But despite her best efforts, she could find no further mention of Marie Stevens. Nor any pictures. Not any illuminating mentions of a Marie, or an attractive young brunette who had a wicked sense of humor and a penchant for booze and drugs.
By the time she hit the bottom of her material and found the top of her desk, it was nearly four o’clock in the afternoon. Mary did some rapid calculations in her mind and decided that she had just enough time to try one last-ditch effort to find Marie Stevens.
She flew out of the office and into the Accord and fifteen minutes later she was at a run-down neighborhood in Venice.
The Southern California Comedy Museum looked less like a public space and more like a St. Vincent DePaul gone to seed. Mary had just read about its grand opening in the local paper. Well, it had actually been their non-grand opening, because it had been cancelled and postponed to an undetermined date.
She parked the Accord and went to the door. Inside, she could see two men standing next to a kiosk. One wore a tattered sport coat with filthy khakis, the other had on blue jeans, a denim shirt, and a tool belt.
Mary opened the door and stepped inside.
“We’re not open,” the guy in the mangy sport coat said.
Mary flashed her badge. He saw it, and turned to the guy in the tool belt.
“I’m not upgrading my service — just do it so I can turn on the lights without blowing a fuse, please.”
He walked over to Mary.
“What can I do for you, Officer?” the guy asked. Mary didn’t correct him.
“I need to do some research on a woman who lived here in L.A. back in the fifties and sixties,” she said. “Her name was Marie Stevens and she was tight with a group of guys. Brent Cooper was one of them, and Harvey Mitchell was another.”
“Look, man,” the guy said to her. “This ain’t a frickin’ research center. It’s a comedy museum. One without much electricity,” the guy raised his volume so the guy in the tool belt would hear. “And I still haven’t seen your badge.”
“Look, Brent Cooper was my uncle,” Mary offered. “He was murdered a week ago and I’m trying to help find his killer. Can you help me out here?”
Just then, the worker flipped a switch and the lights went on inside the room.
“That’s a sign from God, friend,” Mary said. “Ignore it at your own peril.”
The guy turned and walked toward a door in the back. “Well come on,” he said. “You might want to look through this stuff fast. The way things have been going, there’s probably an electrical fire starting somewhere. This place will be toast in a half hour.”
Chapter Sixty-Five
“You got a name, there, Dapper Don?” Mary said.
The guy let out a small smile. “Dapper. I like that.” He looked down at his tattered khakis and grungy sport coat. “Dressed for success,” he said. He held out his hand. “Carl Michaletz.”
“Mary Cooper.” They shook. Mary looked around the room. It was piled with boxes of all shapes, sizes, colors, and branding.
Michaletz pointed to a small group of boxes on the left side. “All of my stuff on the comedy writers and variety show writers from that period are here,” he said, leading her over to the section. “It’s hard to categorize a lot of people from back then, but I did my best.”
He pulled some boxes out and opened the lids to all of them.
“How did you wind up here?” Mary asked. She sat down cross-legged on the concrete floor and pulled up the nearest box. Michaletz pulled a floor lamp over nearer to them and sat down as well.
“I did a lot of coke and booze in the eighties while trying to become a comedian,” he said. “By the time I cleaned up and was sober, I realized I wasn’t very funny.”
“At least you’re honest with yourself,” Mary said. “That makes you the exception.”
She hauled a load of scrapbooks and handbills out of the box and set them on the ground, then began sorting through them.
“I wasn’t bad at business management, though, so I started managing some of the clubs,” Michaleltz continued. “One thing led to another and I got hired to run this place, at the behest of a very wealthy comedian who doesn’t want his name attached to this thing, in case it ends up being a huge embarrassment.”
“Very supportive,” Mary said.
There was a small pop and then a sizzling sound from the back room. Michaletz got up.
“Well, everything I have is here. If I have time, I’ll come back and help you look,” he said. “Marie Stevens, huh? Was that her real name?”
“I think so.”
“Okay, I’ll think about it.”
He left Mary to the boxes and she didn’t waste any time.
She thought she smelled smoke.
Chapter Sixty-Six
Most of the material consisted of lots and lots of head shots. Even more call sheets with names and phone numbers. It wasn’t until she hit the bottom of the second to last box that she found something.
It was a series of pictures of Harvey Mitchell. There were lots of them, mostly with other celebrities and a few of him on stage doing different types of things: stand-up, skits, acting.
It was when she got to the photos of Mitchell and Uncle Brent that she sat up and took notice.
Here was Uncle Brent and Harvey Mitchell standing by a swimming pool with drinks in their hands.
And there was another one with Brent and Mitchell leaning against a Porsche.
And finally, the photo that had Mary on her feet, cell phone in hand.
It showed Harvey Mitchell.
And a lithe, stunning brunette with a white dress and ruby lipstick.
Marie Stevens.
In the photo, they had their arms around each other and were mugging to the camera.
But what caught Mary’s eye wasn’t the image of Marie.
It was the look on Mitchell’s face.
She’d never really seen that look on her own face, but she’d seen it on others.
It was the look of someone deeply in love.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Mary took PCH to the little village of Malibu, then wound her way up past the estates of Courtney Cox, David Geffen, and others until she reached the hacienda style home of Harvey Mitchell. The ocean fell behind her, the slight haze of the hills seemed to dissipate the higher she went.
There was the requisite Porsche 911 in Mitchell’s circular driveway, along with a giant Lexus SUV. The landscaping was immaculate, the home a sprawling expanse of prized real estate. The rear of the house, Mary knew, would have a breathtaking view of the Pacific.
She rang the bell on the huge pine door and it swung open moments later. A chubby, cherubic face peered out at Mary. The woman was Hispanic and wore a dark skirt with a white blouse.
“Hi, I’m Mary Cooper,” Mary said. “I have an appointment with Mr. Mitchell.”
“Yes, please come in,” the woman said. “My name is Elena.”
Mary stepped inside and caught the scent of citrus, probably lemon, along with an overtone of coffee.
“Mr. Mitchell would like to see you in the garden room,” Elena said. “Can I get you anything to drink?”
“A Boilermaker would be perfect,” Mary said. Elena gave her a blank look. “I’m fine, I don’t need anything, thank you,” Mary said.