The Hell Yo - lanyon Josh - Страница 43

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back outside, the glass door swinging shut behind us. “I don’t know her. Should I?”

“You’ve never had her in class?”

He laughed. “Do you have any idea of how many kids I’ve had in class over the years? I

can’t say for sure. She looks like a million other girls. Why?”

“I don’t know. I’m paranoid, I guess. She’s sort of odd.”

His expression confirmed my self-diagnosis, but he humored me. “You think she may

be involved in whatever is going on?”

“I don’t know. It’s pretty unlikely, but she did show up out of the blue.”

“You must have people applying for work all the time.”

“Well…true. Though I did catch her going through my desk.”

He glanced at me as we wove our way through the morning sightseers littering the

sidewalks of Old Town. “That’s not good.” He added, “Had you told her your desk was off-

limits?”

“No, that’s the thing. I had her scoping eBay the day before at the computer there. She

may have thought the desk was community property.”

“Possibly.” He shrugged. “What is it you think she might be up to?”

I shook my head. “I have no idea. She’s not stealing from the register; I’m watching the

receipts. She could do a lot of damage if she wanted to, but I’d know she was the culprit, and

I’d prosecute, which she has to realize.” I concluded, “I guess she could be spying on me.”

Guy grinned wickedly, eyes catching mine. “What are you doing that would be worthy

of peeping?”

I laughed, surprised to feel my face warm. “Nothing.”

“How disappointing.” He said more seriously, “Did she offer references?”

“Yes. She checked out.”

He shrugged. “Well, if you’re uncomfortable with her, why don’t you fire her?”

I’d been asking myself the same thing since I caught her with my heart meds. “Seems

unfair. Besides, do you have any idea how hard it is to get good help? Especially around the

holidays.” Especially since I kept leaving her to fend for herself while I ran off to play Boy

Detective – this morning being a prime example.

Besides, if she was up to no good, this was one way to keep an eye on her.

We reached Guy’s car. He pulled his keys out, saying, “Do you mind if we have the top

down?”

* * * * *

Pacific Palisades perches atop the Santa Monica Mountains, offering its small, affluent

community breathtaking views of the coast from Malibu to Palos Verdes. The poor people

get to look at Santa Monica and West Hollywood.

Towering palms and old-fashioned street lamps line winding roads that lead to

charming shops and cozy cottages; there’s a small-town quaintness to the place.

Top down, wind in our hair, sun on our faces, we whipped along the winding highway,

enjoying the dramatic green bluffs, sunlight sparkling on blue water dotted with sail boats.

Guy had tied his hair back. I studied his lean, brown face. It was a youthful face despite

the time he’d spent in the sun. I thought he was in his forties, but he could have been a well-

preserved fifty. Sixty was pushing it, unless he really had sold his soul to the Devil.

“You know, there are no photographs of Garibaldi,” I said. “I was reading The Devil’s

Disciple last night. There’s not even an author photo.”

Guy, eyes on the road, inquired, “What did you make of The Devil’s Disciple?”

“Interesting. A more rational approach than I expected. Not that I’m planning to

convert anytime soon.”

He smiled that superior smile. “Are you…as they say…religious?”

“Not particularly. I dig Jesus. I hope that bit’s true.”

His laugh was ironic. “Satanism has a lot to offer people like us. People of our sexual

persuasion, that is.”

“That would confirm a conservative stereotype or two.”

“Think about it. Think about the Nine Satanic Sins. Stupidity, for example. Our society

embraces ignorance, we celebrate and reward it – and we call those who challenge the

accepted doctrine unpatriotic or ungodly.”

“I personally like the ninth sin. Lack of Aesthetics. That’s guaranteed to appeal to the

gay community.”

He glanced my way, his eyes serpent green. “Try to keep an open mind, Adrien. It’s the

only way you’ll discover the truth.”

Guy turned off the main drag. We drove another mile or two before coming to a pair of

tall, ornate gates. He spoke into the speaker box. The gates swung open. We drove through,

following a long, circular drive shaded by ancient cypress trees.

“Wow,” I said, as what appeared to be a Mediterranean estate on the bluffs swung into

view.

“It was built back in the 1930s for Elias Creighton. He was a big silent film star. When

talkies came in, he was reduced to doing a lot of character parts in cheesy horror films. They

called him the poor man’s Lon Chaney.”

“I don’t think I’ve heard of him.”

“Probably not, but you’d recognize him if you saw his picture.”

We parked and got out, crossing the immaculate green with a panoramic view from

Palos Verdes to Point Dume. The house had that Old Hollywood vibe. It was built of mellow

butter-colored stone contrasting warmly with the red-tiled roof. There were many large,

elegant windows reflecting the drifting clouds overhead.

An elderly manservant, who might have been a relic from Elias Creighton’s day,

opened the door and informed us that the “master” was out by the pool.

We followed him through giant, airy rooms filled with eighteenth-century French

antiques to a flagstone terrace – which led down to another terrace where the pool

overlooked the ocean.

The pool was tiled in aqua, green, and indigo. Between palm trees, Grecian-style

statues were strategically positioned down its length. Two red-haired women – twins –

sunned themselves beside the water’s edge. In the pool, a man did laps, his powerful brown

arms cutting through the water.

The manservant excused himself. We sat at a table a few feet away from the girls,

waiting for our host to complete his morning constitutional. One of the girls sat up and

removed her top without any apparent self-consciousness, lying back to soak up the fitful

seacoast sun.

Garibaldi finished his laps and climbed the pool steps, picking up the monogrammed

towel lying over a chair. He dried himself leisurely, as though unaware of us. I’m not sure

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