Too Rich and Too Dead Page 7

  A feeling of the rug being pulled out from under her made Mallory dizzy. The feeling was familiar. It was the same one she'd experienced when her husband had died. The idea that the entire would could change in a split second, that her sense of order and normalcy could so quickly and dramatically be turned around…

  Desperate to know more, Mallory grabbed the remote and began clicking through the channels. But she couldn't find even a mention of the story on any of the other morning news programs. She decided it was probably because they'd all opened their broadcasts with the same story and by now had already moved on to other news.

  She slumped against the back of the chair, feeling as if all the wind had been knocked out of her. She'd barely had a chance to form the question, What should I do next? before she came up with the answer.

  I have to go back to the Bermans’ house, she thought.

  Not only was making another visit a way of paying her respects to Carly. It was the best way of following through on her natural instinct, which was to find out whatever she could about this shocking tragedy.

  Instantly energized, she catapulted out of her seat and began pulling on clothes.

  As Astrid had promised, the hotel concierge was only too happy to arrange for a rental car. In a surprisingly short time, a white Ford Escort was delivered to the hotel. Not exactly a Rolls, but it fulfilled Mallory's primary criterion: It would get her wherever she wanted to go.

  As she drove along the same bumpy dirt road she'd traveled on the night before, she was glad she'd paid enough attention that she could retrace her driver's route. As she neared the house—Cass-Ber, as Carly had apparently insisted on calling it—she saw that at least a dozen other cars were parked on the property, most with bigger price tags than her house in Westchester.

  Once again, Juanita answered the door, this time with Bijou at her side. Mallory could hear the voices of the others inside. In fact, the buzz was so loud and the atmosphere so charged that she felt as if she'd just arrived at a cocktail party.

  “I'm Mallory Marlowe,” she introduced herself. “I was here for dinner last night, and—”

  “I remember you, Mees Marlowe,” Juanita interrupted, sounding indignant at Mallory's assumption that she couldn't remember someone she'd met only the night before. “You are the travel writer who writes about the things most people don't come to a place to do. Come inside weeth all the others.”

  “Thank you.” She couldn't help noticing that Juanita had mastered her employer's gift for slipping veiled insults into the most innocent conversations.

  As the Bermans’ housekeeper stepped aside to let her in and the friendly, love-starved poodle leaped forward to nuzzle her hand, Juanita let out a deep sigh. Whether it was from grief or the annoyance of having to deal with so many uninvited guests, Mallory couldn't tell. Yet she forgot all about the woman's attitude issues as she marveled over all the people who had converged on the Bermans’ house at this terrible time.

  Still petting Bijou, she exclaimed, “Goodness, who are all these people?”

  While Mallory had meant her comment to be rhetorical, Juanita took her literally.

  “That's Meester Swig, the director. You met him last night, remember?” Juanita wasn't shy about pointing. “And that's the Coopers, who live down the road. Their house, eet don't have a name.”

  “I see,” Mallory said politely, hoping she could extract herself from Juanita's overview.

  “That man, I don't know heem. That lady, either,” Juanita went on. “I can't know who everybody ees. Besides, ees not my job. Ees my job to mind my own business, not to pay attention to who comes and goes.”

  Aside from the fact that she remembered me perfectly well, Mallory thought. Not to mention a few of the other people who dropped by today to pay their respects.

  “I am just the housekeeper,” Juanita went on, waving her hands in the air as she spoke. “I cook, I clean… but I don't say nothing.”

  “Of course,” Mallory said. “The only reason I said that was that I was surprised that so many people—”

  “When I overhear Mees Berm and Meester Berm fighting, I don't say nothing,” Juanita continued. “I don't tell nobody, I don't say nothing. Even when they throw things at each other, I don't say a word.”

  Mallory's eyebrows shot up. From the way Juanita spoke, it sounded as if the type of argument she'd accidentally overheard in the dressing room was commonplace. So much for her assumptions about the happy couple—Mr. and Mrs. Huggy-Poo, as it were.

  “And when Meester Berm goes out and Mees Berm calls Meester Dusty and tells him ees safe to come over, I don't say a word,” Juanita added with a toss of her head.

  This time, Mallory's eyebrows were jet-propelled.

  “Mister Dusty?” she asked. “Who's that?” A cleaning service with a clever marketing department?

  “Eef Mees Berm wants to have friends come over, ees not my business,” Juanita went on, waving her hands in the air dismissively “Even eef they are much too handsome for their own good. Eef there's one thing I learned, eet's that you can not trust a good-looking man. Especially when they know how good-looking they are. But ees not my business. When Mees Berm and Meester Dusty go into the bedroom and close the door, I just go downstairs and watch the TV I turn up the sound very loud.”

  Aha, thought Mallory, finally reigning in her overly reactive eyebrows. So this Mister Dusty had nothing to do with eliminating dust bunnies. The service he provided was apparently something completely different.

  When the doorbell rang once again and Juanita toddled off to embrace another visitor with her warm, welcoming style, Mallory didn't know whether she was relieved or disappointed. For better or for worse, in the past three minutes she'd learned quite a bit more about the dearly departed than she'd expected.

  She was disappointed that Bijou had also headed for the front door, skittering excitedly right behind the housekeeper. Now that she no longer had the dog to distract her, she was painfully aware that she had no one to talk to. The only person here that she recognized was Gordon Swig. And at the moment, he was completely engrossed in conversation with an attractive young woman who looked way too young to remember either Burt Reynolds or Jill Clayburgh, at least in the days before nostalgia and Botox brought both actors back into the public eye.

  She glanced around the room, desperately searching for something to do. She was relieved when she spotted another familiar face, the one that belonged to Carly's accountant, Harriet Vogel. But at the moment, Harriet was engrossed in conversation with Brett. While Mallory intended to go over and offer her condolences, they were speaking to each other too earnestly for her to feel comfortable interrupting.

  So Mallory headed toward the most obvious distraction: The embarrassingly abundant spread on the dining room table. The food was so attractively arranged that she wondered if a caterer had been called in. Sprawling across the gigantic dining room table were giant platters of artisan cheeses, each one with a small, hand-lettered card that identified not only the variety but also the name of the Colorado cheese-maker that had produced it. Interspersed were bowls of nuts, crackers, and dried fruits, no doubt designed to complement the various cheeses. And for those mourners who had a sweet tooth—even at this hour—the display included a big plate of cookies, tiny cupcakes, and petits fours so carefully decorated that they looked as if they belonged in an art museum.

  Mallory wasn't the only one surveying the food. A young man with scraggly blond hair sidled up beside her and studied the spread as intently as if he expected to be tested on it. She couldn't see his face, since his unruly locks kept falling forward so that they half-covered his face. She wondered if he simply couldn't afford a haircut, given the fact that his tight, washed-out jeans looked about to disintegrate and his tweedy brown sports jacket fit him so poorly that he had to have borrowed it for the occasion.

  But as he reached across the table for a cupcake, the glob of blue icing on top molded to look like a giant flower, she noticed he wa
s also wearing a large gold watch. From where she stood, it looked an awful lot like a Rolex.

  Interesting study in contradictions, Mallory thought, trying not to stare.

  He finally brushed back his hair, using the hand that displayed the watch that had cost as much as Mallory's car. As he did, she was surprised to see that he was actually quite good-looking. Cute, even, to use one of Amanda's favorite words, with nicely proportioned features that were highlighted by a pair of very blue eyes.

  At the moment, however, his expression said he'd rather be anywhere else. Of course, paying a visit to someone who had just lost a loved one wasn't exactly Mallory's idea of a good time, either.

  “It's really sad, isn't it?” she remarked. She helped herself to a cracker, not the least bit hungry but anxious for something to keep her hands busy.

  “Yeah, but she was pretty old,” the young man commented. “Wasn't she like forty?”

  Given the gravity of the occasion, Mallory decided to let that one pass.

  “How did you know Carly?” she asked, curious about what could possibly have brought this unlikely visitor to the Berman house.

  The young man stopped examining the food long enough to cast her what she thought was an odd smile. “Aspen's a small town,” he replied with a little shrug. “People get to know each other.”

  Before she had a chance to come up with another question that might actually engage him in a meaningful conversation, he turned away, his broad shoulders forming a barrier between them. After glancing around the room surreptitiously, he leaned over the table. Then, holding one of his jacket pockets open with one hand, with the other he smoothly slid a good portion of the cheese into it. Before you could say “stolen Stilton,” he clamped the same hand over the plate of cookies and other sweet treats. Almost instantly an impressive number of those disappeared, as well.

  When he realized Mallory had been watching him, his cheeks reddened. “For my roommates,” he said sheepishly. “It's my turn to cook tonight. It's easier than stopping at the store on my way home.”

  Ri-i-ight, Mallory thought. Especially since acquiring food from stores, rather than people's homes, generally requires money.

  She was beginning to think he was simply a gatecrasher, someone who had sneaked in for the sole purpose of acquiring the ingredients for a meal of lint-covered cheese and broken madeleines. Wanting to escape, she mumbled a few words she hoped would pass for polite and stepped away from the table. She surveyed the room once again, determined to spot someone who could save her from having to stand awkwardly by herself.

  She immediately identified a likely candidate. A w ell-groomed woman who looked as if she was a few years younger than Mallory stood alone in front of the indoor waterfall. There was a natural elegance to her posture, and she wore a tailored beige suit and black low-heeled pumps that made her the most conservatively dressed person Mallory had seen so far in the entire state of Colorado. She wasted no time in sauntering over.

  “It's reassuring to see how many people rushed over to the Bermans’ house as soon as they got the terrible news,” she commented.

  The woman nodded. “In a small town like this one, bad news seems to travel fast.”

  Mallory noticed then how attractive she was, with large eyes that were the same dark brown as a strong cup of espresso and velvet-smooth skin that was almost as deep. Her coarse black hair was pulled back into a severe bun. Given how straight and how shiny it was, Mallory got the impression that this woman had worked long and hard to force it into such a severe style when it would undoubtedly have preferred to fly out freely, rejoicing in its natural waviness.

  “Were you and Carly close?” Mallory asked.

  “Actually, I barely knew her,” the woman replied. “We had more of a… business relationship.”

  Mallory was still trying to come up with a diplomatic way of asking this woman why she was bothering to pay her respects to someone she barely knew when Brett came bustling out of the kitchen.

  “Sylvie, there's a call for you on the house phone,” he informed her. “Apparently they couldn't get through on your cell, so they tried here. Why don't you pick up in the TV room?”

  Sylvie. A lightbulb immediately went on in Mallory's head. That was the name of the woman who had called during dinner the night before, the one Carly had characterized as one of the “have-nots.” With her Kate Spade purse and her black suede Joan and David pumps, she certainly didn't fit Carly's description of her as a “have-not.”

  But what mattered even more was that as Sylvie rushed off to take her phone call and Brett hurried away to talk to one of the other guests, Mallory found herself standing alone once again. She was wondering whether she should chase after him or wait for a more opportune time to offer her condolences when she heard someone say, “I see I'm not the only one who couldn't keep away.”

  She turned and saw Gordon Swig smiling at her.

  “Hello, Gordon,” she replied, surprised by how pleased she was to see him again. “As soon as I heard the news, I rushed right over. I think I'm still in shock.”

  He nodded. “The whole thing is pretty unbelievable, isn't it? It's hard to comprehend the fact that last night, you and I were in this very room, enjoying a pleasant dinner with Carly and Brett. And now…”

  He let his voice trail off, and the two of them stood in silence for what seemed like a long time.

  “I had a chance to talk to Brett,” Gordon finally commented. “He's beside himself, of course.”

  “I haven't been able to get near him,” Mallory admitted. “And I'm really anxious to tell him how sorry I am.”

  “I'm sure you'll have other chances to express your condolences. After things calm down, I mean.”

  “Do you know any details?” Mallory asked anxiously. “All I found out from watching the news was that Carly was found at the spa.”

  “That's right,” Gordon said somberly. “In one of the treatment rooms. A separate building, actually. The one that's used for mud baths.”

  Killed at her own spa, a place she'd conceived of and designed. “How did she die?” Mallory asked, her voice wavering.

  “Apparently she was drowned in one of the mud baths. Someone held her under until she asphyxiated.”

  “Oh, my God!” Mallory cried. “How awful!”

  “The scenario the cops constructed is that Carly went up to the spa late last night, after her gig at the opera house. No one seems to know why she would have gone up there.

  “Very early this morning,” he continued, “Harriet discovered her. She went in first thing, apparently to check on some paperwork. She happened to notice that the door to the Mud Hut was ajar, so she went inside to see what was going on. That was when she found Carly.”

  “Poor Harriet!” Mallory exclaimed. “What a shock!”

  “I'm sure it wasn't a pretty sight,” Gordon commented grimly. “Not only finding Carly dead, but also finding her submerged in mud. Those in-ground tubs are three feet deep, filled nearly to the top with the stuff.”

  Mallory shuddered. While she felt bad for Harriet, imagining what Carly had gone through positively made her heart break. The idea of being drowned—in mud, no less, mud that ironically was supposed to have a rejuvenating effect—was almost too horrific to contemplate.

  “What will happen now?” she asked. “With the spa and Rejuva-Juice…?”

  “All that should be pretty straightforward,” Gordon replied. With a little shrug, he added, “I'm sure Brett will inherit all of it.”

  “And what about you? Will you be heading back to L.A. earlier than you planned?”

  “I'm not sure what I'm going to do,” he said. “I suddenly have some major rethinking to do.”

  Mallory was about to ask him what he meant when she heard loud voices from the kitchen.

  “Impossible!” Brett yelled, his voice easily penetrating the thick wood of the door. “I'm telling you, you've got it all wrong!”

  Who's he fighting with now? she wondered
.

  Mallory quickly realized she wasn't the only one who was listening. An uncomfortable hush had fallen over the room. Friends who had come to pay their respects now stood frozen, their eyes fixed on their coffee mugs or their shoes.

  “I loved Carly!” they all heard Brett exclaim. “Why on earth would I have wanted anything bad to happen to her?”

  “I'm sorry, Mr. Berman,” another male voice replied, “but we'd like you to come down to the station with us so we can ask you a few questions.”

  Mallory's stomach lurched. Even though she felt as if she was listening to a radio play, she realized that what was happening in the kitchen wasn't just a figment of some writer's imagination.

  Suddenly the kitchen door swung open. Brett stood just beyond the doorway, his expression one of extreme anguish. Behind him was a uniformed police officer, along with a craggy-faced man in a wrinkled suit. Given his fashion sense, or more accurately his lack of it, he had to be a detective.

  “We only want to talk to you,” insisted the man, who was no stranger to polyester. “We won't take much of your time.”

  “I demand to speak with a lawyer,” Brett insisted.

  He turned, his distressed expression immediately morphing into one of surprise. It was as if he'd completely forgotten that his house was full of well-wishers. Either that or he suddenly realized that the people he was closest to, the ones who had rushed to his house to offer him their support, were instead witnessing what was undoubtedly one of the most horrifying moments of his life.

  “This is crazy!” he exclaimed. “Juanita, get my attorney on the phone—pronto!”

  Good luck with that, Mallory thought grimly.

  “What's going on?” A high-pitched female voice cut through the chaos. From its distinctive accent, Mallory immediately knew who it belonged to.

  “Who are you?” the detective asked Astrid Norland brusquely as she pushed her way through the crowd.