Feeling dejected, I glanced at the floor. I wanted to get inside the Wells house, sure that some huge clue to Mary Beth’s secret was waiting there. Maybe all it would take was one look around and I would have the whole mystery solved.
I glanced out at the street and saw that CeeCee was window-shopping nearby, eating an ice cream cone. I had a sudden flash of inspiration. A cousin of mine had been in the TV and film location business and he always told the same story: people who wouldn’t open the door for anybody threw it open and invited him in as soon as he said he was looking for a location for a TV show.
“You watch television, don’t you?” I said to the woman. Her eyes narrowed at the strange question and she nodded. “Not much goes on here in the winter. I watch a lot of television.”
“How about Making Amends? Do you watch that?”
“Sure,” the woman snorted. “I can’t believe the things people confess to. What about that guy who admitted he’d been having an affair with his wife’s sister? I thought his wife was going to kill him during the program.” Renata leaned toward me. “I wonder what really happened on that trip to Honolulu they gave the couple. Are they still together or did he mysteriously drown?”
Dinah stepped in to help. “Some things you just can’t make amends for,” she said in a serious tone.
“That’s what I thought,” Renata said.
I pointed toward the street. “There’s CeeCee Collins—the host of the show.”
The woman looked closer. “You’re right. It is her. We don’t get many celebrities this time of year. In the summer they arrive on their own boats and come in to shop or eat. Wow.” She moved toward the door and I heard her start to tell the mail gatherers who were out front, but I stopped her just in time.
“My associate and I are actually looking for locations for the show,” I said. “And that house seemed perfect. Are you sure there isn’t some way we can have a peek inside to see if it’s what we’re really looking for?”
The woman knit her brows and seemed to have an inner conversation. “We’re supposed to aid in any filming done here—it’s a boon to our economy. But the Wells house is kind of a tough one since it isn’t a rental and I don’t have a key.”
“There must be a caretaker,” Dinah said. “Someone puts out all those bowls of cat food.”
“Of course, you’re right. Where was my head?” the woman said and went out in the hall. A moment later she came back with a tan man who had a head of thick white hair, introducing him as Purdue Silvers. She excitedly pointed out CeeCee, who was savoring the last of her cone, and in an animated voice explained we were looking for a location to shoot the program on the island.
“Do that show here? What a great idea. I could tell them about some wrongs that need righting,” Purdue said. Then Renata pointed out the house we were interested in. He seemed hesitant until she reminded him that productions brought business to the island.
“I suppose there’s no harm in letting you have a look-see. Though I’m not the one who can give you the permission to use it. I can give you the name of the law firm that’s handling it now.” He cast his eyes downward. “There was a recent death in the family.”
Dinah and I made somber nods. He left to pick up the keys, returning a few minutes later, and led us out to his golf cart. He had individualized it to look like a woody station wagon, complete with a miniature surfboard attached to the roof.
Purdue turned out to be a talker and during the short drive back to the house, we learned he was named for his father’s alma mater and that he was one of the few natives who still lived on the island. He said he felt blessed to be able to live in such a paradise. When he stopped to take a breath, I asked him how long he’d been a caretaker.
“It’s my profession of choice. So many people have houses here they don’t live in and don’t rent, it’s been a nice living. I drive the submarine once a week to add some money to the pot, and I bartend at a couple of beachfront places,” he said. “And I do the late afternoon city tour.”
He pulled the small vehicle onto the grass and turned off the motor. The cats surrounded him when he got out; it was obvious he was the source of their food.
Dinah and I followed him up the few steps and he unlocked the door. Purdue certainly liked the sound of his own voice. He was still talking. By now we knew that he had stayed in most of the houses he took care of, though not the Wells house.
“Some of the owners have regular times they come to Catalina, but not Mary Beth Wells. She was all over the place. Summer, winter or fall, I’d just get a call that she was arriving on such and such a day and to please stock the refrigerator for her.” His voice dropped when he said her name. “You know, she died. I heard they thought it was natural causes, but it turned out to be poison.” He sighed and lowered his gaze. “I can’t imagine who’d want to kill her.” When he looked up his eyes were sad and watery. “She was a nice woman—a very nice woman.”
As we walked inside, I noticed a stuffy smell with that touch of mildew places near the ocean seemed to get. He walked into the living room, saying he thought it was the best spot for the show to film.
While he pointed out the view, which was outstanding, and the various spots he thought would be perfect to set up cameras, I tried to look around. I nudged Dinah and she attempted to distract his attention but had only limited success. I was able to admire the filet crochet window coverings, but when I tried to move into the other rooms, Purdue pulled me back, wanting to show me the handmade molding on the fireplace.
Mary Beth might not have had even a crochet hook hanging around in the Tarzana house, but she’d made up for it here. There were examples of her handiwork everywhere. She seemed stuck on filet crochet; I noticed only one yarn piece—an afghan with stripes of varying shades of green draped over the upholstered forest green couch. There were framed examples of her filet work on the walls. Most were done in white or ecru, but some were done in colors.
“She was quite the crochet artist,” Purdue said, noticing I was admiring one of the long panels hanging over the windows. “Maybe we should go back and pick up Ms. Collins. She probably wants to see the place.” He took a breath and then launched into questions about how the show was done and how he could get on with his story. He stood in front of me, expectant for answers.
I did exactly what the Average Joe’s Guide to Criminal Investigation suggested for dealing with questions you didn’t want to answer. The book advised you to completely ignore the questions and ask one of your own, preferably on a different subject. I asked him about the history of the house, noting how unusual it was.
“Lance Wells Sr. had it built. The round porch up top was his idea. He used it to practice all those ballroom dance moves. And he used it for parties, lots of parties,” the caretaker said with a knowing nod.
“It was a little different with his son. Lance Jr. came here exactly once. He was so seasick I heard they had to practically knock him out to get him back on the boat to go home.”
“But I thought you said his wife came here all the time,” I said, talking to him but moving around the room and dramatically using my hands to “measure” what a camera would see. Dinah had taken out a piece of paper and a pen and was pretending to make note of things about the house for the show.
“She did. She came without him,” Purdue said, standing in the middle of the room. “Yep, once was enough for Lance Jr. But then from what I hear he was nothing like his father.” He mentioned that Lance Jr. had died about six months ago. He’d driven his car into a pole. The caretaker didn’t give any more details, but from what Mason had said about Lance Jr., I guessed the accident was alcohol related.