Whisper Death by John Lawrence Reynolds Page A

McGuire said.
    â€œI’m a small-town California girl,” she said, her calm manner restored. “And I never gave up my American citizenship, thank goodness.”
    â€œHow did you meet your husband?”
    Her face glowed. She leaned back in the chair, crossed her legs and tilted her head at McGuire. “It was a fairy tale,” she said. “I was at one of the studios in Hollywood for a screen test. Getti—his name was Getulio, but everyone called him Getti—Getti was on a tour of the studio and saw my screen test. He insisted on meeting me and we had dinner. He was charming, absolutely charming.” She smiled coyly. “I failed the screen test. But two weeks later, when Getti asked me to accompany him to Rio as his wife, I couldn’t resist. And I never regretted it.”
    â€œHollywood’s loss was Rio’s gain,” Mercer chimed.
    Glynnis Vargas turned to reward him with a smile, one hand toying with her hair, before looking back at McGuire.
    â€œHer husband was one of Rio’s biggest jewellery dealers,” Mercer added.
    She was studying McGuire with her sapphire eyes, her hand still curling a lock of hair.
    â€œI don’t think there’s much more to be learned then,” McGuire said, standing. “What I need is a reason for Crawford to be here. Why this place? Why come all the way from Boston to here?”
    â€œIt’s the end of the road,” Mercer offered. He pointed to the dusty hill at the rear of the house. “These mountains, the San Jacintos, they’re the boundary between the good life here and the jungles of L.A. This is as far west as you can go before you’re in the zoo, all those animals smoking crack and doing all that other stuff back in La-La Land. It all starts on the other side of those mountains.” He waved the image away. “Besides, the guy was a nutcase. Who knows why nutcases do what they do?”
    â€œHe wasn’t crazy,” McGuire said solemnly to Mercer. “The man was very, very frightened. But he was not crazy.”
    Mercer shrugged.
    Glynnis Vargas looked at McGuire with heightened interest. “Of what?” she asked, rising from her chair. “What was the man so frightened of?”
    â€œI don’t know,” McGuire replied. “But he had good reason, didn’t he? After all, he’s dead.”
    At the doorway, Mercer turned quickly and seized Glynnis Vargas’s hand. “Don’t forget, we have a date this evening,” he said. “Drinks at my place first?”
    Glynnis Vargas brought her other hand to her forehead. “Oh, I don’t think so Donald,” she said. “Tell you what, just ring me a few minutes before eight and we’ll drive down in your car.” She turned to McGuire. “Do you enjoy art?” she asked.
    â€œI enjoy music more,” McGuire replied.
    She brushed her hair back, a gesture she repeated often. “Then you’ll certainly enjoy the evening. We’re having an exhibition of local artists’ works at the Desert Museum. We’ve also been able to book an exquisite string quartet from Hungary. If you care to attend, I could leave a guest pass at the door for you. Do you know where the museum is?”
    â€œGlynnis is on the board of directors,” Mercer interjected. “At the museum. They even named a gallery area after her.”
    â€œAfter Getti,” she corrected him. Then, to McGuire: “It’s easy to locate. Right downtown, off Palm Canyon Drive. The museum is worth seeing on its own, and tonight would be a special opportunity. That is, if you’re not returning to Boston.”
    â€œNot for a few days,” McGuire said. “Certainly not as long as my partner is still here.”
    â€œHe got caught in the crossfire last night,” Mercer offered.
    Glynnis Vargas nodded. “Perhaps something like this evening will help soften some horrible memories, Mr.