“Did she ever mention her mother’s name?”
“Nope, just ‘Mommy’ or maybe ‘Mother,’ can’t remember. Oh, yeah, she also said something about blood and dirt, made these scooping motions with her hands. Like she was digging something up. Not gonna lie, Doc, it weirded me out. After that I kept my distance.”
“Did other people on the set avoid her?”
“Hmm... Zelda was never a big socializer. Honestly, I don’t know what was in anyone else’s head. Like I said, we weren’t a close-knit bunch.”
“Did her behavior have anything to do with the cancellation?”
“Oh, no, she did a fine job once the tape was rolling. We got dumped because the show was crap and people stopped watching and the network had better prospects. You were her kid’s shrink, I assume you knew she had her own shrink. Some older guy, every so often he’d show up on the set, just hang back, not doing much. Zelda never said who he was but everyone knew because that’s the way it is on a show. No one thought anything of it, she wouldn’t be the first person to bring her therapist to work. Anyway, you should be talking to him.”
“Dr. Sherman,” I said. “He’s the one who referred Zelda’s son to me. Unfortunately, he’s deceased.”
“Oh. Too bad. So I’m last resort, huh?”
“Sometimes peers know things therapists don’t, Steve. Did Zelda ever bring her son to work?”
“No, never. Never tried to wangle a part for him, either, far as I know. That’s my Mommy Dearest thing kicking in. My old lady never got closer to the industry than being a script girl on commercials, convinced herself I’d be her golden goose. And I was. Not that I ever saw a penny of it.”
“The Coogan Act didn’t help?”
“The Coogan Act says kids get a guaranteed percentage, but it’s small and can also be spent for the kid’s benefit, meaning any damn thing the guardian decides. My maternal figure decided a five-year-old needed trips to Hawaii where he’d be left alone in hotel rooms while she partied.”
I shook my head.
Beal said, “Don’t bother feeling sorry for me, Doc. My life’s fantastic.” He finished the croissant, pointed. “That one’s yours.”
“No, thanks.”
“A man with willpower. Doesn’t life get boring?”
“Any idea where Zelda lived when the show got cut?”
“Nope. Don’t the cops know her current address? You might find the boy there, with some caretaker.”
I said, “She was a street person.”
“Oh,” said Beal. “Shit, that’s why you’re worried about the kid — crazy woman, who knows what she’d be capable of. I’d like to be able to tell you no way, Zelda would never hurt anyone. But I can’t, people can’t be predicted anyway, let alone psychos.”
“Did you know Zelda changed her name?”
“I didn’t, but no big shock, everyone reinvents themselves.” Teeth flashed. “I was born Stuart Henry Russmeisl.”
He reached for his wallet. I got to mine first and put cash on the table. His nod said proper procedure had been followed.
We left the café together and when I headed to the Seville, he said, “Nice wheels, what year?”
“ ’Seventy-nine.”
“My mom had a ’76, painted it pearlescent pink and dyed the vinyl top eggplant. Original engine?”
“Third.”
“So you’re a loyal guy.” He grabbed my hand, shook it. “I hope you find the kid and he’s okay.”
Wide, sunny grin, spasmodically sudden. “And if you’re looking for a nice place in Tarzana...”
Chapter 16
Beal’s account matched what I already knew: Zelda had displayed symptoms of mood and thought disorder. But he had lent some clarity to her Mommy-talk.
A vanished actress, blood and dirt.
Like she was digging something up.
Had the search for a long-buried mother — a mother whose soul she believed lived inside of her — fueled her incursions into strangers’ backyards?
Had she been driven to excavate?
There’d been no sign she’d disrupted Enid DePauw’s immaculate garden, but sudden death could’ve gotten in the way.
Had she been clawing earth when discovered on Bel Azura Drive?
Then again, her initial arrest had resulted from a far more mundane motive: stalking an ex.
And what was the point of applying logic to psychotic behavior? Even if I came up with a “reason” for Zelda’s trespassing, what did it matter?
The only worthwhile goal was finding an eleven-year-old boy.
First step: backtrack to Jane Chase. Or whatever her real name had been.
I phoned one of Milo’s sources, a clerk at County Records named Linus McCoy always happy to “facilitate data access” in return for a bottle of twenty-one-year-old single malt, a nice Cabernet, or a caviar sampler from Petrossian.
“My fellow gourmet,” Milo calls McCoy, though his own bent is for quantity rather than quality.
McCoy answered his office phone sounding sleepy. “Oh, hey, Doc. How’s Dirty Harry? Haven’t heard from him in a while.”
“Detecting as we speak.” I gave him my request.
He said, “Sir, that information is public access.”
Click.
A minute later, he called back. “Sorry ’bout that, I’m on my cell now.”
“Your work phone’s monitored?”
“Probably not, but the county’s been sending in snotty little MBAs to audit a bunch of agencies and one was passing by my desk. Anyway, you don’t need me to look for a name change, formal requests aren’t necessary anymore, people can call themselves whatever they want.”
“I know that, Linus, but this change would’ve happened a while back.”
“Got it. New name and approximate date of petition.”
“Zelda Chase, at least five years ago. I’ve been told her given name was Jane.”
“Back when she was married to Tarzan? Okay, hold on... found it, she petitioned thirteen years ago. Age twenty-two. Zelda Chase née... uh-oh, Doc, you’re not going to want to hear this. Original name Jane no middle initial Smith.”
Robin and I went to a Vietnamese place for dinner. At eight-forty, fortified by spring rolls, pho, and beer, we were already in bed reading, Blanche curled between us, when Milo called.
“I’m over at the crypt, just watched Zelda’s autopsy. Cause and manner of death remain undetermined. But it’s interesting.”
“Nasty word.”
“The nastiest. If you have time, I’d like to come by, run a few things past you. I can be there by ten, no prob if that’s too late, we’ll connect tomorrow.”
I asked Robin if she minded.
She said, “Do I really need to answer that?”
He showed up at ten-fifteen, wearing a soot-gray suit vanquished by smog and sweat. Robin hugged him before returning to the bedroom and her copy of American Lutherie, then Blanche assumed leadership of the greeting party, nuzzling his trouser cuffs.
“Hey, there, poochette.” He rubbed her head, plopped down on the nearest sofa.
No beeline to the fridge.
I said, “Something to drink?”
He waved that off. “When I said ‘interesting’ I meant ‘oh, shit.’ As in I was hoping to clear it quickly but forget that. Not a trace of illegal dope or booze in her system, just remnants of Ativan and the pathologist said it wouldn’t have risen to a ‘remedial level’ let alone killed her. He couldn’t tell me if she’d be walking around actively crazy or still suppressed because it’s not just a matter of chemistry, he’d need to know her behavioral patterns. So I’m asking you: Think she was raving her way from Santa Monica to Bel Air? Some manic thing that might’ve caused her heart to whack out? Pathologist says if she popped an arrhythmia, there could be no physical evidence.”