Gone (13 page)

“Situation like that,” I said, “a gorgeous young woman could be a threat to a woman of her age.”

“Couple of good-looking kids, up in the hills, naked… Dowd’s gotta be what, forty-five, fifty?”

“That would be my guess.”

“Rich lady gets her strokes playing guru to the lean and hungry and pretty… she picks Dylan out of the fold, he goes and fools with Michaela. Yeah, it’s a motive, ain’t it? Maybe she told Dylan to clean things up. For all we know, he’s right there, holed up in that big house of hers, got his wheels stashed in her garage.”

I glanced back at the big, cream house. “It would also be a nice quiet place to keep Michaela while they figured out what to do with her.”

“Load her in the Range Rover and dump her near her apartment to distance themselves.” He crammed his hands in his pockets. “Wouldn’t that be ugger-ly. Okay, let’s see what the neighbors have to say about Ms. Stoner.”

Three bell rings brought three cleaning ladies to the door, each one intoning,
“Senora no esta en la casa.”

At the well-kept brick Tudor three doors north of Nora Dowd’s house, an elderly man wearing a bright green cardigan, a red wool shirt, gray plaid pants, and burgundy house slippers studied us over the rim of his old-fashioned. The toes of his slippers were embroidered with black wolves’ heads. The dim marble entry behind him gave off a whiff of
eau de codger.

He took a long time to examine Milo’s business card. Reacted to Milo’s inquiry about Nora Dowd with, “That one? Why?” A voice like gravel under heavy footsteps.

“Routine questions, sir.”

“Don’t give me that malarkey.” Tall but bent, he had foxed-paper skin, coarse white hair, and clouded blue eyes. Stiff fingers bent the card in half and palmed it. A fleshy, open-pored nose dipped toward a lopsided twig of an upper lip. “Albert Beamish, formerly of Martin, Crutch, and Melvyn and ninety-three other partners until the mandatory out-to-pasture clause kicked in and they sentenced me to ‘emeritus.’ That was eighteen years ago so do the arithmetic and choose your words efficiently. I could drop dead right in front of you and you’d have to lie to someone else.”

“Till a hundred and twenty, sir.”

Albert Beamish said, “Get on with it, kiddo. What’d that one do?”

“One of her students was murdered and we’re getting background information from people who knew the victim.”

“And you spoke to her and you saw what a lunatic she is.”

Milo chuckled.

Albert Beamish said, “Students? They let her teach? When did that start?”

“She runs her own acting school.”

Beamish’s laughter was jagged. It took a while for his cocktail to reach his lips. “Acting. That’s just more of the same.”

“The same what?”

“Being the indolent, spoiled brat she’s always been.”

Milo said, “You’ve known her for a while.”

“She grew up in that overgrown log cabin. Her grandfather built it back in the twenties, a blight on the neighborhood then, just as it is now. Doesn’t fit, should be in Pasadena or some place where they like that kind of thing.” Beamish’s filmy irises aimed across the street. “You see any others like it around here?”

“No, sir.”

“There’s a reason for that, kiddo. Doesn’t
fit.
Try telling that to Bill Dowd Senior —
the grandfather. No sophistication. Came from Oklahoma, made money in groceries, dry goods, something of that sort. His wife was low-class, uneducated, thought she could buy her way in spending money. Same with the daughter-in-law —
that one’s mother. Blond tramp, always throwing ostentatious parties.”

Beamish drank some more. “Damned elephant.”

Milo said, “Sir?”

“One time they brought in a damned elephant. For one of their birthdays, don’t remember which one. Filthied up the street, the stench lasted for days.” His nostrils quivered. “Bill Junior never worked a day in his life, fooled around on his daddy’s money, married late. Woman just like his mother, no class. Now you’re telling me
that
one teaches acting. Where does this travesty take place?”

“West L.A.,” said Milo. “The PlayHouse.”

“I never venture that far from civilization,” said Beamish. “A play house? Sounds damned frivolous.”

“It’s a Craftsman building, same as the house,” I said.

“Does it fit in over there?”

“The neighorhood’s pretty hetero—”

“Piles of logs. All that gloomy wood and stained glass belongs in a church, where the intent is to simultaneously impress and depress. Bill Dowd Senior made his fortune with canned peas, whatever, nailed up that heap of timber. Probably got the idea when he was buying up properties in Pasadena, South Pasadena, Altadena, Lord knows what other ’denas. That’s what they’ve all been living off. She and her brothers. None of them worked a day in their lives.”

“How many brothers?” I said.

“Two. Bill the Third and Bradley. One’s a fool and the other’s shifty. The shifty one sneaked into my yard and stole my persimmons.” Pinpoints of anger livened the milky blue eyes. “Stripped the damn tree bare. He denied it but everyone knew.”

Milo said, “How long ago was this, sir?”

“Thanksgiving of ’72. Delinquent never owned up to it but my wife and I knew it was him.”

“Why’s that?” said Milo.

“Because he’d done it before.”

“Stole from you?”

“From others. Don’t ask me the who and what, never heard the details, just general woman’s talk. They must have believed it, too. They boarded him out. Some sort of military academy.”

“Because of the persimmons?”

“No,” said Beamish, exasperated. “We never told them about the persimmons. No sense being obtrusive.”

‘What about Nora Dowd?” said Milo. “Any problems with her?”

“She’s the youngest and the most spoiled. Always had those
ideas.
”

“What ideas, sir?”

“Being an
actress.
” Beamish’s lips curled. “Running around trying to get parts in movies. I always thought her mother was the one behind all that.”

“She ever get any parts?”

“Not that I heard. Do fools actually pay to hear what she has to say at her play house?”

“Seems to be that way,” said Milo. “Did she ever marry?”

“Negative.”

“Does she live with anyone?”

“She’s got that heap of sticks all to herself.”

Milo showed him the snap of Dylan Meserve.

Beamish said, “Who’s that?”

“One of her students.”

“Looks like a delinquent, himself. Are they fornicating?”

Milo said, “What about visitors?”

Beamish snatched the picture from between Milo’s fingers. “Numbers around his neck. He’s a damned felon?”

“Misdemeanor arrest.”

Beamish said, “Nowadays, that could include homicide.”

“You don’t like Ms. Dowd.”

“Don’t have use for any of them,” said Beamish. “Those persimmons. I’m talking the Japanese variety, tart, firm, nothing like those gelatinous abominations you get in the market. When my wife was alive she loved making compote for Thanksgiving. She was looking forward to Thanksgiving. That wastrel filched every one. Stripped the tree
naked.
”

He returned the photo. “Never seen him but I’ll keep an eye out.”

“Thanks, sir.”

“What’d you think of that pet of hers?”

“What pet, sir?”

Albert Beamish laughed so hard he began coughing.

Milo said, “You okay, sir?”

Beamish slammed the door.

T
he white fluffy thing Nora Dowd had left on her porch was a stuffed toy. Some sort of bichon or Maltese. Flat brown eyes.

Milo picked it up, had a close look. Said, “Oh, man,” and handed it over.

Not a toy. A real dog, stuffed and preserved. The pink ribbon around its neck supported a heart-shaped, silver pendant.

Stan

Birth and death dates. Stan had lived thirteen years.

Blank look on the white fluffy face. Maybe it was the glass eyes. Or the limits of taxidermy.

I said, “Could be Stan as in Stanislavsky. She probably talks to it and takes it with her on walks. Saw us and thought better of it.”

“What does that mean?”

“Eccentric rather than psychotic.”

“I’m so impressed.” He took the dog and put it back on the floor. “Stanislavsky, eh? Let’s method act the hell out of here.”

As we drove past Albert Beamish’s Tudor, the drapes across the living room window fluttered.

Milo said, “Neighborhood crank, love it. Too bad he didn’t recognize Meserve. But with his vision, that means nothing. He sure hates the Dowds.”

I said, “Nora has two brothers who own a lot of property. Ertha Stadlbraun said Peaty’s landlords are a pair of brothers.”

“So she did.”

By the time we reached Sixth Street and La Cienega, he’d confirmed it. William Dowd III, Nora Dowd, and Bradley Dowd, doing business as BNB Properties, owned the apartment building on Guthrie. It took several other calls to get an idea of their holdings. At least forty-three properties registered in L.A. County. Multiple residences and office buildings and the converted house on the Westside where Nora availed herself to would-be stars.

“The school’s probably a concession to Crazy Sister,” he said. “Keeps her out of their hair.”

“And far from their other properties,” I said. “Something else: All those buildings mean lots of janitorial work.”

“Reynold Peaty looking in all kinds of windows… if he’s moved from peeping to violence, lots of potential victims. Yeah, let’s check it out.”

Corporate headquarters for BNB Properties was on Ocean Park Boulevard near the Santa Monica Airport. Not one of the Dowd sibs’ properties, this one was owned by a national real estate syndicate that owned half of downtown.

“Wonder why?” said Milo.

“Maybe some sort of tax dodge,” I said. “Or they held on to what their father left them, didn’t add more.”

“Lazy rich kids? Yeah, makes sense.”

It was four forty-five and the drive at this hour would be brutal. Milo called the listed number, hung up quickly.

“‘You’ve reached the office, blah blah blah. If it’s a plumbing emergency, press 1. Electrical, press 2.’ Lazy rich kids are probably drinking at the country club. You up for a try, anyway?”

“Sure,” I said.

Olympic Boulevard seemed the optimal route. The lights are timed and parking restrictions keep all six lanes open during L.A.’s ever-expanding rush hour. The boulevard was designed back in the forties as a quick way to get from downtown to the beach. People old enough to remember when that promise was kept get teary-eyed.

This afternoon, traffic was moving at twenty miles per. When I stopped at Doheny, Milo said, “The love-triangle angle fits, given Nora’s narcissism and nuttiness. This woman thinks her dog’s precious enough to be turned into a damned mummy.”

“Michaela insisted she and Dylan weren’t lovers.”

“She’d want to keep that from Nora. Maybe from you, too.”

“If so, the hoax was really stupid.”

“Two naked kids,” he said. “The publicity wouldn’t have thrilled Dowd.”

“Especially,” I said, “if she really doesn’t feel that blessed.”

“Never made it to the bottom of the funnel.”

“Never made it, lives alone in a big house, no stable relationships. Needs to smoke up before greeting the world. Maybe clinging to a stuffed dog is just massive insecurity.”

“Playing a role,” he said. “Availing herself. Okay, let’s see if we can tête-à-tête with the rest of this glorious family.”

The site was a two-story strip mall on the northeast corner of Ocean Park and Twenty-eighth, directly opposite the lush, industrial park that fronted Santa Monica’s private airport. BNB Properties was a door and window on the second floor.

Cheaply built mall, lemon-yellow sprayed-stucco walls stained by rust around the gutters, brown iron railings rimming an open balcony, plastic tile roof pretending to evoke colonial Spain.

The ground floor was a take-out pizza joint, a Thai café and its Mexican counterpart, and a coin-op laundry. BNB’s upstairs neighbors were a chiropractor touting treatment for “workplace injuries,” Zip Technical Assistance, and Sunny Sky Travel, windows festooned by posters in bright, come-on colors.

As we climbed pebble-grained steps, a sleek, white corporate jet shot into the sky.

“Aspen or Vail or Telluride,” said Milo. “Someone’s having fun.”

“Maybe it’s a business trip and they’re going to Podunk.”

“That tax bracket,
everything’s
fun. Wonder if the Dowd brothers are in that league. If they are, they’re skimping on ambience.”

He pointed at BNB’s plain brown door. Chipped and gouged and cracking toward the bottom. The corporate signage consisted of six U-stick, silver foil parallelograms aligned carelessly.

BNB inc

A single, aluminum-framed window was blocked by cheap, white mini-blinds. The slats tilted to the left, left a triangle of peep-space. Milo took advantage, shading his eyes with his hands and peering in.

“Looks like one room… and a bathroom with the light on.” He straightened. “Some guy’s in there peeing, let’s give him time to zip up.”

Another plane took off.

“That one’s Aspen for sure,” he said.

“How can you tell?”

“Happy sound from the engines.” He knocked and opened the door.

A man stood by a cheap, wooden desk staring at us. He’d forgotten to zip the fly of his khaki Dockers and a corner of blue shirt peeked out. The shirt was silk, oversized and baggy, a stone-washed texture that had been fashionable a decade ago. The khakis sagged on his skinny frame. No belt. Scuffed brown penny loafers, white socks.

He was short —
five five or six —
looked to be around fifty, with down-slanted medium brown eyes and curly gray hair cut in a tight Caesar cap. White fuzz on the back of his neck said it was time for a trim. Same for a two-day growth of salt-and-pepper beard. Hollow cheeks, angular features, except for his nose.