The woman hit speed dial on her phone and punched the speakerphone button. A man’s voice answered.
“Don’t start, Rosie…” he said.
“I’m wondering if you have a moment to help me,” Mary said, trying to get to the woman before she started in on the phone. But she was too slow.
“How do your internal organs look?” Rosie shouted at the phone. “Huh? That’s what you must be looking at since your head is up your ass!” Spittle shot from the woman’s mouth and hit the computer monitor. She picked up the phone and slammed it down. Mary heard a dial tone and then nothing.
The woman turned to Mary. “Sorry about that, but we were playing the Jenkinses,” the woman said. She lowered her voice. “I can’t stand Rhonda Jenkins. The woman is a total bitch. And I absolutely despise losing to her.”
“A competitive drive,” Mary said. “That’s good. So listen, my uncle was murdered,” she said. “Brent Cooper?”
The woman’s mouth snapped shut. “Oh God, I’m sorry,” the woman said.
“Don’t worry about it. I just want to see his apartment,” Mary said. “Condo. Whatever you call it.”
“I’m sorry about that yelling,” the woman’s face had turned red.
“Hey, don’t apologize,” Mary said. “You’re entitled to enjoy your Golden Years any way you want.”
“Tell that to the jackass upstairs,” the woman mumbled.
“My uncle’s apartment…” Mary said.
The woman shook her head. “The police said I can’t let anyone in. They’ve been in and out of there a couple times. It’s sealed shut.”
“I’m sure they didn’t mean everyone,” Mary said. “Family is certainly allowed in.”
“Um…I don’t know…”
Mary whipped out her p.i. license which she’d put into a slick little leather number that let her flash it like a detective. There was something about a badge that made people more…malleable.
“Not only am I a grieving family member,” Mary said. “I’m also working as an adjunct with the police. So you actually have to open his condo for me.” She wasn’t really sure what an adjunct was, but she knew the term was vague enough to avoid any charges of falsely impersonating a cop. But hell, Sergeant Davies did that every day and never got busted.
“Okay, okay. Nothing’s more important than family,” the woman said. An interesting comment coming from a woman who had just finished verbally abusing her husband, Mary thought.
The woman reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a set of keys. “By the way, my name is…”
“Rosie,” Mary said. “Your husband mentioned it when you two were chatting.”
“And you are…”
“Mary. Mary Cooper.” They shook hands and then Rosie led the way to the elevators. On the wall across from the office a bulletin board held flyers for classes and programs offered to the residents of Palm Terrace. Rosie noticed her looking at the board.
“People think us old folks just sit around and watch the Wheel of Fortune,” she said. “That’s bull. We write, we paint, we take classes…”
“Any anger management courses up there?” Mary said.
Rosie glanced at her as the elevator doors opened.
“You remind me of Brent,” Rosie said.
“No need to get nasty,” Mary said.
Chapter Sixteen
The door was posted with an LAPD notice, but it wasn’t sealed. Mary thought it was probably because it wasn’t technically a crime scene. In any event, Rosie used her key and opened the door, then followed Mary in.
“Do you mind if I stay?” Rosie said.
Mary did actually mind, but she wasn’t about to antagonize Rosie and have her put in a call to the LAPD about a nosy niece. Besides, Mary wanted to keep an eye on Rosie until she was gone.
“Make yourself at home. Throw a fondue party. I don’t mind,” Mary said.
There wasn’t much to see. A small, outdated kitchen. A decent sized living room with a leather couch and beige carpet. There were some posters on the walls, old handbills of comedy shows Uncle Brent had probably been involved in. She couldn’t help but a feel a little bit of pride for the old man. He may have been abrasive, but he could be pretty damn funny. It pissed her off to see the apartment, see the small amount of success her uncle had experienced. To see how he’d put it on display, and to know that someone had cut his life short. And for what?
Mary followed a short hallway that led to a bathroom and two bedrooms. And that was it. She didn’t honestly know what she expected to find. Some letters threatening his life? A diary filled with notes about a person wishing Brent harm?
Mary walked into the main bedroom and took a quick look around. No correspondence. No notes. A few pictures on Brent’s dresser. They were mostly black-and-white. Brent as a young man in Hollywood back in the fifties. He’d been really good looking back then, Mary had to admit. His friends all looked like young comics with tans, hip clothes, and money to burn. The few women pictured were lookers, too. Mary recognized a couple of the men in the photographs. One was now a celebrity of sorts, a talk show host. The other was a semi-well-known comic who’d been the brains behind a comedy series.
“Finding anything back there?” Rosie called from the kitchen area.
“Just a bunch of sex toys,” Mary called back. “Some of them are pretty heavy duty.”
She took a peek in the bathroom. Nothing there but a newspaper in a little shelving unit that held soap and hand towels. It was open to the obituaries, of course. Old people loved to read obituaries. Sort of a sneak preview.
“How much longer do you think you’ll be?” Rosie called.
“Sorry, I’m putting some of these sex gadgets into my purse,” Mary said. “I’ll need to do some very thorough research with them. Lots of testing.”
Mary walked back into the living room. “I’m just kidding. I’ve got all those things at home.”
Nothing, Mary thought. I’ve learned nothing.
“Anything else?” Rosie said, clearly anxious to be done with this.
“I guess not,” Mary said.
They left the apartment and Rosie locked the door.
“I suppose you want to talk to the ladies, too? Like the police did?”
Mary stopped. “What ladies?” She looked closely at Rosie and the woman now realized that she’d offered some information that hadn’t been requested — always a bad idea.
“Oh, nothing, never mind…”
“Rosie,” Mary said. “What ladies?”
She read the expression on the woman’s face as realization that it was too late for a retraction. Rosie let out a long, exasperated sigh.
“Apartment 410,” she said. “Please don’t mention my name. I don’t want to get on their bad side.”
Chapter Seventeen
The ladies turned out to be three women in their sixties or up who shared a huge condo. The apartment was tastefully decorated, everything top-of-the-line. Much bigger, much nicer than Brent’s place.
Mary thought the women in general looked pretty good for their ages. Their personalities, however, were iffy. The self-appointed spokesperson was Helen, a tall, thin blonde with an attractive but stern face. She had a thin martini glass in her hand, filled with a red concoction. A Cosmo, Mary thought.
Fran was the nervous one. Mary could tell by the way the woman fidgeted on the big white couch. And the way she occasionally bit her lower lip. She was petite and had dark brown hair with frosted tips that probably cost a pretty penny.