Toured to Death (18 page)

Burt smiled. She seemed remarkably like her character, Erica Knowles, only shorter. Perfectly proportioned, of course, which was probably the trick, but a little older and shorter. Brock and her other leading men couldn't be too much taller.

“Judge Burt Baker.” He was still beaming as he balanced himself and held out a hand. “When you and Brock were going through that divorce, every day I would call a court recess at two o'clock sharp, just to keep up. Attorneys are still arguing over the significance of my behavior.”

Betsy extended her free hand with a flourish. “What an honor! I hope no poor soul was rushed to conviction due to my distracting—how shall I say—artistry.”

“What? No, no, nothing like that.”

“Oh.” She sounded disappointed. “We're over here taping, you know. Brock's obsession with Italy is tying in nicely with our producer's obsession with sweeps week.”

“Brock? You two are back together?”

“Oops. Don't tell anyone. It's a whirlwind thing. Next month I think. We're over here for a kidnapping and our second honeymoon. Actually our third, if you count my amnesia.” Betsy turned again to face the seaside road. “Oh, good. At last, a taxi.” She waved at the green-and-white Fiat as it approached and began to slow down.

“I'm afraid that's mine,” Burt apologized. “But I'll be happy to take you wherever you want.”

“I can't believe you were with Georgina when she died.” Betsy had repeated this several times throughout the long afternoon. It was just about sunset now, and Burt was barely listening. “What a small world.”

They were in the taxi again, the same taxi, winding back along the road toward Il Golfo. She had made the driver wait for hours as they scoured the town for an acceptable pair of sunglasses. Burt had not brought up the subject of Georgina right away, hoping not to spook her into silence. Although spooking her into silence might have been better.

Under different circumstances, the T.R.W.C. gossip might have been fascinating. Today it had seemed dull. And the banter about tints and frames had been interminable. When Burt finally did manage to squeeze in a mention of their mutual acquaintance, the subject flowed freely. Betsy wanted as much information from him as he wanted from her.

Patiently, he listened to what he already knew. The actress had met Georgina through the Carvels. “I'd known Fabian and Doris for ages. When my town house was being redone, they were kind enough to put me up. Every now and then I ran into Georgina when she popped up from Palm Beach. Of course I was devastated when I heard. I can't believe the police actually think . . . Poor Marcus.” Her voice was soft and teary, but even years of acting experience couldn't disguise the gossipmonger's glee. “Do you think he did it? You were there. You must have an opinion.”

Burt shifted uneasily beside her in the Fiat's cramped rear. His arms were sore from supporting his weight all afternoon, something that rarely happened anymore. Most people were so sensitive and accommodating. Especially Martha.

Before he knew it, Betsy had made another verbal circuit—murder, sunglasses, work, herself—and had returned to the top of the list. “Such a shock to hear the news. T.R.W.C. was in Rome that very week, you know. Wonderful scenes.”

“You were in Rome?” The judge perked up. “In Rome? At the same time Georgina was killed?”

“Can you believe it? News is so bad over here. I didn't find out until my sister telephoned from Vancouver. It happens a mere ten blocks away, and I have to find out from halfway around the world. Is that ironic?”

“I guess.”

“Really? I've never been able to pinpoint the exact meaning of that word.
Ironic.
”

“Uh, yes. I think it is. Irony. Were you really in Rome? On the nineteenth?”

Betsy nodded, allowing the moment to lapse into an unfamiliar but not unwelcome lull.

Well, the day wasn't a total waste, Burt thought. He had met one of the actual players in the drama and had learned of her presence in Rome. A mere ten blocks away, as she'd put it.

The taxi slowed at the gates of the hotel resort, then turned up the drive. “Thanks again for keeping me company,” Betsy said, flashing her famous Erica smile. “I'd ask you to join us for dinner, but unfortunately, we're taping tonight. Full moon. Can't waste a full moon.”

“I understand.” The words came out gravely but grateful.

“I can't believe we know so many of the same people. Ironic.”

Betsy stood under the hotel's porte cochere and waved the taxi on its way.
What a nice man,
she thought. Something did seem to be wrong with his legs. She'd been meaning to ask, but it had kept slipping her mind.

I
t was the first brutal day of autumn. Nature was blowing in off the river, erupting through the narrow streets and colliding with a steady stream of air, barreling up the canyons from the lower tip of Manhattan. The strongest of the gusts rattled the aging storefronts along Hudson Street. On the east side of the street, in the middle of a block in the heart of the Village, the words
AMY'S TRAVEL
shimmered in red.
FROM THE ORDINARY TO THE EXOTIC,
in smaller gray letters, danced below.

The travel agency was a cozy space, with both desks visible from the street. Or partly visible. Against her daughter's objection, Fanny had taken charge of the glass-paneled door, taping up the standard full-color window cards of Caribbean beaches or rafts tumbling down a white-water gulch in Borneo. There were two areas for doing business, one by Amy's desk, one by Fanny's. A few cushioned swivel chairs, a lamp, and an end table were arranged by each in an attempt to make the space feel homey.

Amy breathed on her Lafonts, cleaned each lens with a wipe, then returned them to the bridge of her nose. Lou Halpern, now without smudges, sat opposite her. Lou and his sister were finally going to shut down the Cindilu Dairy for two weeks to visit their younger brother and his family.

“We just want some time in Shanghai with the niece and nephew. Cindy and I have never even seen Ling Ling and Lu Yi. Can you believe that?”

Amy vividly recalled their brother Gus, a college student in her grade school memories. Gus had been even more political and angry than their parents, arguing with them about why they stayed in a country that had treated them so badly. Their reply was simple. They loved this country, just not the system.

The twins, Cindy and Lou, sided with their parents, while the younger, headstrong Gus married a fellow revolutionary and moved to Shanghai to work for China Bank. The couple somehow managed to survive the political climate, Gus's inability to learn languages, and his wife's distaste for Chinese food. Their children, the Halpern niece and nephew, were in their twenties. Ling Ling, blond and blue-eyed like her mother, was a computer analyst for an export firm. Lu Yi, two years younger, was still at Shanghai University. Amy remembered their baby pictures: pale, open-faced Americans dressed in infant versions of the famous peasant-blue pajamas.

“On the phone, Ling Ling sounds just like the lady from the take-out Chinese. No lie. My half-Swedish niece has an accent you can cut with a knife. You know, that stuff with the
l'
s and
r'
s. I always thought that was genetic.”

“Lou! You know better.”

Lou bit the corner of his mouth. “Maybe.”

Amy returned to her monitor. “Why don't we try United to L.A., then Cathay Pacific to Shanghai?” While she began to block out the itinerary, Lou busied himself by swiveling his chair and peering out into the windstorm.

“So, what's the situation with your cop friend?”

Amy had to think. “Oh, Frank.” Was it just a few days ago that she'd described Frank as a friend? “He's fine, I guess.”

“You think he's going to come in or just keep sitting there?”

Amy thought for another second, then followed Lou's gaze.

“The green Camaro sitting down the block. He was driving it the other day. You under police protection or something? Whatever you do, don't go into the witness protection program. It's a crock.”

Past the edge of a “white-water Borneo” window card, Amy could see the rear of Frank's Camaro. Sticking up from behind the wheel was a shock of the patrolman's salt-and-pepper hair, wavy and short.

“You didn't know he was there?” Lou chuckled. “I hate to tell you, but you're under surveillance. Don't be embarrassed. I was under surveillance once for five months. Waste of taxpayers' money.”

Frank was slouched down in his seat, and Amy figured that his rearview mirror was adjusted to frame the shop-front door perfectly. “What the hell?” Amy was tempted to race right out and confront the man—after thinking of what to say, of course. And after putting on a coat and maybe a scarf. She was sorely tempted.

The temptation was pushed away by the sight of something else on the street, a few feet from the Camaro. Her mother had just emerged from the Armenian restaurant four doors down, bundled up against the wind and steadying herself on the arm of her lunchtime companion.

“Oh, my God!”

“What's the matter?” Lou swiveled again and nearly pressed his face up against the glass. “Your friend in the car is ducking down.”

“I don't think I'm the one under surveillance.”

“What do you mean? You think just because I'm going to China? Those paranoid jerks.”

“Not you. Him.” Amy was pointing at Marcus Alvarez, the man to Fanny's right. “Lou, do you mind if we do this some other time? I'll put together the flights and bring it over to the store. I've got the dates.”

“You want me to go?” He sounded hesitant.

“I would appreciate it, yes.”

“Well . . . sure.”

“You know, Lou. The right to privacy?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Lou rose without another word of protest. “I'll call Fanny tonight. She'll tell me.”

Amy ushered Lou out and stood waiting for them at the door.

“Glad to see me?” Marcus caught Amy in a bear hug, pinning her arms to her sides. Somehow their lips touched, nothing too passionate, more like a prolonged cheek kiss that just happened to settle on her lips.

“I hope this isn't a jailbreak.” Amy wriggled free, conscious of Frank's eyes on them. She pointed them inside and helped Fanny off with her coat.

“I was released Sunday morning. Flew home four hours later with Burt and Martha. They send their best.”

“I'll call Burt tonight. Uh, why don't we go into the back office? It's so good to see you.” She was already herding them away from the window, whispering to her mother as she passed. “You were answering my phone?”

“You left it in my living room.”

“I did no such thing.”

It was clear what had happened. While she'd been out last night, alone at a movie, her mother had wandered upstairs—to dust or rearrange the spice rack, whatever excuse. Marcus had called. Fanny had answered. The rest was history.

“He wanted to meet me,” Fanny whispered.

“Right.” One phone call and a lunch, and her mother had grown closer to Marcus than she had in two weeks. Amy led the way into a small back office.

“It was too bad you couldn't join us for lunch,” said Marcus.

“I couldn't?”

A buzzer went off, and Amy turned to see a young couple entering the shop, the wind slamming the door behind them. “Mom, can you handle that? I'm worn out from all my lunchtime business.”

Fanny delivered a mock-sour face, then beat a reluctant exit.

Marcus made himself at home in Amy's favorite leather chair. “I like Fanny.”

“She's for sale.”

Marcus leaned back, hands laced behind his head, looking carefree and delectable. “I got your note, by the way. After they fingerprinted me and took me away.” Amy recalled the note and her use of a certain four-letter word. “It meant a lot, knowing you were on my side.”

“No problem.”

“Martha started telling me about your investigation. But she got distracted.”

“I'll bet. How's Burt holding up?”

“Seems to be thriving.”

Amy settled in across the desk and launched into a review, everything from Fanny's breaking and entering to her meeting with Rawlings, to her latest goal, investigating Betsy Caulfield. In the glow of his undivided attention, she spoke articulately, enjoying the moment, aware, as Marcus must have been aware, that she was doing it all for him.

“When Burt told me about Betsy being there . . .” She smiled. “Don't you think that's significant, her being both in Rome and Elba? That can't be a coincidence.”

Marcus wasn't enthusiastic. “She's working. It's not as if she single-handedly planned the show's plotline.”

“Maybe she did. She's a star.”

“Even if she were somehow involved, she couldn't have killed Georgina. You were there. You saw.”

With a sullen grunt, Amy gave it up. “Have the New York police been in touch?”

“No. Should I be worried about that? About not hearing from them?”

Amy thought of the green Camaro down the street. “When they want you, they'll let you know.”

“Me killing Georgina because she supposedly killed Mr. Carvel? And poor Otto?”

“They say there's an extra twenty thousand in your bank account.”

“They know about that? It's an inheritance. An aunt left each of us, all her nieces and nephews, twenty thousand.”

“Oh.” She was relieved. “That should be easy to prove.”

“Otto had no idea who killed Carvel. He wasn't really interested. The truth rarely makes a good game. Have you talked to Stu Romney?”

“Stew Rummy?” It never failed to amuse. “No. I left messages at his office, but he's always in some meeting. I wanted to ask him about a woman.”

“What woman?”

“Mrs. Carvel let something slip, about a woman her husband was planning to give a large chunk of F.S.C. stock to.”

“Yes. That was Mrs. Gray, the family cook.”

“A cook?”

“This I know. Honest. I was right in the middle of the turmoil. She'd been with the Carvels forever.”

“Why would he give a cook millions in stock?”

“No one knows. Honestly.”

“I was hoping it might be Betsy Caulfield.”

“I see.” Marcus chuckled. “Mystery woman. A little romantic intrigue. Sorry. Just an old servant. She was getting ready to retire, and he wanted to give her the stock as a retirement package.”

“But so much stock? No wonder Price got upset. I mean, what's-his-name, the son.”

“Daniel. ‘Price' was my invention. It seemed in keeping with his personality. Yes, Daniel and Stu talked Mr. Carvel out of the gift. They settled on a perfectly adequate retirement deal. Mrs. Gray seemed just as happy.”

“I see.” Amy glanced out the open office door and saw her mother leading the young couple toward the exit. She didn't have much time left. “And after Fabian disappeared, did Mrs. Gray also disappear? Or suddenly retire?”

“No. Oh, I see what you're getting at. The vengeful employee. No. Mrs. Gray stayed on the Long Island estate. About a year after the murder she finally retired.”

“And as far as you know, she wasn't in San Diego at the time of the murder?”

“Correct.”

“And she wasn't on the road rally with us.”

“Of course not.”

“Just checking.” It felt like a game of Twenty Questions.

“Anything else you need to know?”

“Yes. Stu Romney. Is he any better off now than he was before Fabian's death? He's the chief financial officer. Was he perhaps fiddling with the books? Has he been out of the country in the past three weeks?”

“You'll have to ask him yourself.”

“Right. The problem is how.”

“What are you kids up to?” Fanny was racing in to join them in the rear office, nearly panting with exertion. “Honeymoon couple,” she said, waving back over her shoulder. Amy could see them out on the street, the man carrying a plastic Amy's Travel bag. “I sold them an African safari.”

Amy checked her watch. “Ten minutes? You sold them an African safari in ten minutes?”

“Why not?” She let out a satisfied sigh, then lit daintily on the arm of her daughter's chair. “So?”

“So.” Amy was giving nothing away.

“So. Catching up on old times?”

Marcus studied the older woman's face. “Fanny, you may be able to help.”

For God's sake, no,
Amy thought but didn't dare say.

“We're in a bind about how to get information out of a suspect.”

“A suspect?” In her excitement, Fanny slipped from the chair's arm, falling with a thud into Amy's lap. “Sorry, sweetie,” she said, scrambling to her feet. “That wouldn't have happened if you'd been polite and given me your chair when I came in.”

“Who asked you to come in?”

Before Amy knew it, Fanny had replaced her in the armchair. She leaned her compact frame forward, elbows on her knees, a study in concentration. “Tell me.”

“Marcus. No!” Amy only realized she'd said it out loud when Marcus and Fanny turned her way.

“What do you mean?” Marcus seemed genuinely perplexed. “I'm just asking for ideas. Your mother—”

“You don't know what you're getting yourself into.”

“Ignore her.” Fanny leaned even farther toward Marcus and the desk. Another inch forward and she would topple right over. “So. Who exactly do you need to get information from?”