Not One Clue: A Mystery Read online

  “Have you talked to the police?”

  “On location,” she said.

  “Not here?”

  “I just opened the letter today.”

  “It’s been a big day,” I said, and took another bite of ice cream. It had lost of little of its scrumptiousness. I resented that.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  My spoon paused halfway to my mouth. “You’re apologizing? Seriously?”

  “Very seriously.”

  “Did you send the letter?”

  “You’re such a dirt wad.”

  “A dirt wad?”

  “Don’t make me swear,” she said, and I laughed, but in that moment I saw that her eyes were teary.

  “Elaine.” I set my bowl down. Laney had learned to sob from the virtuosos on daytime television, but in real life she was a silent crier. She never made a sound when she was truly upset. “What’s wrong?”

  She scrunched up her face and glanced away. “You are always taking care of me.”

  I couldn’t possibly have been more surprised to hear that. “Are you kidding? What are you talking about?”

  “I don’t know. I’m living here.” She flapped a hand sideways toward my threadbare carpets, my scuffed walls. “Mooching off you, and I’m never here. Always planning for the stupid wedding that’s been blown way out of …” Her voice trailed off.

  Stupid wedding? “Yeah,” I agreed, voice cautious and hopeful, “the wedding’s a lot of stress. Maybe you should call it off.”

  She laughed even as she wiped away a tear with her knuckles. “I’m not calling it off. It’s just … it’s gotten out of hand.”

  “So take it back in hand.”

  She shook her head. “Solberg wants … spectacle.”

  I refrained from informing her that Solberg was an idiot. “It’s your wedding, Laney. You should—” I began, but she was shaking her head.

  “It’s not that. Please don’t worry about that. I’m sorry I’m whiny. I just … I just feel badly that I’m taking advantage of you. Hiding out here like a frickin’ convict.”

  “Well … you could deliver truckloads of cash to my front door.”

  “Would you take it?”

  “Absolutely.”

  She laughed again. “I’ll call the cartage company immediately.”

  “They’re probably closed now. Better wait till morning.”

  “You’re so practical.”

  “Yuh-huh,” I said, and watched her wipe her nose with the back of her hand. “Show me the letter.”

  “Mac—”

  “You want me to tell Solberg?”

  “Oh, man, it would kill him.”

  “Exactly.”

  She sighed, then turned and trotted upstairs. Returning moments later, she handed me a business-sized envelope. Her expression was somber.

  “Do you think I should wear gloves or something?” I asked.

  “You’re the detective.”

  “Psychologist,” I corrected, and going to a drawer, came back with tongs and a pair of mismatched rubber gloves.

  “Very professional,” she said.

  “CSI: L.A.,” I said, and pinching the envelope with the tongs, put it on the counter. The handwriting was blocky and perfect. There was no return address. “Nice penmanship,” I said.

  “I was impressed, too, before I thought he might intend to kill me.”

  “How many letters have you gotten?”

  “It’s hard to say. I’m not exactly sure which ones are from him. There have been five that seem very similar. But I have other mail without signatures, too.”

  “When did they start?”

  “Back in May. About one a month.”

  I glanced at the envelope again, finally read the address, and felt myself pale, felt the world slow like an unwinding top.

  “They sent it here.” My voice was almost entirely without inflection.

  Hers was the same. “Yes.”

  “I didn’t realize … I mean, I thought you got it with your latest mail bundle. I …” The floor beneath my feet felt oddly tilted. “So they know you’re living here.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No. It’s …” I began, but suddenly I was shaking too hard to continue. My skin felt clammy and my stomach queasy.

  A hundred ugly scenarios bloomed in my mind, and as I imagined men in turbans floating down on a sea of oversized envelopes, I made a beeline for the bathroom.

  12

  Not every Prince Charming has a full head of hair.

  —Brainy Laney Butterfield,

  being brainy, and a little

  depressing

  “How long has she been sleeping?” Rivera’s voice rumbled softly through my sluggish system. I was lying on my side in my own bed, with no idea what time it was. In fact, I was entirely uncertain of the day. I glanced toward the window. It was dark.

  “Half an hour,” Laney said. “Maybe more. I was worried. She was pretty upset before she fell asleep. I’m sorry to bother you.”

  “It’d be more of a bother to find your decaying bodies three days after the event.”

  “Sensitive,” she said. “That’s what I love about the L.A. Police Department.”

  “To protect and serve,” he said, and she laughed. “Is this the letter?” I heard him move away, heard his volume lessen.

  “Are you in love with her?” Elaine’s voice was barely audible now.

  My ears perked up. I glanced furtively toward the kitchen but was foiled by a couple of walls.

  I could imagine him looking at her. “You a spy?”

  She said something I didn’t hear.

  He answered. Also unheard.

  I swung my feet quietly to the floor. Standing carefully, I stepped into the bathroom adjacent to the kitchen. Quiet as an Apache.

  “She drives everyone crazy, but that’s not what I asked,” Laney said.

  “She takes too many idiotic risks.”

  “She’s plucky.”

  “Plucky!” He snorted, then sighed. I could imagine him rubbing his eyes. Sometimes I seemed to make him tired. “I haven’t gotten a full night’s sleep since I met her over Bomstad’s dead body. She’s like a damned commando.”

  “Can I tell her you said that?”

  “If you want to spend a night in lockup,” Rivera said.

  She laughed again. “There’s no one more loyal.”

  “Or with a better ass.”

  “Whoa,” Laney said, but in that moment, Rivera peered around the corner. His face was inches from mine, his expression absolutely unsurprised.

  “Did you hear that one, McMullen?”

  “What?” I stumbled back a step, then stretched, awkward as hell. “I just woke up. When did you get here?”

  He chuckled and disappeared. I didn’t have much choice but to follow him. He was already peering at the envelope on the counter when I arrived.

  “Nice penmanship,” he said. “I assume none of them have a return address.”

  “None that I can identify as his,” Laney said.

  “Are they all postmarked from L.A.?”

  I felt myself pale again.

  “The others were from Montana,” Elaine said.

  “Where you film?”

  “We’re actually in Idaho, but the border’s just a few miles away.”

  “How many letters?”

  “Five altogether, I think.”

  He nodded, then glanced at my hands. One was garbed in a pink rubber glove. One in blue. I was hardly surprised that I had fallen asleep with them on. As a teenager, I’d once slept still wearing my tuba. “That to eliminate fingerprints?” he asked.

  “Maybe,” I said, and he shook his head as he held the envelope up to the light.

  I crowded closer as he pulled out the letter. The handwriting inside was just as neat as on the envelope. Perfectly spaced and uniformly sized. I read it through.

  Dearest Ms. Ruocco,

  I write again to caution you to use your
gifts wisely. Your God-given beauty will eventually fade. Make certain when that day arrives you have not foolishly squandered your time and talents nor spent your days with those unworthy of you. I do not deny that your betrothal is disconcerting to me. But perhaps it is not his money but his wretchedness that draws you to him.

  Perhaps you are being charitable in that regard. And in charity we find peace. I hope you will take my words into consideration, as I have no desire to take further steps to ensure your future happiness. I prefer that you find that path on your own.

  “Is this typical of the others?” Rivera asked.

  “Pretty much. The threat in this one seems more overt. Or maybe it’s just that it was delivered here.”

  “Today?”

  “Yes.”

  “Regular mail?”

  “It was in the box when I checked this afternoon.”

  “But the others were threatening also.”

  “In a nebulous sort of way.”

  “Any idea who it might be?”

  “None.”

  He glared silently at the letter. If I were a nasty missive, I would have turned tail and run … if I weren’t so damned plucky.

  “Do you know anyone who holds a grudge?” he asked.

  Laney shook her head.

  “How about you, McMullen?” he asked, glancing at me. “Anyone you can think of who might be angry with her?”

  I shook my head, too.

  “Do you owe anyone money?” he asked.

  “Mac,” she said.

  “Really?” he asked, looking curious.

  “Truckloads,” she said.

  “You write this?” he asked, glancing at me.

  “Just the part about Solberg,” I said, and he snorted as he turned toward Laney.

  “Any disappointed men in your past?”

  She blinked.

  I laughed out loud. “Are you serious?”

  He turned toward me. I raised a hand to indicate her perfection. “Look at her. She’s the most gorgeous woman on the planet. Every man in the world is disappointed. Except Solberg, and he obviously made some sort of pact with the inhabitants of the underworld.”

  Rivera stared at me all stormy-eyed and there was something in his expression that almost seemed to refute my opinion. It made me feel a little breathless, but he turned his laser-vision away in a moment.

  “The first letter arrived about five months ago?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Was there anyone new in your life at that time?”

  She shook her head. “People come and go all the time on location.”

  “Did you work with any new men?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you give me a list?”

  She paused for a moment. “I don’t think it’s any of them.”

  “We’re going to have to assume this isn’t obvious.”

  Her frown was back in place. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “I’d like to take all the letters to our analyst.”

  “I can have the others sent to me.”

  He nodded. “In the meantime, I don’t want you living here alone.”

  I blinked. “She’s not alone,” I said.

  He turned toward me, jaw muscles already jumping as if itching for a fight. “I meant the two of you. I don’t want you here alone.”

  “Oh?” I was calm. Like the eye of the proverbial storm. A tornado maybe, with the rest of the world swirling around me. “What do you have in mind, Rivera?”

  He pulled a hard breath into his nostrils. “It would be best if you lived somewhere else for a while.”

  “So I should just shut down my practice and hike out to …” I felt anger beginning to bubble up a little in my gut, but I just let it simmer. “Do you have somewhere specific in mind?”

  His eyes were dark and low-browed. “You should get out of L.A. Schaumburg might be—”

  “You think I should go crawling back to Chicago?”

  “Don’t be juvenile about this. I’m sure your parents would love to have you stay—”

  “Before you continue, I want you to think of Harlequin,” I interrupted, smiled, unclenched my fists. “Where will he live if I’m incarcerated for shooting an officer of the law?”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “Yes.”

  He shook his head. “Your family isn’t that—”

  “My brothers put bugs in my rice.” I was coming to the boiling point.

  “I didn’t say they were—”

  “Pete called it fried lice. Said it was an Asian delicacy.” I was starting to snarl.

  His frown deepened. “I’ll ask them not to do that anymore.”

  I paused, trying to get adequate air. Turns out there wasn’t enough to accommodate my lungs while thinking of living with my parents. Holly had kicked Pete out of the house again. Which meant he would be crashing with the folks. “You’ll ask them—”

  “I’ll tell them not to.”

  “I’m not running back to Schaumburg like a—”

  “That’s because you’re too fucking stubborn to realize—”

  “Jeen can move in,” Laney said.

  We turned on her as if she’d just been diagnosed with mad cow disease.

  “What?”

  “What!”

  “I think he’d be happy to look after us,” Elaine said. “Besides, if the letter-writer found me here, what’s to stop him from following us to Chicago?”

  It took a moment for my brain to form intelligent thoughts, a little longer to articulate them. “I’m sure Solberg would be tickled pink,” I said. “But I’m not going to—”

  “It’s not a bad idea,” Rivera said.

  I jerked toward him so fast I could hear my neck snap. “Do you hate me that much?”

  “Only when you’re acting like an adolescent—”

  “I’m not an—”

  “Then don’t act like one. Would you rather be killed in your sleep or spend a couple weeks with Solberg?”

  I stared at him.

  “McMullen—”

  “I’m thinking!” I snapped.

  “Well …” He chuckled, shook his head. “I’m thrilled to know you’re still capable of such—”

  “Hi.”

  We turned back toward Elaine. She had a cell phone pressed to her ear. I was already holding my breath.

  “I miss you, too,” she said, and smiled past the little receiver at me.

  I could hear Solberg’s whiny tone on the other end of the line. I would have snarled something but I felt too sick to my stomach, and I wasn’t naïve enough to blame the ice cream.

  “I know,” she said. “Just a couple more weeks.” She paused, listened, then, “But how many seconds left?” she asked, then laughed. “Maybe you can recalculate later.”

  More whining. Another laugh on her part.

  “Listen, Jeen, I have a favor to ask you.”

  Mumble, mumble, whine, grovel.

  “I don’t actually need your liver.” She glanced at me, grinning a little, knowing I was about to puke, and enjoying it immensely. “But I was wondering if you could come stay with us tonight.”

  There was stunned silence from the other end of the line. Maybe if I was really lucky he’d die of shock. So far as I knew, and I knew pretty far, Elaine and Solberg had never shared a mattress.

  “Honey?” she said.

  I heard a croaking noise from the other end of the line. Some frogs turn into princes. Some frogs will forever remain frogs.

  “You don’t have to—”

  Even through the phone, I heard him slam his door.

  “Honey, I need you to pack some clothes. Get a toothbrush. Stay a few days.”

  But his car was already starting. He owned a Porsche. A cobalt blue Turbo Cabriolet. Laney didn’t particularly care for it because it got about a half an inch to the gallon. But I had driven it once and determined without delay that I’d trade thirty-seven Solbergs and his mansion in La Canada for tha
t car.

  There was silence for a moment, then, “Oh, okay, then. Love you, too,” she said, and hung up.

  We stared at her.

  “I take it he’s coming?” Rivera said.

  “You’d better open the door or he’ll drive straight into the living room to save time,” I warned.

  “He loves me,” Laney said, and laughed when I threw up a little bit in my mouth.

  13

  As a rule I’m against capital punishment. But I know a few boys who could benefit from a little public flogging.

  —Linda Griffin, Chrissy’s new

  neighbor, and single

  mother of a teenage

  daughter

  The next couple of days went by with relatively few catastrophes. Over the weekend I picked up my mermaid princess gown from the tailor, took Harley to the dog park, and placed my vote on what flavor frosting Laney’s five-tier wedding cake should have.

  Monday rolled around, and although I hadn’t yet been attacked by either an abusive Yemeni or a whack job letter-writer, I still felt jittery.

  Temporarily losing my mind, I opted to go for a run. Not because I wanted to. Not because it was safe to, but because exercise sometimes helps me relax. Of course, high doses of calories will generally put me into a lovely catatonic state, but I had left all of my would-be calories at the grocery store when Ramla called. So I did my three miles of perdition, showered, then locked myself in the bedroom lest Solberg groggily stumbled into the wrong room. After that I got dressed and rushed off to work.

  When I say “rushed,” I mean that I drove twenty miles per hour in head-pounding traffic since the 2 was reminiscent of Macy’s parking lot. I actually think I saw some guy serving lemonade from the back of his pickup truck.

  Eventually I arrived at the office. Shirley was manning the desk.

  “Whoa,” she said as I rushed in the door. It was two minutes before my first client was scheduled to arrive.

  I teetered to a halt on wedge cork heels.

  “What happened to you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you look like you slept hanging upside down last night.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “What happened?”

  I considered telling her the whole story, but I had a client due to tell me his/her problems in approximately ninety seconds. It probably wouldn’t be good if I was crying about my own. “Just a little trouble in the neighborhood.”