“I hear it’s very nice there.” Iris picked up the pot. “Did you want to get sempervivum?”
Another car drove into the driveway. This time Ali got out. As soon as she saw me, she came to join us. “You came to the right place. My mother’s plants are the best.”
But her willingness to talk left a lot to be desired. So far I’d gotten nothing but the name of the plant I was holding. Sure, it was obvious Iris knew Mary Beth, but as long as she denied it what could I do?
“I forgot to ask you earlier,” I said to Ali, trying another tactic. “We have a thing at the bookstore for people’s birthdays. We send out discount coupons. If you tell me yours, I can add it to my file.”
“That’s so nice,” Ali said. She sounded so genuine I felt bad about deceiving her and decided right then to actually start a birthday-discount program. “My birthday is December 19,” she said. “I’m just barely a Sagittarius.”
Ali’s birthdate was in sync with the diary entry. I decided to push the envelope and ask one more question. “Were you born here in Tarzana?”
“Actually, I was born on Catalina.”
Iris appeared more uncomfortable but said nothing. Ali spoke for her. “Ali is just my nickname. It’s short for Catalina. Get it—Cat-ali-na?”
“I’m sure you’re in a hurry,” Iris said, taking the pot and heading for the patio. “Let me just write this up.” She looked for me to follow her, but Ali intervened.
“While you write it up, I want to show Molly the afghan I’m making.”
Before Iris could stop her, Ali had taken me inside. It was dark after the bright sun of the front yard. Paul was sitting in a recliner watching television. Ali led me to a small bedroom that looked out on the backyard. While I was trying to think of something brilliant to ask her, Ali brought out her work. It was beautiful. She’d made multiple creamy off-white squares, each with the pattern of an angel in the center. She was in the process of joining all the squares.
“It’s for my mom and the most traditional thing I’ve ever made,” Ali said, holding some of the squares together so I could see how the completed project would look.
“You have to bring that to show the group,” I said.
As we were walking back through the living room, I noticed a glass-fronted frame hanging on the wall. When I stepped closer, I smiled and took it down. Ali gave me an odd look as we went outside.
I stepped up to Iris and held out the frame. “I know you know Mary Beth, and no doubt quite well since she made this for you.” Confused, Ali turned to Iris, who reached out and angrily grabbed the frame from me, muttering something about how she’d forgotten all about it. Behind the glass was a filet picture of a cactus in a pot with a tiny MB embedded in the bottom of the cactus. The wishing well in the panel piece was signed the very same way, I was sure it was Mary Beth’s artistic signature.
“I think you better take your succulent shopping somewhere else,” Iris said, giving me a shove as she held my arm and walked me to the gate.
CHAPTER 26
“SHE THREW YOU OUT?” MASON SAID. FOR SOME reason he found that amusing, then he apologized. “I know this is serious, but I can’t imagine you pushing the Stewart woman so far she’d toss you out.”
“Believe me, I did and she did. I caught her in a lie and I showed her.”
Mason and I were on the way to a dinner for the Entertainment Fund for Kids Kamp USA. I’d called him shortly after my run-in with Iris and asked him if he could get some background information on Iris Stewart and anything more on Matt Wells. He’d dangled getting it in exchange for my going to the dinner with him.
“If you come it’ll be fun instead of a duty,” he’d said. How could I turn down a compliment like that? Besides, I really wanted the information. After a brief stop at home to change, I drove to Mason’s and waited while he fed Spike and took him for a walk. Then we drove into the city in his car. I hadn’t been over the hill for awhile.
In the old days, it was a long trip because of the poor roads. Now it was a long trip because of the traffic.
“You can tell me now,” I said, referring to the information I’d asked for.
“Patience, patience,” Mason said, steering his car through a twisty canyon.
“What? Are you afraid if you tell me now, I’ll jump out of the car?” I asked, laughing.
“It would be a long walk home,” Mason teased. “Does this make me your assistant?” Mason chuckled. “I haven’t had so much fun in a long time. First, I get to be a bad boy and antagonize my girlfriend’s mother, and then I get to be her secret information source.”
Girlfriend? I swallowed. Then I just let it go. Why make an issue out of a word I wasn’t sure applied. I was having fun, too.
“I think I might just have to wait until the way home to share what I found out. Or even better, save it for drinks at my place.” Mason was joking, but he was also seriously trying to lure me into his house.
“The ride home is as far as I’m going to go,” I said. My voice was light, but there was just a touch of seriousness and he knew what I meant: Not yet.
We pulled into the driveway of the Beverly Hilton, and a valet whisked the car away.
Mason took my arm and led me down the walkway to the main ballroom. As we entered, we passed through the area set aside for the silent auction tables.
The ballroom was filled with well-dressed people mingling over cocktails. Among the crowd I noticed several familiar faces, people I hadn’t seen since Charlie’s funeral. I met the gaze of one man and started to smile, but he quickly looked away. I’d lost my status when Charlie died—but apparently not permanently. I almost laughed when the same person looked back and saw who I was with. He and his wife came over and gushed about how nice it was to see me again. Ah, the awkwardness of being a widow.
Mason grabbed my hand. “Let’s get a drink.”
We changed direction and squeezed around a clump of people. I felt someone touch my arm.
“Welcome to my world,” Camille said. “Hunnie, look who’s here.” She nudged her husband and he turned toward me.
“It’s the bookstore lady,” he said with barely a glance. But when he saw who I was with, his demeanor changed. Clearly, being with Mason made me somebody who mattered, at least to these people.
Mason picked up on what was happening. “Don’t take it personally,” Nodding toward Hunter and Camille, who were standing by their table greeting all who approached, he said, “Let me give you a refresher course in the politics of power.” He pointed out a couple and explained the guy was a William Morris agent like my son. He and his girlfriend were moving around. They’d stop, say a few words and move on. They were working the room. Then Mason pointed to Camille and Hunter. Sure enough, they stayed put and a continuing line of people came up to them.
“There’s lots of congratulating,” Mason said. “It’s been a long haul for him, but Hunter finally got the brass ring. Next week, he’s officially being made president of Rhead Productions. Everybody wants to be on his good side.”
Statuswise, Mason seemed to be somewhere in the middle. Some people approached him, and some people he approached. After we got our drinks, he continued socializing while I went to check out the silent auction. It was the usual things: a walk-on part on a sitcom, signed scripts of popular shows and a lot of spa days and golf vacations. One item surprised me: a small crocheted scarf donated by Camille. The uneven stitches and wavy edges showed it was very much a beginner’s first project. And yet the list of bidders had already filled the page. Yes, there was plenty of power politics going on.