he say at your meeting?”
I gave her a carefully edited version of our meeting, leaving out the part about the stethoscope and Ted Bundy’s best friend.
“Honestly, Kandi,” I said. “Incorvia seems like a nice guy. I seriously doubt he has an agenda to see you in jail.”
She sat up, somewhat relieved.
“How about we go grab some lunch?” I asked.
“No, I can’t face anybody right now.”
“Okay, I’ll go to the commissary and get us something. What do you want?”
“Hemlock on rye,” she sighed. “And if they’re all out of that, get me Today’s Special. It’s probably just as lethal.”
She smiled wanly.
I was happy to see she still had a sense of humor. It looked like she was going to need it.
I stood at the steam table, watching Helga dish out two portions of thick white glop into Styrofoam take-out containers. According to Helga, it was tuna noodle casserole. It looked a lot more like wet plaster to me.
Really, I decided, it was much too vile to eat. It’s one thing to get fat on Sara Lee, another thing to pork up on plaster. Besides, weren’t Kandi and I supposed to be on diets?
I’d just have to change my order. I looked at Helga, at her Brillo hair, her pencil-thin lips, and the hairy wart on her receding chin. God, she was scary. Maybe I should just pay for it and toss it in the dumpster outside. No. No way. I really had to develop some backbone if I intended to keep doing this detective stuff.
I took a deep breath and shored up my courage. So what if she got angry? What’s the worst she could do? Hit me with her hair net?
“I hate to be a bother,” I said, “but is it to late to change my order?”
She glared at me, the same look she probably gave to her subordinates in the Gestapo. Then she dumped the gloppy white stuff back into the serving tray.
“Whaddaya want?” she grunted.
“Do you have any salads?”
“We got egg salad and potato salad.”
“Don’t you have anything green?”
“Just the mold on the egg salad.”
I wound up driving to McDonald’s for two Shake-a-Salads. It was so much nicer being waited on by a sullen teenager than a sullen ex-Nazi.
I was just making my way back onto the lot, when I saw Wells Dumont pull up behind me in an elegant old Mercedes.
“I see the commissary food is beginning to get to you,” he said, when we got out of our cars. He eyed my McDonald’s take-out bag. “Quinn used to say that flies came to the commissary to commit suicide.”
I laughed. It was an old joke (Henny Youngman, circa 1952), but still funny.
“I’m going to miss Quinn,” Wells said. “I know he was a bit of a rake, but he made me smile.”
“Where’ve you been?” I asked. “Lunch date?”
“That’s what I told the others. The truth is, I went to my podiatrist.” He looked down at his feet encased in orthopedic shoes. “These old dogs are giving out on me.”
Standing there in the harsh sunlight, I could see that his face was crisscrossed with wrinkles. He had to be well into his seventies. Maybe even his eighties. If thirty-six was old in Hollywood, poor Wells was practically mummified.
As we started walking towards the Writers’ Building, I remembered what he said about wanting to take me to dinner. Maybe I’d take him up on his offer. He knew all the actors on the show. Maybe he could help shed some light on the murder.
“Hey, Wells,” I said. “You still up for dinner some time?”
“Why, of course, my dear.” His face lit up eagerly. “But what about Duane?”
Duane? Who the heck was Duane?
“Your fiance,” Wells said, as if reading my thoughts.
“Oh. Right. Duane. He won’t mind. Besides, he’s busy right now with an important case.”
“An important case?”
“Yes, my fiance’s an attorney.”
Heck, if I was going to be engaged, I might as well do it right.
“You sure he won’t mind?”
“No, he never minds when I go out with friends .”
Notice the slight emphasis on “friends”—just in case
I gave her a carefully edited version of our meeting, leaving out the part about the stethoscope and Ted Bundy’s best friend.
“Honestly, Kandi,” I said. “Incorvia seems like a nice guy. I seriously doubt he has an agenda to see you in jail.”
She sat up, somewhat relieved.
“How about we go grab some lunch?” I asked.
“No, I can’t face anybody right now.”
“Okay, I’ll go to the commissary and get us something. What do you want?”
“Hemlock on rye,” she sighed. “And if they’re all out of that, get me Today’s Special. It’s probably just as lethal.”
She smiled wanly.
I was happy to see she still had a sense of humor. It looked like she was going to need it.
I stood at the steam table, watching Helga dish out two portions of thick white glop into Styrofoam take-out containers. According to Helga, it was tuna noodle casserole. It looked a lot more like wet plaster to me.
Really, I decided, it was much too vile to eat. It’s one thing to get fat on Sara Lee, another thing to pork up on plaster. Besides, weren’t Kandi and I supposed to be on diets?
I’d just have to change my order. I looked at Helga, at her Brillo hair, her pencil-thin lips, and the hairy wart on her receding chin. God, she was scary. Maybe I should just pay for it and toss it in the dumpster outside. No. No way. I really had to develop some backbone if I intended to keep doing this detective stuff.
I took a deep breath and shored up my courage. So what if she got angry? What’s the worst she could do? Hit me with her hair net?
“I hate to be a bother,” I said, “but is it to late to change my order?”
She glared at me, the same look she probably gave to her subordinates in the Gestapo. Then she dumped the gloppy white stuff back into the serving tray.
“Whaddaya want?” she grunted.
“Do you have any salads?”
“We got egg salad and potato salad.”
“Don’t you have anything green?”
“Just the mold on the egg salad.”
I wound up driving to McDonald’s for two Shake-a-Salads. It was so much nicer being waited on by a sullen teenager than a sullen ex-Nazi.
I was just making my way back onto the lot, when I saw Wells Dumont pull up behind me in an elegant old Mercedes.
“I see the commissary food is beginning to get to you,” he said, when we got out of our cars. He eyed my McDonald’s take-out bag. “Quinn used to say that flies came to the commissary to commit suicide.”
I laughed. It was an old joke (Henny Youngman, circa 1952), but still funny.
“I’m going to miss Quinn,” Wells said. “I know he was a bit of a rake, but he made me smile.”
“Where’ve you been?” I asked. “Lunch date?”
“That’s what I told the others. The truth is, I went to my podiatrist.” He looked down at his feet encased in orthopedic shoes. “These old dogs are giving out on me.”
Standing there in the harsh sunlight, I could see that his face was crisscrossed with wrinkles. He had to be well into his seventies. Maybe even his eighties. If thirty-six was old in Hollywood, poor Wells was practically mummified.
As we started walking towards the Writers’ Building, I remembered what he said about wanting to take me to dinner. Maybe I’d take him up on his offer. He knew all the actors on the show. Maybe he could help shed some light on the murder.
“Hey, Wells,” I said. “You still up for dinner some time?”
“Why, of course, my dear.” His face lit up eagerly. “But what about Duane?”
Duane? Who the heck was Duane?
“Your fiance,” Wells said, as if reading my thoughts.
“Oh. Right. Duane. He won’t mind. Besides, he’s busy right now with an important case.”
“An important case?”
“Yes, my fiance’s an attorney.”
Heck, if I was going to be engaged, I might as well do it right.
“You sure he won’t mind?”
“No, he never minds when I go out with friends .”
Notice the slight emphasis on “friends”—just in case
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