Richfield & Rivers Mystery Series 1 - Combust the Sun Read online

  The parlor had twenty-foot ceilings, with baroque crown molding that depicted entire battle scenes, looming high above the gold-flecked marble floor. Definitely not the kind of living room where I imagined a guy ever wandered around in his Jockey shorts in search of his cigarettes.

  A dozen or more guests munched canapes and spoke in subdued tones beneath the domed ceiling, consoling a woman wearing a gray designer suit trimmed in black. She tilted her head up to engage me with her soft gray eyes and extended her long, tapered hand. "Isabel Anthony." A blinding flash of gold and diamonds radiated off her wrist and fingers. I told her I was sorry to hear about Frank. Then, lying, I said I'd worked with him on a studio project in L.A. and I was shocked to learn of his death. She thanked me and turned her attention to the host of people gathered round her. Wakes were easier to crash than I'd imagined.

  Across the sea of well-coifed heads, I caught sight of a tall, handsome woman in her early sixties with the angular features of an ex-model. I recognized her from news accounts as Ramona Mathers, one of Frank's many attorneys, although her picture in the paper had been decidedly younger. The tiny broken veins around her nose were an indication that alcohol figured prominently in all her activities, maybe enough so that she might talk to me openly about the Anthonys. I introduced myself and told the same lie about being Frank's friend.

  "What a way to go," she said, finishing off her highball. "Makes you rethink your life. Shot in your gym shorts at the club, for God's sake! If Frank were here, he'd say, 'Had I known those were my last ten minutes on earth, I wouldn't have done those last twenty reps.' That's why I don't exercise. I'm afraid I'll get in shape just in time to find out I'm dead. Ramona Mathers." She extended her hand, showing a smattering of liver spots, and gave me a penetrating, questioning look that told me she'd slept with a good many people in her time and was still open for business.

  "Lot of servants," I remarked.

  "Frank's board members sent extra staff to help Isabel get through this."

  "What board would that be?" I asked.

  "Celluloid Partners, I imagine."

  "Have the police found out anything about the murder?"

  "Hank Caruthers, who was in the gym at the time, told me that Frank was found lying on the floor next to his towel, apparently trying to get his .38 out of his gym bag. Reaching for a revolver and you come up with a rock, now that's fate, isn't it?"

  "A rock? What kind of rock?"

  Ramona Mathers made a Vanna White gesture toward the study and took a short stagger-step in that direction. I followed her into a teak-paneled room, replete with leather-bound first editions and glass-enclosed displays of strange Egyptian antiquities. A long, gold scepter sparkling with jewels, a headdress trimmed in gold and black snakes, a large stone tablet covered with hieroglyphs, and case after case of little cups, jewelry, and broken pots.

  "What was this used for?" I pointed to a miniature sarcophagus locked in a glass case.

  "I'm not the docent. Tiny, tiny Egyptians?" She raised an eyebrow in an obvious appreciation for the outrageous.

  "And this?"

  "A petroglyph tracing of a rock called a death stone, ironically enough, used on the eyes of Egyptian corpses to hold the lids down immediately after death."

  My God, it s just like the stone that was delivered to Barrett at Orca s, my mind raced, as I tried to remain calm. What is a drawing of the stone left with Barrett doing in a display case fourteen hundred miles away? Are these stones common and everyone knows about them but me?

  "Replicas were very popular in Italy at the turn of the century. Unsavory characters used them as markers. A thug wearing the insignia of his mafia don would appear, demanding money from a man or perhaps merely demanding his silence in a matter. If the man refused, then very shortly thereafter a death stone would appear on or near him as a sign that he'd been marked for death. That way, the man knew by whom, and for what, he was being killed. A good thing to know, don't you think?" She took a long sip of her drink as I remained transfixed by the stone tracing. She bent her head toward me in an exaggerated style as if to inquire if I were still in my body.

  "You're very knowledgeable." I laughed at being caught in my head. She locked eyes with me, letting me know there was something about my face lighting up that she found attractive. "I'm trying to impress you," she said softly.

  I was charmed by her sense of humor and liked her svelte appearance. She had a thick head of silver-gray hair, Dresden china eyes, and an infectious smile. It was as if she knew a very funny secret about life but was trying not to tell me. Her small talk was peppered with clever turns of phrase and melodramatic gestures. She asked me if I'd like to join her for dinner tonight. I briefly contemplated an evening across the table from a delightfully witty woman. No dating drunks, the little voice in my head commanded. I gave her a polite excuse about having other plans, and in fact, I hoped I did. I intended to call Callie Rivers.

  "Vandalism," Ramona remarked as we passed a case full of broken artifacts on our way out of the room. "Someone came in here just after Frank died and broke a good many of the finest pieces. Have no idea what it was all about, but it's made Isabel even more nervous. I hope I'll see you again soon." She handed me her business card, and I felt her eyes bore through me as I turned and walked away.

  Outside, I took a deep gulp of fresh air. The atmosphere in the Anthony mansion was stifling. I couldn't chalk up the appearance of death stones in both Frank Anthony's and Barrett Silvers's hands as being sheer coincidence. Up until a few days ago, I'd never even heard of a death stone, and now I knew two people who'd been marked by them.

  Following up on Ramona's remarks about Frank's murder, I decided to drive down to the crime scene. The Tulsa Health Club, on the fifth floor of one of Tulsa's famous old art deco buildings, had been a bastion of male dominance for half a century. On the glass of the big double entrance doors, the club had etched a large revolver and the inscribed warning: Keep Guns Holstered while in the Gym. No wonder guys in this town are so polite, I thought, each of them knows the other one s carrying a gun!

  A buxom young woman obviously hired for ornamentation swung her 38Ds into my face and asked what she could do for me. She had olive eyes, auburn hair, and a great smile, and for a moment, my mind drifted past the present into a future where Ms. 38D was giving me a head-to-foot rub: long, sensual, full-body strokes down my leg that somehow missed the mark and managed to glide across the center line, leaving me weak with anticipation as her large breasts rhythmically brushed my face until I captured them in my lips. Then, above me, I saw Callie's face, her eyes as crystal clear as a Canadian lake, looking into my soul, and I suddenly felt unfaithful. My fantasy went limp. How can I be running around on Callie when I'm not even with Callie? I thought, aggravated that Callie's image was censoring my fantasies.

  "Could I help you?" The young woman leaned her 38Ds into me and raised her voice in volume as if I were hard of hearing. Being twenty years my junior, she probably thought I was hard of hearing, a fantasy buster in and of itself. I asked if Mr. Caruthers was in the gym. She said he wasn't. Just then, a man in his mid-fifties with thick arms, a rich, black head of hair, and a proud barrel chest that preceded him like the prow of a ship strode into the club.

  "Hello, Mr. Caruthers," the woman behind the desk beamed. "Johnny will be ready for you in five minutes."

  "No problem. How you doin,' Maggie? Your husband treatin' you right? Cuz if he's not, I'll come over there and give him a run for his money." Mr. Caruthers's words ricocheted off the walls as if he thought he owned all the airspace on the planet.

  When I spoke his name, he turned, allowing me to introduce myself as a friend of Frank's. By now I'd said it so many times I was beginning to believe I was a friend of Frank's.

  "Damn sad about Frank," he said.

  I told him I was a writer from L.A. working on an article about Frank's life. Mr. Caruthers seemed to relish the fact that he would be in print.

  "Well, if you d
o, say that we're going to find out who the slimy little coward is who killed Frank and give him a little Oklahoma justice."

  I asked him if he knew where Frank had been before he came to the gym that day. Caruthers shrugged, saying he had no idea, and when I repeated that Ramona Mathers told me Frank was clutching a rock in his gym bag when he died, Caruthers laughed.

  "Never heard that. Sure she didn't say cock"? I'm sorry. Excuse me, ladies, but Ramona Mathers always liked her hooch, ya know? She and Frank got it on a couple of times, but don't go printin' that, now!" He laughed appreciatively. "You girls are gonna get me in trouble!"

  A man, naked to the waist, appeared in the doorway announcing he was ready to give Mr. Caruthers his massage. The man's upper body was so buffed out that his head looked like a tiny pea resting in a sea of mahogany-hard triceps and biceps.

  "Be right there, Johnny," Mr. Caruthers boomed. He waved goodbye to us, pushed open the big double doors to the sauna, and swaggered off into a cloud of steam. Hank Caruthers was a typical oilman. Slick.

  I headed for my car. Jamming my hand into my pocket looking for my keys. I came up with Callie's phone number.

  "If I were Callie, I'd say it must be a sign," I said out loud to no one.

  Callie didn't seem at all surprised to hear from me, saying she'd been sending me "brain waves" to phone her and let her know what was happening. I drove straight to her high-rise.

  Chapter Six

  Callie was waiting in the doorway of her apartment wearing a white silk jumpsuit and looking like a Lancome ad. "Don't you look smashing?" She smiled.

  "Thanks. You know, with the blond hair, and the white jumpsuit, and the white carpet, and the white leather furniture, I have the feeling when I get here that I've died and gone to heaven." I pulled her into me.

  "Teague, I'm not sleeping with you," she said, establishing the ground rules.

  "I don't recall asking you to." I grinned, getting my bearings on her style. I wasn't going to let Callie Rivers bowl me over like she had last night.

  "But just out of curiosity—" I interrupted the thought by kissing her with a slow, sensual warmth. "Why aren't we sleeping together?"

  "Because"—she began, and then had to pause to catch her breath, I noted with satisfaction—"you need to focus on staying alive, Teague. You're behaving as if what's happening around you isn't life threatening."

  I thought about telling Callie how I'd grown up in a family so combative that breakfast could be considered life threatening, that by the age of eight I'd mastered Zen and the art of flying flatware, and that I did have fear, but most of it was inherited. Instead, I kissed her again and assured her that I was focused on both of us staying alive. I sagged into a chair and kicked off my shoes, working on feeling at home, in a platonic kind of way.

  "I just crashed Frank Anthony's wake and met one of his attorneys, Ramona Mathers. She told me that, according to Hank Caruthers, Frank Anthony died clutching a rock in his hand, and when she showed me the petroglyph tracing, it was almost identical to the rock Barrett had been given by the Latin guy who tried to kill her. Hank Caruthers, whom I met at the gym today and who was in the gym when Frank died, told me there was no rock. The rocks are called death stones, by the way," I said.

  "So your friend in L.A. was marked by whoever owned the death stones."

  "Marked by a dead man. The owner of the rock was Frank Anthony, and he was killed before the stone ever got to Barrett Silvers," I said.

  "So whoever killed Frank Anthony pried the stone loose from his hand and delivered it to your friend in LA?"

  "Could be, but why go to all that trouble?" I asked.

  "You said she was terrified when she saw it, so obviously she knew what it meant. Perhaps she knew it belonged to Frank Anthony, and its arrival without Frank meant he was dead, and she was next."

  "That means she had to have known Frank Anthony, but how?"

  "Your friend in L.A. knows more than she's telling you. Start with her," Callie replied.

  "Maybe all my friends know more than they're telling me. Last night when I left here, there was blood on my windshield and the words 'Retern it.' No one knew I was here—except you." I blurted it out, wanting to clear up the matter once and for all.

  "You believe I would tell someone who might harm you that you were here?" Callie's hurt expression shifted immediately to anger.

  "I just don't know you—"

  "But you know me well enough to try to sleep with me?"

  "I'm sorry. Forget it."

  "How can I forget it? Do you think I want you here if you don't completely trust me?"

  "I trust you."

  "Then why would you accuse me of something like that?"

  "I didn't. I don't know. I'm confused. I've been chased by weird guys doing weird things and suddenly I'm here, and he's in the parking lot..."

  "Oh, Teague..." Her voice trailed off in disappointment.

  "I'd better go." And I found myself outside her closed door again.

  Damn! What in the hell is wrong with me! Things were going great—great—and now they suck! I had a habit of doing that. Being too abrupt. It's simply that life is short. Why not get to the point? I tried to defend myself to myself, but even I wasn't buying it. I took the elevator downstairs and headed toward 21st and Utica.

  I should buy her something to apologize, I thought. So how can I, an army green, navy blue person, buy her, an electric orange, hot pink person, the right gift? And what is the definition of right: looks right on her? Or gets her right into bed with me?

  I had always made it a point never even to glance at the kinds of items Callie Rivers undoubtedly wore: shoes with feathers, shorts with bows on the sides, and any cosmetic item where they offered a free gift with purchase. I strolled inside one of the more chic shops in Utica Square and went right to the lizard handbags in an array of colors no self-respecting lizard had ever worn. There was a small, orange-ish bag with a beautiful gold clasp. I bought it without even opening it, happy that it cost hundreds of dollars, thinking of it as a Medieval Indulgence that might buy my way to heaven.

  Imagine, me feeling happy leaving a store, clutching a new purse. My God, it s a first! I thought grinning, and crossed the parking lot with a snap in my step. To my right was the damned blue Buick parked a hundred yards away, obviously trying to stay back, but not to the point that any fool with an IQ of six couldn't have figured it out.

  I got in my car and drove slowly out of the Utica Square parking lot, made a tight U-turn, and pulled up to the east entrance of the store. I dumped the purse out of the shopping bag and replaced it with my twelve-inch fire ax. Then I hopped out of the car and dashed inside as if I'd forgotten something. I exited out the south entrance while the driver stayed focused on the store's east doors. I came around on the driver's side with a shout, bringing the fire ax down so hard that it nearly amputated his door handle. I reached inside and grabbed the man by his black leather jacket and pulled his head, suddenly and violently, through the open window, delivering a palm strike to his face.

  "You tell whoever you work for to get off my ass, or so help me, I'll amputate your arm and every other damned part of your anatomy!" I shouted.

  His car squealed out of the parking lot, leaving me standing in the middle of the concrete, clutching a fire ax in my trembling hand as shoppers cut a wide swath around me.

  I phoned Wade and told him what had happened and gave him a description of the guy, saying I would bet a hundred dollar bill he was my Texas rager. Then I went home and put an ice pack on my hand. Only in the movies did people beat one another up without any physical ill effects. My palm strike had rearranged Raider's jaw, but it had also bruised my hand. Mother was alarmed at how swollen it was and asked me how it happened.

  "Looks like she punched somebody out." Dad leaned over to examine my hand, looking debonair in his shiny black tux and tartan cummerbund while speaking of me in the third person. "Looks like the kind of bruise you get when you whack the bejesu
s out of someone," Dad repeated, giving me one more chance to 'fess up.

  "For heaven's sake, Ben, she doesn't hit people!" Mother said, rustling her taffeta.

  "Don't you both look fabulous!" I swooned, pulling my hand away.

  "We clean up real nice, don't we?" Dad grinned. "And you've got ten minutes to do the same." I jumped into the shower, delighted to have a reason to end the inquisition.

  In thirty minutes I was wearing a designer tux-suit and an excruciatingly painful pair of spike heels, obviously created by an Italian gay guy who could have found comfort in a straitjacket.

  "So how do I look, Elmo?" He let out a long appreciative sigh and flopped onto the floor. "Well, thanks, but then you're prejudiced." I stroked his soft head.

  It was only a five-minute ride to the club where a huge banner hung over the entrance announcing Lu and Ben, Lovers for 42 Years! Mother whispered, "Couldn't they have just said married for forty-two years? That's bad enough."

  Inside, beyond the cavernous entry hall and south to the ballroom, Aunt Jen, the tallest person in our family, billowed toward me in a bright pink flowered dress made of so much fabric, Christo could have used it to wrap an island. "Happy anniversary, Ben and Lu," she gushed.

  "Teeeeeeeeee!" She grabbed me with her beefy arms and yanked my head into her gargantuan pink bosom, burying me in a veritable sea of bad perfume. Her breasts chafed my cheeks as I struggled to free myself, and the giant pink helium balloons overhead squeaked up against one another in accompaniment. Aunt Jen is simply too large to be straight, I thought.

  Straight ahead was the buffet line the length of a landing field that was nearly collapsing under the weight of roast beef and fresh shrimp.

  "A live band!" I exclaimed.

  "Semi-live," Aunt Jen quipped. "Most of them can barely move, much less play." A gray tidal wave, arms outstretched, rolled toward Mom and Dad to hug them and then tottered out onto the parquet dance floor, taking advantage of their arm position and their own forward motion.