Death of the Office Witch by Marlys Millhiser Page A

secretary, sounding as cold as Libby, asked the hopeful if he had an appointment.
    Charlie slammed the door to the hall and leaned against Larry’s emergency sport coat.
    He gave her his long-suffering glance and reached into a lower cupboard beside his chair. “If it’s a Maalox moment, I just happen to have a spare fifth.”
    â€œNow she’s trying to marry me off.”
    â€œLibby.”
    â€œLibby. To the yacht club, no less.”
    He knew her moods well enough to let her get halfway through her calls and some of her mail before he slipped into her office. “So, did you learn anything yesterday? Why did Irma come back early?”
    â€œJust because she won, she says. Knowing Irma, she wouldn’t want to risk her earnings by staying. Then again Irma knows she has more than enough will to quit when she wants to. I’m not sure it holds water, but it sure doesn’t lead to murdering Gloria.” She told him about Mary Ann Leffler. “Far as I can see, her worries are groundless. I’m amazed that Gloria and Roger would do such a thing, but it’s no motive for murder, either. I can tell by your expression that you have news that can hardly wait. Run get us some coffee first, okay?”
    â€œOn my way, boss.”
    Charlie-hated it when he called her boss. But at the same time she kind of liked the idea of it.
    But before they could get to his news or the coffee, the phone rang again. This time it was Richard Morse. He wanted Charlie up to his house on the double. He gave a ghoulish laugh, “The phantom is arising. Grab your file, have Irma collect mine, and bring her along. Put The Kid or Tweetie on the phones.” Tweetie was Tracy Dewitt’s office name. If you walked her too fast her breathing made chirping sounds.
    Larry ended up on the front desk. Like he said, he was low man on the totem pole now that Gloria was gone. “When you have her alone in the car, ask the Vance about the famous party at Gloria’s house,” he whispered with knowing nods and winks to Charlie while Irma was still off collecting Richard Morse’s paper file on previous Alpine Tunnel negotiations.
    â€œI can remember getting a call like this seven years ago,” Irma said, clutching the Toyota’s armrest and pumping the rider’s phantom brake as Charlie careened through traffic heading for Bel Air. “And guess who was sitting in Mr. Morse’s living room when I arrived? Mitch Hilsten.”
    â€œIs he that gorgeous in real life?” Charlie had never met him, but she’d had the fantasy hots for him most of her adult life.
    â€œOh ho, the silver screen does not begin to do that man justice, Charlie dear.”
    Charlie, not being the detective her assistant wanted her to be, and thinking about Mitch Hilsten the superstar, forgot all about trapping Irma into divulging guilty secrets about some party at the Tuschmans’. She couldn’t imagine Irma mingling socially with the office receptionist anyway.
    The Beverly Hills police drove black and whites, but Bel Air had its own private security force driving white cars. The fences and privacy hedges bordering plebeian thoroughfares here were as forbidding as the chain link fences around maximum security prisons. The lawns fronting the winding inner streets were as precisely kept as the homes behind them. The only people on the sidewalks were Hispanic gardeners and Oriental cleaning ladies.
    â€œI wonder how much of this we pay for by not demanding a raise,” Charlie quipped to the executive secretary as the Toyota swept between stone pillars to join the lineup of far more impressive cars on the paved semicircle of drive. She received an icy stare for an answer.
    There was no Mitch Hilsten at this meeting. But there was fresh-ground coffee, fresh chilled fruit, hot breakfast rolls with real butter, and mimosas to celebrate. And no, it wasn’t what a lawyer or a real estate agent would