“How did Candace come to the group?”
“She emailed me, said breast cancer research was their passion, a first wife of his had died of it. So when I met him at the fundraiser I offered my sympathy and empathy but he gave me a blank look. As if he had no idea what I was talking about. Then, as if he was trying to cover for himself, he said oh, yes, that was terrible, Gertrude would be so pleased. That should’ve tipped me off. Gertrude? When’s the last time you heard of a woman under eighty named Gertrude? But as I said, I was distracted. Plus I give people the benefit.”
Her jaws clenched. “Until they prove otherwise. After that?” She rubbed her palms together then let each hand fly. “Good riddance to bad rubbish.”
I said, “The party crashers—”
“Two of them. A lounge lizard and a floozy with blue hair and a Pillsbury Doughboy face. Clearly neither of them was one of us. She let them in, the layout of that hideous dump, it was impossible to monitor. All the cars jamming up on Benedict — have you seen the place?”
“I have.”
“Vulgar. The interior was gloomy and the outside lighting skimpy. Lesson learned, next year we’ll be using one of our members’ manses in the Palisades designed by Wallace Neff. Wesley and Denise have their own personal vineyard and we’ll be tasting their private reserves — try the bleu, Doctor. It really is yum.”
She watched with satisfaction as I obliged. After swallowing the dry morsel, I said, “This orgy—”
Jane Leavitt’s eyes danced with merriment. “I suppose I must get into details.”
She took her time selecting a macadamia nut from a bowl, bit it in half, and chewed one fragment thoughtfully. The other she placed on her plate.
“I discovered it by mere chance. Looking for her. She’d promised me more than enough Chardonnay and we were falling short and I wondered if it was stashed somewhere in that vault of a place.”
A tongue-tip moistened her lips. “I looked all over that dreadful property, finally spotted something going on at the back. Correction, I heard something. Such poor lighting, one couldn’t see until one got up close.”
Deep sigh. “Now you’ll want to know what I heard. All right, here goes. Grunts, gutturals, vulgar heavy breathing.” Another sigh, longer, louder. “I suppose I must get into further details.”
“Not if it makes you uncomfortable—”
“I volunteer with cancer patients, Doctor. Nothing makes me uncomfortable.”
Another tongue flick.
“What I saw was a disgusting scene. Lounge lizard and floozy were...” She gave a limp wave. “No sense shilly-shallying, Karen’s always telling me to be direct, it’s the modern way.” Wink wink. “What I saw was the two of them standing up and fucking like bunny rabbits.”
Moving her index finger back and forward. “They were panting like heart attack victims. His family jewels were jiggling. Then I saw it wasn’t just the two of them. She was kneeling behind him with her head up there like a badger nosing for bugs.”
“Candace Kierstead.”
“That’s who we’re talking about, right?” said Jane Leavitt, inching back and luxuriating in the memory. Another half a macadamia nut entered her mouth to be slowly pulverized.
“Yum. From the Big Island... where was I... oh, yes, the badger. I was at loss for words and trust me, Doctor, that doesn’t happen often. What did I do? I just stood there. Appalled. Then I told myself, Jane, leadership comes with responsibility, so I cleared my throat.”
Sitting up straighter, she demonstrated, producing the growl of a semi with a busted ignition.
“You can bet that got their attention, Doctor. The three of them jumped up, began zipping and buttoning and straightening and whatnot. That was something to see.”
Soprano laughter ended in an operatic trill.
“It could’ve been a terrible blot on my fundraiser but thank goodness no one else realized what had happened. Even, I suppose, her husband, because he was nowhere to be found. Looking back, I suppose there’s some comedy to the whole thing. But that’s memories for you. Like fine wine, they taste so much better with age.”
“Absolutely. So they all left.”
“I allowed Iguana and Pie-Face to scoot their derrieres away, but when she tried to leave, I blocked her and gave her my blue-ribbon stare-down, Karen calls it the death ray.”
Cashmere sleeves clamped over a pigeon-chest. Her face took on the steely frown of a dyspeptic drill sergeant.
“I just stood there and dressed her down visually. She knew her goose was cooked. Finally, when she was starting to wilt, I said, ‘Go and never come back.’ And that was it.”
I thought: You have no idea.
Chapter 47
As four thirty p.m. rolled around, I was itching to go but Jane Leavitt said, “I’ve so enjoyed chatting with you — please enjoy more high tea.”
I conceded another slice of cheese, two additional grapes, a water biscuit, and a slice of raisin bread. Thinking: Big Guy, you blew it.
Managing to withstand her urging to “try the butter, just a smidge, it’s from Denmark — okay, cholesterol, I get it. Then at least the jam, it’s a mixture of Alpine and conventional strawberries, a family in Milan — wait here one sec.”
She strutted out of the room and returned toting a leather-bound folio with both hands. Karen Amilyn Leavitt’s brief acting career was preserved between sheets of plastic. Semi-literate puff-piece reviews in a Beverly Hills throwaway paper, some dating back to high school days, had been preserved with additional photos from the Marilyn-clone shoot. Emphasis on come-hither headshots, lingerie glams, and airbrushed bikini poses.
Jane watched as I flipped pages. When I closed the book, I said, “Terrific.”
“She had so much potential.” She turned away, dabbed at her eyes.
I checked my phone and stood. “Oops, so sorry, I really need to go.”
“Police business? Something to do with her?”
“Yes.”
“Then be off,” she said. “Just as well. I’ve got a party to plan. The garden club, they love my palms.”
She directed my exit the same way she’d guided my entry: arm in arm, followed by a firm propulsion outdoors.
“When will you be able to clue me in, Doctor?”
“Soon as I can.”
“Grand,” she said, clapping her hands. “I want all the gory details, each and every one.”
Be careful what you hope for.
I drove south to Lomitas Avenue, hooked a right at Walden Drive, pulled over, and phoned Judge Martin Bevilacqua.
His clerk said, “I think he’s free,” and rang him in chambers.
A second later, Marty came on. “What’s up, Alex?”
“One more question about the Ansar divorce.”
“No new facts.”
“You mentioned art was part of the dispute.”
“Why does that matter to you?”
“It may connect to the murder.”
“One of them is involved? Oh, shit.”
“No direct involvement,” I said, “but our suspects claim to have sold to the Ansars. Any idea what?”
“Oh, man,” he said. “No, not a clue, Mister absconded with all of it according to Missus and she has no record other than it’s supposedly gazillions.”