middle-class suburb just adjacent to the ritzier Pasadena. She was ready for action in a pink cashmere warm-up suit, pink terry-cloth head
band, and pink sneakers. She matched her well-maintained, Tudor-style house, which was also pink.

“Definitely your color,” I said, smiling.

“You bet,” she said, pirouetting, which couldn’t have been easy with a hip replacement. “When I turned sixty, I swore off black. Would you mind, dear?” She gestured toward a small suitcase on wheels.

“Oh, sure,” I said, grabbing the handle and dragging it down the front walk behind me. “What’s inside?”

“Supplies.”

“Supplies?” We stopped at the rear of my car.

“Tools of the trade,” she replied gaily. “Reference materials. Laptop. Paper and pen. Tape recorder. Camera. Handcuffs.”

Maybe I hadn’t quite explained things.

“Also, a travel alarm, short-wave radio, and—”

“May I interrupt for a moment, Dot?”

“Of course.”

“Tonight is actually supposed to be a lighthearted kind of event. Nobody’s going to solve any real crimes or apprehend any real criminals. I mean, it’s fine to bring your stuff if you really want to.” Why did I bother? Of course she was bring
ing her stuff. “But all that’s going to happen is that people are going to have a glass of sherry, get to know one another. I thought you’d enjoy it.”

I’d also thought ferrying Dot to Christietown would give me one last excuse to snoop around. When I’d called Ian earlier in the afternoon with the news that I might have a prospective client for him—which was barely a white lie since Dot
was
planning to sell the Glendale house—he invited us both to the inaugural meeting of the Tuesday Night Club. God bless him, he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

As I’d suspected, the same went for Dot.

I hefted the suitcase into the trunk, and she slammed it closed. Off we headed into the sunset, admiring the plumes of fuchsia and orange streaking across the sky. Well, we would have if my windows hadn’t been so filthy. I turned on the windshield wipers and four tiny Japanese-made geysers sprayed water, then wiped it away.

“Much better,” said Dot. “It’s important to know where you’re headed.”

I hoped she hadn’t meant that metaphorically.

Dot settled into her seat and pulled some knitting out of her bag, explaining that she was making a hat for Jackie’s cous
in’s new baby boy. The yarn was pink, which suggested the extent of her obsession. We drove for a while in silence, broken
only by the soft hum of the freeway and the click of knitting needles.

The hat looked so small. Babies’ heads are in fact proportion
ately huge compared with adults’ heads. Little hands, though. Also feet. Also little toes, like kernels of corn. I was halfway to that trippy state of vehicular bliss—your mind and body have parted ways, though you’re still vaguely aware enough to con
template baby parts at sixty-five miles per hour—when Dot asked how my new book was coming along.

I crashed back into consciousness.

Not a question I was prepared to answer.

I tried to ask about her, but on that subject she was strangely mum. Instead, I got the unexpurgated story of Jackie’s cheer-leading triumphs, from her humble beginnings as a USC Song Girl to her two-year stint as an L.A. Rams cheerleader to the moment she eclipsed all other rivals to become the L.A. Clippers spirit captain, and, finally, director of the Seattle Sonics/Storm dance team. Naturally there were disappointments along the way; Jackie injured herself during tryouts for the Atlanta Falcons dance team when she was twenty-two and had to have emergency knee surgery, which she came out of with flying colors, thanks to a gifted surgeon and her own spectacular genetics. Two years ago, she’d opened a cheerleading camp for underprivileged youth in Chicago (motto: “Little Feet . . . Big Dreams”), but then she’d met Richard at an Art Institute of Chicago fund-raiser (Richard’s mother was a longtime docent) and abandoned all those little feet and their dreams—well, Dot didn’t put it precisely that way.

Though I was loath to admit any common ground between Jackie and myself, I did find it interesting that she was a former cheerleader. And unrepentant about it. One look at her and
you knew she had all her little outfits hanging in the front of her closet, cleaned and pressed so she could see the sequins and fringe every time she opened the door. Richard was insuf
ferable on the subject of my teenage years on the pageant circuit. I’d always thought that if he had it to do over again, he’d choose somebody who wouldn’t know a spirit stick if it hit her over the head. I still remember the day he made me throw out the gold lamé dress I’d worn the night I twirled my baton on the stage of the Asbury Park Civic Center, took out a spotlight, and won the crown in spite of it. Why did we have to keep carting that thing around from apartment to apartment? he’d asked. It’s not like you even fit into it any
more. In those days, I didn’t have the nerve to question him. Poor Jackie.

As I exited Highway 14, Dot powdered her nose in antici
pation.

“Are we there yet?” she asked, like a little kid.

“This is it,” I answered, pulling into the lot.

There were twinkling lights strung across the trees and under the eaves of the Vicarage. Ian’s theory was that holiday decorations, regardless of the time of year, provided people with subliminal encouragement to open their pocketbooks. Dot was unmoved by the colored lights, but when she saw the wooden sign with the hatchet-bearing biddy spinning around in the teacup, she let out a gasp. It made me feel a little guilty, but only until I realized I was actually doing her a service by saving her from having to spend yet another boring evening with Jackie and Richard.

I convinced Dot to leave her suitcase in the car for the time being and we headed over to the Blue Boar. We were early, and only a handful of people were there. Some were standing close
to the fireplace, which had a single Duraflame log in it. The rest were clustered around the large oak buffet.

“Can I get you something, Dot?” I was impressed by the lavish spread.

“Try one of those,” said a burly older man clad in a green version of Dot’s warm-up suit. He gestured toward a platter of what looked like fried wontons. “They’re personal steak and kidney pies. Very authentic.”

“Mmm,” said Dot, who downed one, then grabbed another. “Absolutely delicious! Oh, and look at those savories over there. They look so appetizing. I’m always amazed by what a sprig of parsley can do.”

“Maybe I’ll try one of these.” I picked up a tiny ramekin filled with something I thought might be crème brûlée.

Just then, Ian came over, making happy noises. “I’m so glad to see everyone tucking in. The stomach rules the mind, as Hercule Poirot tells us. Wouldn’t you agree, Cece, that food makes an event? Cece, are you all right? Doesn’t the soufflé au kipper agree with you?”

“Love it,” I said, searching for something to wash away the vile taste in my mouth. “Excuse me for a moment.”

I found the beverages and poured Diet Coke down my throat. I imagined the tiny bubbles irradiating the evil kippers.

“Agatha loved good food,” Ian was saying when I reappeared with a glass of sherry for Dot. “Do you know that even when she was living in the Arabian desert in a tent with her second husband, she dressed for dinner? She imported Stilton cheese and chocolate truffles for her and Sir Mallowan to enjoy, and prevailed upon local cooks to produce éclairs with cream from water-buffalo milk and walnut soufflés cooked in a square tin can.”

“According to her autobiography, Agatha had a very happy childhood, with no end of delicious treats,” added Dot. “She writes beautifully about the hot buns made by Cook, and the French plums that were always in a jar in Auntie-Grannie’s cupboard.”

“The French plums,” exclaimed Ian. “Why yes!” He sud
denly looked at Dot as if she herself were edible.

“Stop that,” said Dot, sipping her sherry. “I’m here for the intellectual stimulation.”

At her rebuff, Ian turned redder than usual. Then he remembered she was a potential client. He collected himself and approached the podium. After surveying the room, he clinked his glass a couple of times with a handy Christietown button. “Ahem! May I have everyone’s attention?”

All eyes—that would be ten sets of two—turned his way.

“Welcome friends and mystery lovers! I am your host, Ian Christie.”

“Is he actually related?” whispered Dot.

I rolled my eyes.

“Please find seats in the circle while you can,” Ian said with a fluttering motion of his hands.

Everyone looked back. The circle was vast in diameter. Unless a busload of seniors arrived in the next few minutes, seats were not going to be a problem. While Ian nattered on from the podium, I quietly removed a dozen chairs from the circle and pushed the remaining ones closer together. The burly man in the green warm-up suit helped me move half a dozen more. We put the extras in the kitchen.

Dot sat herself nearest the fire. The others, several of whom were using walkers, moved slowly. Once everyone was seated, Dot raised her hand. Still wounded by her rejection, Ian tried
not to notice her, which worked until she started waving her

knitting needles in a menacing fashion.

“Yes?” Ian said, ever wary of a lawsuit.

“I’d like to go first, if that’s all right,” said Dot.

“Works for me!” shouted the burly man.

The idea, Ian explained for the benefit of the uninitiated, was that somebody in the group would spin a mystery yarn, ripped from the headlines or invented whole cloth, and the others would attempt to unravel it. And yes, Dot could go first.