“I can’t really say I noticed anyone unusual lurking around the set, except for those seedy old cleaning people. One weird thing, though, after Wellington scared them off, another cleaning guy, one of the regular Mexican crew I think, came in as I was leaving. He looked familiar, so I guess I’d seen him before, but I sort of wondered why the studio was hiring all of these cleaning people to work during the day. I don’t know. Maybe the second guy came in to clean the carpet. Poor Candy spilled a pot of coffee and it stained. Boy, that bastard sure blew up at her. Actually I didn’t notice if the stain is still there...” his voice trailed off. Chris looked at his watch.
Godiva took the hint and rose from the sofa. “Well, thanks for your help, Chris. If you think of anything else, please call us.” She handed him her business card. “And, if you don’t mind, Chris, would you do us a little favor? Please don’t say anything to the police about the letter just yet. We’re not quite ready to turn it over to Lieutenant Adams. We don’t want her to know we’ve got it before we can ask some questions. She’s a tough cookie. We don’t want to do anything that could hurt Caesar.”
“You can trust me. Some things are best left unsaid. Keep those good columns coming,” he said as he ushered them through the door. “I really like reading your stuff.”
Back at the car, Goldie was the first to speak. “I’m not sure, Sis. I think he was telling the truth, but I’ll be interested to hear what Candy says. He did look surprised when we told him about Wesley, and he couldn’t take his eyes off the letter. Anyway, he seems like a sincere young man. It would be nice for him if he really does have a shot at a show for Candy.”
“Okay. So if Chris never saw it maybe Candy did. I don’t know. I was really hoping he could shed more light on this. Since Lieutenant Adams’ people are satisfied with Caesar as their target, we’ve got to find Wesley Wellington, and fast!”
Goldie slipped the zip lock bag into her large purse, which looked like it was made out of an Afghani saddlebag. “Well, it might not save Caesar, but once we hand this over, it will force Lieutenant Adams to switch gears and check it out. She’s going to have to put some resources into finding Wesley.”
“Maybe she’s already found him.”
“Nah, if she had it would be all over the news.”
“Wouldn’t it be great if we could tell her where to find Wesley when we hand over the letter? I’d like to see her try to sweep
that
under the carpet.”
Godiva’s cell phone serenaded them with Mozart’s
Ein Kleine Nacht Music
. Goldie grabbed it from the console and punched the button. Angel’s voice sputtered as Godiva drove through a canyon of high rises. “Hang on a minute, Angel. I’m losing you but we’ll be through this in a minute.”
A moment later the line was crystal clear. “Quick, tell me. Did you find Wesley?”
Angel relayed her news with reluctance. “Tell Godiva I’m sorry. It’s a cold trail. I tracked him to about age sixteen and then he just seemed to drop out of sight. The last address I found was with a foster family in Lancaster, but he ran away just before he turned sixteen and that’s where his school records end. Either the kid died or changed his name, because Wesley Wellington doesn’t show up after that on any documents anywhere, anyhow. Nada, zero, zip.”
“What about the foster family?”
“I tried to get some contact information but no go. The husband and wife both died in a car accident out in the Mojave Desert in 1999. What now?”
“Angel, we know he’s out there somewhere and not too far away. We’ve found something that tells us he was watching Wellington, maybe stalking him, so keep digging if you have time. We’ll get back to you and thanks for all of your help.”
“Hey, I like doing this for you. It’s way more interesting than doing all that boring grunt work for the reporters. I feel like I’m part of something.”
The horoscope was two for two. They had continued good luck with traffic and arrived in West Hollywood earlier than anticipated. They stopped at a nearby Starbucks and brainstormed about Wesley Wellington over a latte grande and a chai tea until it was time to meet Candy.
When she opened the door of 407, the sexy assistant looked much better than the last time they visited her. She wore a racy red workout suit, with newly painted nails to match. Her hair was beautifully coifed and she seemed to be practicing smiling in preparation for her meeting with Manicotti. The sisters sat on poofy peach-colored chairs while Candy perched on the chintz loveseat. In the far corner of the large living room Goldie noticed a Bowflex All-In-One Gym, and it was clear that it got a lot of use.
“Wow, I didn’t think I would see you guys again. Did I tell you I’m meeting with Mr. Manicotti tomorrow? Chrissy is so clever! I would tell you all about his idea, but he says I can’t breathe a word until after the meeting.” She heaved a theatrical sigh. “But I can tell people as soon as Mr. Manicotti buys the idea. Oh! I hope Caesar won’t be upset. Of course, it’s completely different than his show so I don’t think he’ll mind.”
She chattered on a bit longer until Godiva captured her attention. “Candy, we need to ask you some important questions, so I think we better get on with it.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s right, I’m glad you’re still trying to help Caesar. What do you want to know?”
“We’re wondering whose job it was to open the mail.”
“Well sometimes I did, if it didn’t look too personal. Sometimes Chris did.” She hesitated as Goldie pulled out the zip lock bag containing the letter and handed it to Candy.
“Did you, by any chance, ever see this?”
She nodded cautiously. “I was trying to clean stuff up because he always got so mad when he saw any mess.” She looked from Godiva to Goldie with puppy dog eyes. “He was such a neat freak, you know. Anyway, there was this stack of mail on the table and I thought I’d open it and put it on Biff’s desk in a nice neat pile. I was just trying to do
something
right. That letter was at the bottom of the stack. The envelope was typed, addressed to the Aerobic Chef. I wondered how the mailman delivered it without a stamp. Usually if there’s no stamp they just send it back, you know.”
“Are you sure there was no stamp, Candy?”
“Look, people may think I’m dumb, but I’m smart enough to know when there’s no stamp on an envelope. Trust me. There was no stamp. Anyway, I opened it and read it.” She began to cry again.
Goldie put her arm around Candy trying to calm her down before the mascara began to run. She was beginning to feel like Candy’s mother. The shoulder pats worked. Candy gulped a few times, took a few deep breaths and continued.
“It was an awful letter. Hateful. Imagine a son writing that to his dad, even if he did deserve it. Well, I said to myself, like father like son, I suppose. Anyway, I knew I couldn’t let Biff see it. He was already so nervous about the competition—ranting and raving, nasty to everyone—it would just throw him into another rage. So I crumpled it up and threw it in the wastebasket,” She wiped her palms together in a gesture of dismissal. “I never said a word about it. Maybe I was wrong, but I didn’t want me and Chris and the stagehands and everyone to have to deal with him after he read something like that.” She heaved a sigh. “By the way, you didn’t answer me. How did you guys get this?”
Neither one of them answered her question. “Candy, we need to know something to help Caesar. Did Biff ever give any hint that he had a son? Did Wesley Wellington ever call or come to the office that you know of? Think hard. It’s really important.”
It was obvious that Candy was concentrating to the full extent of her ability, small though it was. Finally, she looked at them, shrugged her shoulders and said, “No.”
“Did you notice anyone you didn’t recognize hanging around that week?”
Again the intense concentration followed by the simple, “No. Just those old janitors.”
There was no point in trying to go further. They’d gotten whatever Candy had to give them. They repeated the request they had made earlier to Chris not to tell the police about the letter. As they left, Goldie patted Candy’s cheek, “Now you dry your eyes and get yourself all ready for your meeting tomorrow with Mr. Manicotti. And good luck, sweetheart!”
Her breathless voice followed them down the hall. “Thanks. I wish I had a mom like you. Mine doesn’t care what happens to me.”
CHAPTER 43
Godiva glanced at her watch and hoisted herself out of the car with an exhausted groan. Caesar was picking her up for dinner in less than two hours. If she hadn’t wanted to see him so badly, spending the evening snuggled up in her plush purple robe, reading a little mail, watching TV and going to bed early would have been very appealing.
Goldie was in a similar state. She wandered into the house, plopped down in a leather armchair and didn’t even move when Waldo ambled over and laid his slobbery head in her lap.
“You dear old doggie,” she sighed, scratching his ear. “You’re the only one around here who doesn’t live in the fast lane. I’m really starting to miss my quiet life in Alaska, but I just can’t leave here yet.”
Waldo looked up at her with his watery brown eyes, and he snuffled something that sounded like “
staaaay
” as she scratched the back of his neck.
An hour later when Godiva came down to wait for Caesar she found Goldie and Waldo fast asleep.
***
Lights twinkled in the trees and a faint aroma of gardenias filled the intimate dining garden. Not a word was mentioned about Caesar’s plight until just before the dessert arrived.
He took both of her hands in his. “Godiva. I didn’t do it. You know that, don’t you?”
She grinned. “Well. There’s a sort of morbid mystique attached to dating a murderous chef.”
“Please, my dear. No jokes about it, okay? Have you two found anything besides the letter? Anything at all?”
“Not much, we talked to Candy, poor little thing. I’m sure she still has a crush on you.” Caesar rolled his eyes. “Anyway, turns out she’s the one who opened the letter and threw it away. Wellington never even saw it. She swears it had no stamp on it.”
“No stamp? That means it must have been hand-delivered. You think the kid brought it himself?”
“I don’t know. If I could find him, I’d ask him. He’s my pick as the most likely suspect, but the trail is stone cold. Our gal Angel at the
Times
is still digging, so we haven’t given up hope.”
“Well, I’m sure I’m at the top of the list in Lieutenant Adams’ book. The woman’s got her hooks into me. Here’s the funny part. Can you believe she told me she’s a great fan of mine?” He savored a forkful of flourless chocolate cake drizzled with apricot glace. “I can’t imagine what her attitude would be like if she had been a Wellington fan. Oscar said I was
fortunate
. Oh, and he wants to see the letter. He’ll figure out the best way to get it to the cops.”
“Ah, Caesar, there’s another thing I didn’t get to tell you. Do you know about the movie?”
“Movie? What movie?” His brows scrunched together almost forming a straight line and his intense gaze made her want to switch the subject back to the dangerous letter.
“Well, Torch was reading
Variety
this morning—he’s back from the desert and red as a lobster—and there, big as life was a double truck ad.” She held out her hands as though she was holding the newspaper up in front of him, “Upcoming production:
From Bad Apple to Beefcake—the Biff Wellington Story
.”
“You’re...not...serious.”
“Dead serious. It seems the skeletons in his closet will make a pretty hot movie, which, by the way, is being produced by none other than Manny Manicotti. Frankly, I’m surprised you didn’t know.” She swigged her champagne.
Caesar looked confused. “Why would Manny do something like that? Ruining Biff’s reputation would kill the goose that laid the golden egg.” He stopped abruptly and corrected himself. “Oh yeah, I forgot, someone already did that. With Wellington dead Manicotti can’t lose. He’ll probably make a bundle.” Caesar reached for Godiva’s goblet and refilled it. “What I can’t figure is how did he swing this deal so fast? He must have already had the screenplay.”
“You’re probably right. We think so, too. As a matter of fact, we have an appointment with the writer Lenny Rodriguez tomorrow. We think he’s the same guy who looked through the archives at the
Cotati Clarion
months ago in search of tidbits on Biff’s early years. The reference gal, Helen, told us about him, said she thought he was just a kooky, amped-up college student. We’re hoping he found some recent information about Wesley Wellington in his research.”
“Lenny Rodriguez? Never heard of him. Knowing Manicotti, he probably paid peanuts for this script by a nobody. At least someone will profit from Wellington’s death. You can be sure it’ll be Manny, not this guy Lenny...”
“Yeah, well, there’s someone else who might profit from his death. Wesley. He’ll inherit plenty of money if they can find him. Maybe the pot of gold will bring him out of hiding.” Godiva polished off the last bit of her chocolate truffle cheesecake.
“Yeah, when they get off my back and jump on his, at least he’ll be able to pay for a good criminal lawyer. Hell, I’ll set him up with Oscar.”
“Caesar, there is one more thing. Edgar, the studio mail guy, was murdered the night before Wellington was killed. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but I was afraid to upset you during the tournament.” Godiva took a chance on her hunch. “Darling, we know Edgar met with you before he died.”
Even in the dim light, she could see the color drain out of his handsome face. “What?”
“Level with me, Caesar. We suspect Wellington threatened to kill him if he told you what he’d done, but still there wouldn’t have been any other reason for him to come to you. And now, not only is Edgar dead, but Wellington is, too.”
“You’re right,
cara mia
, he did contact me. Said his conscience was bothering him and he wanted to tell me about the tricks he’d pulled and who paid him to do it. He was very dramatic about it all and wanted to set a time and place. I figured I knew what he had to say already, so I told him I’d meet him after the tournament. I suppose Biff got to him first.”