Gypped (4 page)

“Where is security?” Regan asked quickly. He thinks I’m a nut. Shouldn’t he be at all concerned?

The side door opened and his coworker stepped inside the large booth with a steaming cup of coffee. “Three more hours until I get out of here,” she grunted.

Edward smiled broadly. “Perfect timing! Tara, I’ll be right back.”

Regan watched as Edward got up, went out the side door, and came around. She followed him into the security room on the ground floor of the garage where television screens monitored the activity on all six levels. Edward introduced her to the guard who was at his desk eating a sandwich.

The guard also seemed nonplussed by Regan’s story. “People need a ticket to get out of the garage,” he explained. “It would be really hard to get out of here if you don’t have a ticket.”

“I’m a private investigator so I guess I tend to notice suspicious behavior more than other people would,” Regan said as politely as she could. “I don’t think I’m overreacting. I know what I saw. Would you like a description of the guy?”

“Why not?” He pulled open a drawer and fished around for a pen.

When Regan left, she shook her head. Neither Edward’s nor the guard’s reaction made sense. What good would it do them if this mall got a reputation for car theft? Shoppers would go elsewhere. They’d be out of a job, that’s what. No one would come here.

Back at her car, Regan unlocked the door. Once inside, she replied to Jack’s text and told him about her plans for the evening.
She didn’t mention what had just happened. No use worrying him.

On her way back to the Island Hotel, a luxurious new establishment near Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills, Regan finally smiled. Wait until Jack hears about my afternoon, she thought. I think he’ll agree with me that guy was probably looking for a car to steal. He’ll tease me about my jeans. But for now I’m sure he’s glad that I have something to do tonight.

At the hotel, Regan left the rental car with the valet. Staff members greeted her as she made her way to the spacious gleaming marble lobby and walked past a cocktail lounge where the after-work drinks crowd was starting to gather. When she reached her room on the sixth floor, Regan dropped her purse and shopping bag, kicked off her shoes, and poured herself a glass of water from the bottle on the nightstand. The pale apricot carpeting and draperies were soothing. The soundproofed room was calm and quiet. It was a world apart from that dressing room.

Regan sipped the water. I could get used to living in a hotel like this for at least a little while, she thought. It’s not bad going out, leaving an unmade bed and a breakfast tray, and coming back to find everything spotless.

I should feel more relaxed, but I know why I’m not.

Regan went over to the desk, turned on her laptop, and started to research auto theft. One headline that struck Regan’s eye said that the most car thefts occur on New Year’s Day. After a night of merriment, people call cabs. When they return after sleeping it off, their beloved set of wheels is nowhere to be found. Make that the second headache of the day. Any New Year’s resolution to think positive is down the drain.

Regan scrolled down the page. Car thieves must hate it when big snowstorms hit on New Year’s Eve. Cuts into the business when people stay home.

Why can’t I get that guy out of my head?

Regan glanced at a few more articles. A lot of what she read she already knew. The most luxurious cars are not usually targeted. Mid-priced popular cars are stolen for their parts. These days car tracking devices can help, but only when drivers quickly realize that their car is gone. If your car is stolen when you are just settling in with your popcorn to watch a three-hour movie, good luck. By the time the credits roll, the only part you might retrieve is the glove compartment.

Oh well, Regan thought. There’s nothing I can do about it now. I gave security my cell phone number. If at the end of the day a car is missing, they can call me. I’m pretty sure I can identify the guy.

Regan got up, went over to the bed, and pulled back the spread. She folded it up and placed it on the chaise lounge. I’ll just rest for a few minutes, she thought, then get up and take a shower. With the three-hour time difference I don’t want to be too tired at Zelda’s party.

She went into the bathroom and changed into a white terrycloth bathrobe with the hotel’s insignia. When she returned to the bed she laid down, not expecting to actually fall asleep. But she did. The soothing room did its job.

But it couldn’t protect her from her dreams.

She dreamed she was in the dark, running away from someone, but she didn’t know where she was.

And there was no sign of Jack.

Z
elda rushed to the back door of the house, her mind a blur, her hands full of shopping bags. I can’t believe that Dad and Bobby Jo are coming here! They could have given me a little time to absorb the fact that they’re united in holy wedlock before I lay eyes on them again. In another day they’ll be showing up on my doorstep, except it isn’t my doorstep. I have clients coming to the house. Once they get a load of Bobby Jo, they’ll never want to take advice from me again.

Placing the bags on the ground, Zelda ran back to the car to collect the rest of her purchases. After gathering the packages Regan had carried for her, she slammed the trunk shut. Wait ’til Regan hears this! I just know she’ll understand. I’m quite sure she hasn’t gone through anything similar, but I remember we talked about being only children. You get all the attention but it also means you don’t have anyone who’s in the same boat. If it sinks, you’re all alone. And I feel like I’m sinking.

Zelda hurried to the back door, pushed it open, and stepped inside the big, long kitchen. The pink appliances from the 1950s that had seemed like a kick before she left for the mall, now appeared to be just what they were—old and decrepit.

Nothing like a crisis to force cold broad daylight into your brain.

Suddenly an impatient Zelda had a lot of questions. Who are the owners of this place anyway? Who are the Scrumps? If they don’t live here, and they’re not taking care of the place, why don’t they sell it? It’s a nice piece of property not far from a hiking trail. At the right price I’m sure someone would take it off their hands. New owners would most likely tear the house down and build a home with running water that you didn’t have to let flow forever before getting rid of the rust. Which reminds me. I should go upstairs and turn on the faucet to the tub. I really need to soak and calm down before my guests arrive.

Another question—where are the caterers? Trays of hors d’oeuvres were lined up on the table. Even the sight of pigs in a blanket didn’t cheer her. Cartons of food and cases of wine covered most of the yellowed linoleum, which was a good thing. Where is everybody? she wondered. But she had an inkling.

She walked across the creaky kitchen floor, tiptoed down the hallway, and took a quick peek around the corner. At the other end of the vast living room, standing in front of a grand fireplace, and below a portrait of a flapper doing the jitterbug, her assistant Norman was lecturing four people seated in folding chairs. Oh Norman, Zelda thought, lighten up. Lately it seemed that whenever he was dealing with people on her behalf, he became overbearing and did more harm than good. What’s with that? Here I am, a personal coach, trying to help people feel better about themselves, which in turn is supposed to make the world a better place, and I’ve got an aggravating assistant!

Them’s the breaks, Zelda told herself, as she turned away and took a back staircase up to her bedroom. At the moment I’ve got more important things to worry about.

“We have to make sure everything is perfect,” Norman repeated for the fourth time as he adjusted his bow tie and pushed back his horn-rimmed glasses. “Perfect perfect perfect.” He patted the back of his receding blond hair, as if to make sure it was still there.

Since Zelda had received her unexpected windfall, the slim, slight, thirty-three-year old Norman had helped manage her life. He’d lived down the hall from Zelda in her old apartment building, and now often lay awake at night pondering his bad luck. There was no way he’d ever have offered to walk their elderly neighbor’s dog. The mutt had come bounding down the hall the day Norman moved in, and lifted his leg over a bag of Norman’s groceries. From that moment on, Norman ran away when he saw the dog, or his master, heading in his direction. Ran away from a fortune. Now Norman could often be seen in his neighborhood walking three or four dogs at once. Free of charge. Their owners were all senior citizens.

Norman liked working for Zelda. But he wanted to find his own career. He had secretly started taking singing lessons after someone complimented his performance at a karaoke bar. His instructor told him he had a good voice, real potential, but he wondered if she said that to keep him coming back week in and week out. He cleared his throat unconsciously. “Don’t forget, always be polite to the guests, no matter how annoying they might seem. Polite but detached. Don’t engage in much chitchat. Remain unobtrusive while you do your job. After the hors d’oeuvres are passed, we’ll start the buffet, then coffee and dessert will be served. It will be a lovely party. Just what Miss Zelda wants.”

His captive audience consisted of two young men and two young women, all aspiring actors. They were relying on their
training to act interested. The boss was telling them what they already knew.

Maggie, a character actress who had worked at numerous parties all over Los Angeles, could barely keep from groaning.
Miss
Zelda? she thought with disgust. Give me a break. It’s going to be a long night. I’ve only been here ten minutes and this nerd in his tweed jacket and dorky shoes is already getting on my nerves. And what’s with this place? The bright red living room was probably grand in its day but needs a lift. Like what everyone in Hollywood over the age of twelve gives their face. No wonder the owners of this house donated it to charity for a week. They’ll take a writeoff for their generousity, claiming the rental would have been worth a good twenty grand. What a racket.

“Any questions?” Norman asked. “Any anything?”

Maggie raised her hand. “The sorbet must be melting by now,” she said in a stage whisper, pointing to the kitchen.

Norman flinched. “We wouldn’t want to have that happen now, would we?”

“No,” Maggie answered solemnly as her fellow waiters looked at her with amusement. “We want everything to be perfect.”

“Shall we, then?” Norman sniffed. “But first I’d like you all to sign confidentiality forms.”

Maggie almost burst out laughing. Now I’ve heard everything, she mused. I don’t get the feeling we’ll be serving the crowd you see at the Oscars. This guy is delusional! I can’t wait to talk to the others about this. A sudden thought gave Maggie pause.

But if he’s not delusional, what is he hiding?

R
egan awoke with a start, breathing hard. For a moment she didn’t know where she was. Then she realized—the hotel in Beverly Hills. Thank God, she thought. That dream was crazy.

The clock next to the bed read 6:15.

Regan got up and headed for the shower, feeling oddly unsettled. She always appreciated Jack, but at times like this she appreciated him even more. If he were here I’d be fine. I can’t wait to see him later.

There were four different light switches for the spacious bathroom. Regan played with the dimmers until she found the right setting. This bathroom is unbelievable, she thought, admiring the marble flecked with tones of apricot, white, and beige. There were two sinks and lots of counter space, a large bathtub, a separate shower stall, and a toilet behind a closed door.

It’s so civilized, Regan thought. And it sure beats the outhouse at camp. What made me think of that? Suddenly Regan turned and went to the door of the room, pressed the DO NOT DISTURB button next to it, and secured the chain. That should keep the bogeyman away, Regan said to herself, remembering the scary stories she and her fellow campers told each other late
at night, tucked in their sleeping bags, freezing to death. After three days of roughing it, ten-year-old Regan couldn’t wait to get home. She’d had enough of campfire stew, watered down fruit drink, and bug bomb spray.