Death by Sarcasm

Thirty-four

The Mitchell estate was located in Malibu. There’s actually a law in southern California that if you’re worth more than ten million you have to live in Beverly Hills or Malibu.

She 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.

Elena nodded and led Mary through the formal living room, a short hallway laid with Spanish tile, and through a set of double French doors into the garden room.

Mitchell sat on a teak chair with a glass of lemonade. A pitcher of the same stuff sat at the center of the matching teak table, along with another glass.

Elena disappeared without a word, and Mitchell waved Mary to a chair to Mitchell’s left.

“Ms. Cooper,” Mitchell said, his voice low and even. He stood and shook her hand. “Good to see you again. I’m so glad you called for a follow-up interview.”

Mary nodded. “Quite the dump you have here,” she said. She sat down and ignored the glass of lemonade in front of her.

“Thank you,” Mitchell said. His voice the exact same low, level tone.

“Lousy neighborhood, too,” Mary said.

“As much as I enjoyed our first meeting,” Mitchell said. “I’m quite surprised you requested an encore. I found our last interview to be quite satisfying and shall we say, complete.”

“I felt the same way, Harv,” Mary said. “But you know, you’re quite the stud. Surely you’re used to women coming back asking for more.”

Mitchell took a sip of his lemonade.

“This is Hollywood, Ms. Cooper. Nothing is as it appears. Velvet curtains and smoky celluloid,” Mitchell said. He waved his hands in the air and wiggled his fingers.

“Actually, they’re all using Viper cam now,” Mary said. “Digital. Not celluloid.”

Mitchell sat before her, calm and still.

“But you were quite the ladies man,” she said. “You have to admit that.”

“Ah, your Uncle Brent was the ladies man. I was bumbling teenager compared to him.”

“Even in the eyes of Marie Stevens?”

Mitchell adopted a brief look of confusion, then as if a memory finally came to him, he nodded.

“Yeah, I remember her,” he said. “You asked me about her before, right?”

Mary nodded.

“No, she definitely wasn’t one of these phantom women enamored with my charms that you talk about,” Mitchell said. “She was just kooky. I think Brent warmed the sheets with her, though. Maybe Braggs did, too.”

“And you didn’t?”

“No. Mental defects aren’t a big turn-on for me.”

He stretched his legs and then stood. “Mind if we walk and talk?” he said. “My doctor says that I should stand whenever I can, as opposed to sitting. Better for my circulation,” he said.

“Ah, modern medicine is overrated. Sit and have some bacon,” Mary said, picking up her glass and following Mitchell.

Another set of doors led to the backyard, which had a pool off to the left, a fireplace and pizza oven with a seating area to the right, and an impressive garden with paths, topiaries and a prodigious flower garden.

“You call this a garden? Mary said. “Looks like crap.”

“Thank you,” Mitchell said.

They wound their way past a small cluster of orange trees and deeper into the garden.

“Marie Stevens,” Mary said.

“Boy, you just won’t let her go, will you?” he said. “What do you want from me? I had nothing to do with her.”

“I love the sound of truth. It has very distinctive ring to it,” Mary said. “Problem is, I’m not hearing it right now. Because I talked to some of your old gang, and they claim you were pretty intimate with Marie. In fact, they said it was you who had arranged her internment at Forest Hills.”

“Forest Hills? I’ve never arranged internment for anyone. Let alone at Forest Hills. It’s nonsense.”

“Are you sure?” Mary said. She pulled out the photograph and showed it to Mitchell. “Celebrities lie,” Mary said. “But pictures usually don’t.”

He looked at it, no emotion on his face.

“Once I saw this,” Mary said. “It motivated me to do a little bit of checking.”

“You know how many women I’ve had my picture taken with? Mitchell said. “You’re wasting your time.”

“I think you’re wasting my time,” Mary said. “I also think you’re full of shit. I think all of these murders have something to do with this woman and you know what it is. I think you’re hiding it. What, are you in trouble? What happened to Marie Stevens?”

Mitchell looked flushed now, and his easygoing manner had begun to evaporate. He turned and tossed the rest of his lemonade from his glass onto the lawn and then stepped away from Mary.

Now his eyes blazed and his smiled revealed gritted teeth. “You f*cking cunt. You think you’re so smart. Your uncle was a total a*shole, just like the rest of them. And just like you.”

The ice cubes in the grass twinkled, and Mary saw Mitchell’s eyes return to her, angling back from some point over her right shoulder.

“The f*cking guy wasn’t even very funny,” Mitchell said. “Just mean. You’re just like him, you bitch.”

Mary was already moving when glass shattered behind her. Mary hit the ground and rolled, in time to see a body with a rifle tumble from the second story of Mitchell’s house.

She had the .45 in front of her and brought it into line with Mitchell when his head exploded into a red Jackson Pollack before her eyes. His body sagged, then crumpled into a heap. Mary crouched and ran, the .45 in her hand. Bullets tore up chunks of sod as she dove behind a low fieldstone wall. The ricochets stopped and Mary crawled around the end of the wall and peeked into the distance. She saw a thick stand of trees and then a straight drop-off, probably to another row of mansions below.

She raced across the lawn, zigzagging to the end of the garden. Mary weaved her way through the trees and shrubs until she reached the rear of the property. There was a fence, and beyond that, a drop off to a narrow road.

There was no one there.

Checking to make sure Mitchell was dead was not necessary. It’s hard to survive when your head is dismantled into several pieces and what’s left simply evaporates in a cloud of red.

Mary took a few deep breaths to calm herself and to think straight.

This pattern of people dying around her was going to have to stop soon. She was getting a complex. Not to mention the fact that the police tend to notice when every time they’re called to a murder scene, the same person just happens to be there.

She had to leave.

But she needed information. Her instinct told her that Mitchell had lured her out back, and that he intended for her to be the target, not him. But there were two shooters, not one.

Mary raced toward where the gunman had fallen from the window. He was sprawled face down on Mitchell’s outdoor patio. A large pool full of blood covered a portion of the flagstone floor.

Mary grabbed the man’s shoulder and turned him over.

She gasped. Her head swam and she staggered backward, nearly falling if it hadn’t been for the teak table.

The face, what was left of it, she recognized.

And then she began to curse herself. Her insides felt torn up and she wanted to cry. She wanted to bawl her eyes out and scream.

Of course it hadn’t been real.

Of course it had been a set up.

He hadn’t been real at all.

The dead man.

Her neighbor/lover.

Chris McAllister.

Mary’s entire body shook. She felt as if her entire being was about to disintegrate. She had to get control. She had to get a grip.

Mary ran into the house and took a few deep, horribly jagged breaths. How would Mitchell have been in contact with McAllister? Not the home phone – too easily traced. Not the computer, too slow. It must have been via cell phone. McAllister probably would have used a disposable phone. Mitchell, so arrogant, probably had not.

Mary was on the move as she soon as she made up her mind. She raced back to Mitchell, avoided looking at what was left of his face, then patted him down. The cell phone was in the inside pocket of his sportcoat.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I won’t go over your minutes.”

She slipped it into her pocket and ran for the house.

The lemonade glass. Mary ran back to the table and used a napkin to wipe off any prints she may have left on her lemonade glass. She felt like spitting on McAllister’s dead body, but decided not to. DNA.

Elena. There was nothing Mary could do about her. She raced back inside and then stopped. Mary knew Mitchell was involved, especially because of the way he had turned on her in the last seconds of his life. He had lured her out to the garden, had planned for the shooter to kill her, but instead, he’d been shot.

Mary hurried back through the living room and out the front door to her car.

She jumped in, ignitioned it, and took off.

She was only a half mile from the house when Mitchell’s cell phone rang.