“So you got everything when your mom passed away?”
“She didn’t pass away, Dave, she died,” Nora said softly. “In her final years she had become rather forgetful, and like so many other forgetful people, she refused to acknowledge that she was forgetful. She wouldn’t remember whether or not she took her pills so one day she ended up taking too much.”
“I’m sorry, Nora.”
She shrugged. “Life goes on.” Clearly she had managed to build a wall around her feelings.
“I will do my best to find out who is behind this letter,” I said.
“I’m counting on that.”
“Don’t forget to email that information to me.”
“I won’t.”
I walked to the dining room and called, “Goodnight, guys.”
“See ya,” a voice replied from a distance, and I think it was Taylor’s.
I walked to the front door, but before I could leave, Nora asked: “Dave, do you mind if I ask a personal question?”
“Go ahead.”
“How old are you really?”
“I’m thirty-two, Nora.”
“Okay. You seem younger.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“Do you want to know how old I am, Dave?”
“I don’t wish to be rude.”
“I don’t mind at all. I will be forty in October. How do I look?”
You look mahvellous! Billy Crystal said as Fernando Lamas inside my head, but I forced it away. “Do you really want me to answer that?” I said instead.
“I wouldn’t have asked otherwise.”
“I think you look damn fine for any age,” I said. Sheez! I thought, hearing it bounce back. Where the hell did that come from?
“Take your money and get your ass out of here,” she commanded, but neither her expression nor her voice registered displeasure.
“All right. I’ll be in touch.”
She leaned close and breathed: “Touch me any time.” Then she closed the door in my face.
Bogart or Mitchum would have had something to say back. I simply rubbed my nose.
FOUR
By seven the next morning, the Barney’s Beanery chili cheese burger and fries I had treated myself to last night after leaving Nora’s were still reminding me why I don’t treat myself more often. After getting up and downing an Alka-Seltzer, I stumbled into the shower and shaved, and by nine I knew I had a decision to make: I could stay home and feel lousy, or steel myself to go into the office and feel lousy. I opted for the latter. Grabbing my laptop, I headed out. My first stop was the bank, where I deposited the majority of my newfound wealth. “I held up a gas station,” I explained to the young female teller as I handed over the bills and, fortunately, she laughed. Ironically, my second stop after the bank was a gas station, where Exxon/Mobil held me up.
I got to the office a little after ten, beating the mailman. Powering up the laptop, I saw that there was indeed an email from Nora. Opening it, I found no personal message of any kind, not even “Hi,” simply a list of names. Nora Faust was certainly not one to leave a trail, even a digital one. Plugging the laptop into my aging laser printer, I put out a copy. The toner was starting to run out so there was a pale line running through the print (why is it that machines invariably know when you’ve suddenly come into money and respond by breaking or running dry?). The names on the printed page were:
Marta Wheeler, Denise
Leslie Brielle, Alexis
Carole Gould, Nathan
Monica Epper, Tiffany
Cristina Diaz, Hugo
The full names I took to be the mothers, and the second names the children, and of course, there had to be one called “Tiffany.” Finding them should be a cinch because I have at my disposal a tool about which Bogie, Mitchum, Dick Powell, Alan Ladd and Charles McGraw could only have dreamt. Sure, they had snappier patter and cooler clothes, and their celluloid adventures were definitely more thrilling than the run-of-the-mill stuff a real PI engages in, but they would’ve had to start pounding the pavement and following leads and clues to find even one of these women. In today’s investigative world, we have databases.
Within a half-hour I had addresses and contact numbers for four of the women on the list. Only Leslie Brielle remained elusive. But obtaining four was a pretty good start. Picking up the phone, I dialed the number for Marta Wheeler. After three rings, it went to a recorded message:
This is the Klaster-Wheeler household…if you are calling for Bob, Marta or Denise, please leave a message when you hear the beep…if however you are looking for anyone not named Bob, Marta or Denise, are selling something, or do not understand what I’m saying because you don’t speak English, do us all a favor and just hang up. BEEP.
“Hi,” I began, “I’m calling for Marta. My name is Dave Beauchamp and I’m calling regarding a new television show—”
“This is Marta,” a crisp voice suddenly burst in. It was the voice from the machine.
“Oh, you’re there.”
“I screen all calls. You just never know. Mr. Beauchamp, you said? Hi, how are you? I imagine you’re calling about Denise. Are you a casting director?”
“Actually, no—”
“Producer, then?” she asked before I could finish.
“I’m calling in regards to the reality show that Denise—”
“Junior Idol,” she blurted. “You must be calling from Max Gelfan Productions. Do you need her to come in again?” There was a sense of urgency, if not desperation, in her voice.
I jotted down the name of the production company and said, “No, Ms. Wheeler, I’m not part of Max Gelfan Productions, and I’m not in a position to offer Denise a job. I’m calling on behalf of Nora Fr—”
The phone slammed down before I could get the entire second syllable out.
I waited two minutes before calling back. After listening to the recorded message once more, I said after the beep: “Ms. Wheeler, it’s Dave Beauchamp again. I’m a private investigator. Someone has made a threat to the Brothers Alpha, Nora’s sons, and—”
The line picked up. “And that broodmare is accusing me?” Marta Wheeler screamed.
“She’s not accusing anyone in particular,” I said, trying to sound soothing. “She has merely asked me to check things out.”
“Let me tell you a few things about your client,
