Chapter Fourteen
“Aaaannnnd we have a motive,” Mort said, as if he were Ed McMahon introducing Johnny Carson. He rummaged through one of the limo’s compartments and pulled out his cell phone.
“For…?” I asked.
“For threatening Bobby,” Maureen said. “For trying to get him to leave his job as host so that maybe she could have the job.”
“Or maybe just to sabotage the show,” Mort said, “because she was angry with Wardell about being passed over for the position.”
“But not for killing Ray,” I said. “Although it is interesting to me that Grider is one of the crew members who wears a headset.”
“If Ray learned that Grider was behind the threats…” Seth started, then shook his head. “But that doesn’t work at all, because the first threat against Bobby Brandon came after Ray’s death.”
“I don’t see how it would give her motive to engineer the cheating scheme either,” I said.
“Revenge,” Mort suggested. “Against Wardell?”
“But how does helping one team over the others harm Wardell?” Maureen asked.
“We still should let Caceras know about this.” Mort pulled on his reading glasses and sent a text. “There.”
His phone dinged a few seconds later. He sighed.
“It was a nice try. He said he already knew about Grider’s audition, that it came up in the interview.
” His phone dinged again. “He already eliminated her in the threats against Bobby. Apparently, she has some major snake phobia, which her therapist confirmed. She could have written the note, but no way could she have put that big snake, harmless or not, into his dressing room.”
Howard pulled the limo out of the parking garage. The morning smog had burned off, and we were greeted by blue skies and bright sunlight.
“We have been cooped up in that studio for too long,” Seth said. “I think some vitamin D might be what this doctor orders, help us to shake off the mental cobwebs. I, for one, propose we dispense with the mystery tour and find a nice alfresco dining spot. Preferably with a view.”
“That does sound pleasant,” I said, not wanting to disappoint Howard, but a place with a view might also afford an opportunity for a short walk. Exercise, at least of the physical variety, was something I hadn’t found much time for this week.
“What if I said I have a mystery location with outdoor dining and an ocean view?” Howard said. “It may take an hour to get there though. Maybe a few minutes more if I take the more scenic route.”
“Can we roll down the windows and open the sunroof?” Mort asked.
“Of course,” Howard said.
“Then I’d say, ‘Drive on, young man,’ ” Maureen said, affecting a snooty voice. “And, by all means, take the scenic route.”
Howard tipped his imaginary cap and said, “Yes, ma’am. Maybe one of you could make a reservation? We’ll be arriving a little closer to peak dinner time.”
“Sure,” Mort said. “What’s the name of it?”
“It’s called the Paradise Cove Beach Café,” Howard said. “Ask for an outdoor table for six. Victoria is showing a building lot in Malibu, and I might get lucky and actually see my wife today.”
“Malibu,” Mort repeated, then sucked air through his teeth. “I thought the wildfires hit that whole area pretty hard.” He stopped to punch a bunch of information into his cell phone.
“This restaurant is just north of where the worst of the fires raged. We’ll be passing through that area on the drive up. Some of it’s already being rebuilt. Some of it may never be.”
“Found the website,” Mort said. “Reservations for five fifteen.”
Howard used his hands-free connection to dial Victoria’s voicemail and leave her the information, while Mort kept thumbing through his phone.
“Hey, look at this,” he said. “They have Maine lobster.”
“Seafood sounds appealing,” I said. “Although I might look for something more specifically…Pacific.”
“Point taken,” Mort said.
Our view through the first half of the drive didn’t seem as scenic as promised.
Although we did get a few mountaintop views on the 405, they weren’t the lush, verdant hills we had in Maine.
I wasn’t sure if the more barren landscape was the result of drought or fire.
But the view improved somewhat after we reached the Pacific Coast Highway.
“I guess I could have taken you to the Santa Monica Pier,” Howard said. “It’s been used as a backdrop in just about everything: Baywatch, NCIS: Los Angeles. I wasn’t sure after a long day in the studio that you’d be up for the hustle and bustle of the boardwalk.”
“And you’d be right,” Seth said.
Once clear of the busy beach traffic, the line of sight to the ocean disappeared for a bit, hidden behind the houses and commercial properties built between the roadway and the water.
I was initially grateful when the ocean vista returned, until I noticed the occasional charred remains of structures and empty foundations, suggesting that the clear view I was currently enjoying was a recent development and came at the expense of someone who had suffered a great loss.
Every now and then, we’d pass a house that seemed to have survived intact, a testament to the capriciousness of fire—or a crew at work already rebuilding, a testament to the resilience of the human race and perhaps the inexhaustibility of hope.
Eventually, Howard started calling out landmarks. Will Rogers State Beach. Sunset Beach. The Getty Villa perched on the hillside on the right. He pointed out huge swaths of brown areas, nature still struggling to regain its foothold after the devastation of fire.
We had a great view of the water until we neared Malibu, where hard-hatted crews involved in demolition and construction worked alongside structures that seemed untouched by fire.
“Do any stars still live in Malibu?” Maureen asked.
“I’m sure,” Howard said, “but I don’t have a list.”
Maureen snatched her husband’s cell phone and started googling. “Leonardo DiCaprio, Courteney Cox, Julia Roberts, and Cindy Crawford,” she said. “I wonder if we’ll see anyone at the restaurant.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Seth drawled, then winked at me.
There was a sign for the café on the highway, and we turned onto a narrow road that twisted as it descended toward the beach. Mort pulled a few bills from his wallet to help pay for parking, but Howard waved him off.
“The restaurant validates.”
We climbed out of the limo, stretched, and headed to a squat building clad in wood shakes—or perhaps a more durable siding meant to resemble wood—with a painted surfboard for signage.
Victoria was waiting just inside the door, and we followed a hostess through the restaurant, then outside behind the building to an umbrella-covered table circled by white chairs placed directly on the sand.
“I seem to have worn the wrong shoes,” I said, feeling a few grains of sand trickle in the top.
“Sorry about that, Aunt Jess,” Victoria said.
“Don’t give it a thought,” I assured her. “Sand is something we Cabot Covers are quite used to.”
Seth leaned back in his chair, raised his eyes to the sunlight, and took a sniff of the sea air. “Now, this is why folks come to California.”
I couldn’t disagree. The rhythmic rushing in of the surf, the sea breeze blowing through my hair, the calling of the gulls, even the occasional screeching of children frolicking on the beach was, as Seth would say, just what the doctor ordered, and I felt my muscles relaxing.
“I don’t know about any of you, but I’m going to need to order one of these gorgeous cocktails.
” Maureen pointed to the menu. “Have you seen them? Some served in coconuts, pineapples, or watermelons. Others garnished with fresh fruit and flowers. I wonder if it might be a little too much for one person. Mort, care to share one?”
“Eh, maybe a little too frou-frou for me,” he said. “But you get what you want.”
“I don’t want for you to have to carry me home,” she said. “How about I ask for two straws, and you can take a sip when nobody is looking?”
Mort rolled his eyes.
Despite the allure of the colorful drinks, I ordered a locally sourced white wine and sat back to peruse the rest of the menu.
“Mrs. F.” Mort said, “I know what you said about sticking with Pacific seafood, but it would be a shame not to try one or more of those sampler platters.”
“Victoria and I have tried a few of them,” Howard said. “Two would be enough for the whole table, I think.”
“Which ones though?” Maureen said. “Everything sounds yummy.”
“Ayuh,” Seth said, “there’s a lot to choose from.”
I closed my menu. “I leave myself totally in your hands.”
While the others debated the various platter options, I found my eyes drawn repeatedly to a spot where the sandy beach ended and cliffs ran almost right to the water.
“You see it, don’t you, Aunt Jess?” Victoria said.
“Hmm?”
Mort caught the direction of my gaze and stared at the cliffs. “That cliffside’s familiar to me too.” Then he smiled broadly. “No way! Rockford’s trailer?”
“Where?” Seth asked.
“Well, it’s not there now,” Mort said, “but it would be right about there, wouldn’t it?” He pointed toward the cliffs.
“I think at the edge of the parking lot,” Howard said. “At least that’s where Google Maps places it, but those are the same cliffs used as the backdrop.”
“Now, there was a detective,” Seth said.
Mort winced.
“Oh,” Maureen said, “don’t go trying to pretend you don’t like him. I’ve seen you turn on that show more often than I can count.”
“Mostly just channel surfing,” Mort said, then sighed. “Fine, I’ll admit I find the show entertaining, but allow me to also say that I’m glad—if I need to have some civilian getting involved in my cases—that it’s Mrs. F. and not Jim Rockford.”
“Why, thank you,” I said, “I think.”
“What’s wrong with Rockford?” Seth asked.
“He plays a little loose with the rules, doesn’t he?” Mort said. “He was an ex-con, to start with. What business did he have being a private eye in the first place?”
Seth cleared his throat. “As I recall, he was pardoned.”
“Doesn’t give him the right to own an unregistered handgun,” Mort countered.