Dream Town, page 23
“Would you like something stronger than coffee?”
He checked his watch and hiked his eyebrows. He knew everybody in LA drank too much, but this was a little ridiculous. “I like to wait until I’ve at least digested my eggs and toast.”
“Well, it’s never too early for me these days, I’m afraid. If you don’t mind.”
“I don’t get between anybody and their booze.”
She mixed a whiskey sour over ice and drank it down like it was a Coke.
She pressed the glass to her forehead before setting it down. “Have you ever been married, Mr. Archer?”
“No.”
“Don’t. It’s not worth it. Well, I say that from the wife’s perspective. It is very different from the man’s side. They can do whatever the hell they want.”
“You’re not alone on that score. There’s a lot of unhappiness out there. Keeps me gainfully employed, for better or worse.”
“My children make me happy. My work makes me happy. My marriage does not.”
“Has he tried to get help? They do have people who specialize in that stuff.”
“I tried to get Simon help many times. But one cannot do the work for him.”
“I understand he flies up to Vegas with Bart Green and Danny Mars on a regular basis?”
“Too regular a basis. Do you know what they call themselves?” she added shrilly.
“I’ll take a wild guess: the Three Musketeers.”
“How on earth did you know that?”
“I’m a guy. We think shallow and all manly when it comes to stuff like that. So, how does his firm view his gambling?”
“Simon’s partners are teetotalers and deacons in their churches. They see gambling as a sin.”
“So not good then?”
“To put it mildly. To put it realistically, they might kick him out of the business.” The phone rang and Jacoby answered it. She listened for a few moments and then said, “I’ll be right there.” She put the receiver down. “I have to deal with something. It won’t take long. Can you wait?”
“Yes, I can.”
While she was gone Archer walked around the room and looked at the framed movie posters on the wall and pictures autographed by nearly two decades’ worth of Hollywood royalty. He stopped at one framed photo separate from the rest. It was a duplicate of the one at Jacoby’s home. The Wellesley crew. He eyed Jacoby and Lamb straight away and then let his gaze wander up and down the rows. Until…
Damn.
A nearly two-decades-younger Gloria Mars was staring back at him from the second row, far left. There was no mistaking those eyes nor the haughty manner that the lady still carried around like an old fur. So why hadn’t Jacoby ever mentioned that college connection?
He kept looking until he came to another set of framed photos perched on a table. And Archer’s jaw dropped once more.
In the photo a much younger Mallory Green was dressed up in an eighteenth-century period costume and standing next to a fresh-faced, early-twenties Alice Jacoby. The picture was signed to Alice from Green, and was dated eighteen years ago. That was when Jacoby had started out in the film business as a set designer, Archer recalled. So that was probably how they’d become friends, then.
Green had been both far lovelier and heavier back in the day. The shrinkage in her weight over the years had done her no favors, diminishing her natural beauty into a hard, mean little shell, like someone had lit a piece of paper on fire and let it burn down to ash. He was initially surprised that the woman had once been an actress. But she definitely had the steel in her spine to do just about anything, he figured.
He heard footsteps coming and retreated to his seat before Jacoby walked back in. She looked a bit frazzled, and a few strands of her hair had worked free from their binding.
“Sorry. There’s always drama on the set, and I’m not talking about the actors.”
“I understand. So, you know Gloria Mars?”
She looked surprised by this but said, “Yes, from Wellesley. Why?”
“Just curious. And did Eleanor Lamb know Mars, too?”
“Yes. Wellesley’s not that big. We were in the same graduating class.”
Archer pointed to the photo. “And Mallory Green. She was an actress?”
Jacoby smiled. “That was taken right at the end of her acting career—her last picture, in fact. I worked on the sets. It was my first assignment. She’ll tell you she was not a great thespian. But she’s a wonderful documentary filmmaker. She’s won two Oscars.”
“So she mentioned. Is that how she met her husband?”
“Yes. Bart was producing a film she was in. This was many years before that picture was taken, of course. They fell in love and got married. Raised four children. Well, Mallory did. Bart was always working.”
“Okay, now do you want to take one more whack at the Jade Lion?”
She bristled. “I have already told you the truth, Mr. Archer. And if you provide me with the name of the person claiming I was there, I’ll sue them for slander.”
“That’s why I won’t. If you really haven’t been to the Jade, I wouldn’t bother going. The liquor is undrinkable for people like you and me. And the rest of their offerings are nothing to write home about.”
“Thank you, but I have no intention of going there.”
“And you haven’t heard from Lamb?” asked Archer.
“No.”
“I understand you fly around with Mallory Green in their plane?”
Jacoby looked down. “Sometimes. It’s nice to get away.”
“I’m sure.” Like from your husband. “They have a place up at Lake Tahoe.”
“That’s right.”
“When is your husband coming back?” asked Archer.
“I’m not sure. Simon’s gotten to where he doesn’t tell me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I made my bed, now I have to sleep in it. Alone.”
Archer put on his hat and left.
He walked all the way out of Warner Brothers wondering why Jacoby kept lying to him.
Chapter 49
ARCHER MADE THE LONG DRIVE out to Malibu. It wasn’t nearly as pleasant in the squat Buick. Even the Pacific didn’t look as magnificent from the dumpy car’s window. It was sunny on the mainland, but dark clouds were gathering offshore. The temperature had dropped, and though Archer wasn’t worried about snow in Southern California even in January, he wasn’t juiced about a ton of rain coming his way, either.
He drove up Las Flores and arrived at the cluster of three houses. The silver coupe was still parked at Lamb’s house. He pulled to the curb and got out. He tried the passenger door of Lamb’s car, and it opened right up. Oldham’s locksmith had apparently done his job. There couldn’t have been a body inside, or Archer would have heard. He did a quick search, but found nothing helpful. He shut the door and headed to the Bonhams’.
This time his knock was answered by a tall, broad-shouldered man in his early fifties with fine salt-and-pepper hair, and a chiseled and tanned face that held two slightly discolored patches of skin on the jaw and cheek. He had on a gray double-breasted suit with a yellow polka-dotted tie and a matching pocket square. He looked like he could take care of himself and often had to.
“Yes?” he said.
“Peter Bonham?”
“Yes?”
Archer pulled his license. “I’m working the Eleanor Lamb case.”
“What case?”
“She’s missing. A man’s body was found at her place. I spoke to your wife about it.”
“Bernadette did mention that. But I’ve been out of the country and rather busy.”
“Can I come in? I have a few questions for you. And your wife, if she’s here.”
Bonham took so long to consider this, Archer thought the man might slam the door in his face. But then he stepped aside and motioned Archer in.
Archer felt like he had entered a castle in some far-off land. The walls and floor were stone, the ceiling vaulted, the walls festooned with paintings and murals depicting starkly medieval scenes. There was even a full-size suit of dull armor silently standing guard, but not appearing too excited about it.
Bonham led him down the hall and into a large study that held much the same decorative vestiges as what he’d already seen. Dark beamed and paneled, with luxurious Oriental rugs over walnut floor planks, the place instantly made Archer feel like he was in some ancient feudal keep awaiting an audience with the resident lord. Twin axes formed an X on the wall above a sandstone fireplace and there were swords galore hung on the walls. If one were going to duel here, one wouldn’t lack for choice of weapons. A desk, a couch, and comfortable upholstered chairs were strewn around as though an afterthought to the historical renderings.
Archer thought the only things missing were the stuffed heads of vanquished beasts. And perhaps a human head or two thrown in to keep everybody honest and afraid.
He settled in a chair while Bonham took up residence behind his desk. “Not your typical Malibu beach house.”
“I don’t live on the beach, Mr. Archer. This is very much a canyon house, at least to my mind and sensibilities.”
“I take it you travel a lot?”
“Why do you say that?”
“All the things I’m seeing here. And you just said you were out of the country.”
“Right. Though I was born in America, my ancestors were French. I much prefer that world and those tastes to my native country’s. Now, you mentioned some questions?” He made a show of looking at his watch.
“I understand that you knew Lamb.”
“Who do you understand that from?”
“She was at a party you had here.”
“I have a number of parties.”
“You were seen speaking to Lamb, and it didn’t seem the discussion was pleasant.”
Bonham thought about this for a moment and then said, “Yes, I remember now, it was a property dispute. The woman felt she had more land than she did. She insisted on encroaching on my property, and I just as strongly insisted that she could not.”
“Did you know your wife and Lamb went to school together back east?”
Bonham hiked his eyebrows and fiddled with a pen on his desk. “I think I recall her mentioning it, but I couldn’t swear to it.”
“Do you know the Jade Lion in Chinatown?”
Again, Bonham fidgeted. “No, I don’t. What is it?”
“A bar and maybe some other things.”
“Why do you want to know about it?”
“It seems that Lamb had some ties to it,” replied Archer.
“So what? It’s a free country.”
“You and your wife returned separately from France?”
Bonham leaned back in his chair and studied Archer. “Yes, we did. Again, so what?”
“It seems that Lamb disappeared on New Year’s Eve, and the body was in her house around that same time. Did you see anything unusual that night? Because I know you were back in town by then.”
Bonham took his time answering. “I wasn’t here on New Year’s Eve.”
“Do you mind telling me where you were?”
“Yes, I do mind.”
“Is your wife here now?” asked Archer.
Bonham glanced toward the door. “No.”
“Do you know a man named Darren Paley?” asked Archer.
“Never heard of him.”
“Does your wife?”
Bonham drew a long breath. “No idea. She has friends whom I don’t know. And vice versa.”
“A very European arrangement.”
“If you say so,” replied Bonham. “Are we just about done?”
“Just about. What car do you drive?”
“I don’t know why it matters, but it’s a black-and-silver Bentley.” Bonham picked up the phone. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
“What sort of work would that be?”
“Good day, Mr. Archer.”
Archer rose and left. As he was walking down the hall, he saw more than a dozen photos on a side table. He looked around to see if anyone was watching and then snagged a small one from the back, moving the others next to where it had been to close the gap. He put the framed photo in his side pocket, opened the front door, and left.
As he headed down the sidewalk he looked back to see Bonham watching him from the window. He tipped his hat and kept going.
Well, that was productive, thought Archer.
But it had nothing to do with the questions and unhelpful answers he’d received.
The man had been wearing makeup to cover the bruises on his face.
Because he’s the guy I tussled with on the beach that night and clocked with my head and fist.
And Archer had recognized something else about the man. His voice.
He’s also the guy who picked up the phone at Lamb’s house the night I called.
Chapter 50
ARCHER GOT BACK INTO HIS CAR but he didn’t go far. Out of sight of the Bonham house, he did a U-turn and parked behind two other cars on the opposite side of the road. He slid down in the seat and waited. A few cars passed him, and then an old pickup truck with MALIBU LANDSCAPING stenciled on the door panel glided past. Ten minutes later a black-and-silver Bentley with Peter Bonham at the wheel passed by him heading down the canyon road.
Archer had to make a decision: Follow the man, which would be tough to do on a narrow canyon road in broad daylight without being spotted. Or take advantage of his absence and see what he could find on the property. Archer decided on the second option and drove back to the Bonhams’ house. The old pickup truck he’d seen was parked at the curb.
He parked behind it and made his way quickly to the Bonhams’ rear yard. He saw a short and stocky man in his fifties pushing a wheelbarrow with gloved hands. He had on a broad-brimmed straw hat, faded dungarees, and a dark blue work shirt. When Archer drew closer he saw the man looked to be of Japanese descent.
In the wheelbarrow were a shovel and a bush with long green leaves. Along both sides of the rear yard were thick hedges that formed a boundary line. To the left was a line of fruit trees with dark green oranges dangling from the limbs. Raised flower beds and terraced shrubbery sat in well-designed configurations. The rugged, dry canyon walls soared behind all of this manmade horticultural pleasantry. To Archer, it was simultaneously lovely and tragic looking.
The man stopped the wheelbarrow next to a spot where a bush had clearly been. A mound of shoveled dirt lay next to the hole.
“Hey, pal,” Archer said.
The man looked at him from behind thick-lensed, round spectacles. “Hello.”
“Are the Bonhams in? They were expecting me, but no one answered the door.”
“I do not know. I just work here in yard.”
“Right, planting that bush. What happened to the other one?”
“It died. Something killed it.”
“Well, that happens. To plants and people. What kind is it?”
“Coffeeberry.”
“Coffeeberry?”
“The seeds, they look like coffee beans.” He lifted his hands high over his head. “It grows to fifteen feet. Birds love coffeeberry fruit. And it is quite good against fire. It grows good just about everywhere. It is very, very pretty.”
Archer looked around the lush grounds. “You did a real good job back here.”
“Thank you.” The man lifted his shovel out of the wheelbarrow and set it next to the hole where the bush would be going in.
Archer knelt and looked at the ground around the bush, where there were traces of something white. “What’s that, some sort of plant food? Or maybe a fungus? Maybe that killed the bush.”
“I do not know what that is. It was on ground, I guess.”
Archer straightened. “You got moles?”
“What?”
“Over there where the lawn is lumpy.” It was the patch that Archer had seen previously.
The man shook his head. “There are no moles here. That is Mr. Bonham’s bomb room.”
“Bomb room?”
“He is very afraid of them dropping bombs here. Big bombs. You know. Like they do on islands out there.” He pointed toward the Pacific, his expression turning somber. “They can kill many, so many.”
“So he has a bomb shelter over there? Can you show me?”
The man led him over to the spot. Archer knelt and saw a clasp in the lawn with a large padlock on it. He touched the grass around it and saw that it was fake. That was why it was lumpy. It was covering a metal plate—the entrance to the shelter.
“Who has the key to the lock?”
“Mr. Bonham.”
“You ever been down there?”
The man shook his head. “No. I like sky and sun. Not dark places.”
“How do you know it’s a bomb shelter, then?”
“I ask Mr. Bonham when I try to cut the grass there, and it all go bad. It is not real grass, see. Then he tells me to not worry about this part of the grass. See?”
Archer stood. “Yeah, I see. Hey, you need some help getting the bush in the ground?”
“Sure, mister, sure. Thank you.”
Archer helped him lift the bush and its root ball out of the wheelbarrow and they got it situated level in the hole. While the man was fetching his shovel, Archer used his handkerchief to scoop up some of the dirt laced with the white powder, and thrust it into his side pocket.
“You leaving now?” asked the man, turning to him.
“I’m leaving now.”
“Hey, mister, you got bomb room where you live?”
“No, but in light of things, I might seriously think about getting one.”
Chapter 51
ARCHER SAT IN HIS CAR and looked at the white powder. He couldn’t be certain what it was without getting a lab to test it. But from the look of it and the smell he thought it might be heroin. And maybe that was what killed the coffeeberry. The question was, how did heroin get in Bonham’s backyard? He had some ideas about that. Maybe the connection he was looking for between Paley and Bonham was starting to solidify.
