Case # 9: High Maintenance
Date: December 1982
Location: Los Angeles, CA


The place smelled like money, important money. The kind that got you in trouble if you didn't know what you were doing, or made you a fortune if you knew the score. And as I was to find out, some people are just better at math than others.

Oakview Country Club catered to a class of people who demanded leather chairs, fancy china, and real silver knives and forks. No plastic utensils or paper plates like my mother told me to get used to. These people expected the best. I expected nothing and that's what I usually got.

I grew up with my nose pressed against the glass, watching the fancy people in places like this do things I thought only existed in the movies. For me, that's where life really was. But I studied them, copied their moves and even picked up some of their lingo just in case I found myself on the inside.

Long tables covered with enough food to feed the Bulgarian Army lined the walls in the plush dining room. The table nearest me would make a rat think he'd died and gone to heaven. It was all cheese. I grew up on cheap Italian mozzarella and a dozen other kinds, but this was biblical. Somebody had even carved a huge hunk of cheddar into the shape of a Ferrari. Jeez.

"Magnificent camembert," said a potbellied guy next to me. He was a foot shorter than my own six-foot-two frame, and bald except for a wild fringe of gray hair below his polished dome.

I thought he was speaking to me, but before I made a fool of myself by saying something lame about the cheese, I heard a giggly voice behind me. "Oooh. I love it all gooey like that, daddy."

He was her daddy like I'm the Prince of Wales. A quarter of the men in this place brought girls whose only relation existed between satin sheets. That's another thing money gets you.

I turned my attention to the couples on the dance floor. They had a live band, not a DJ churning out the Go-Go's or Joan Jett. The music was Dorsey and Glenn Miller. Only the best for this crowd.

"Shrimp," said an annoying voice nearby.

The remark ticked me off. I was taller than most of the people in the room and here was somebody trying to cut me down to size.

I turned and studied the petite redhead in a dress that said, "Hello, sailor," in several languages.

"Would you like me to serve you some shrimp scampi?" she added, pointing to a dish overflowing with a thick stew.

"That's lobster Newberg," I said, having heard the waiter mention what it was. "Allow me to get you some."

Neither the main course nor the hottie in blue satin were the dish I was looking for that evening, but I could fake good manners and help the tasty little morsel to some stew. I picked up the heavy silver ladle, but she declined the offer.

"I've seen you at a few of these events lately, haven't I?" she said, her tiny bird-like voice chirping up at me. "They can be so boring if you don't know anybody."

"Don't you know anybody?" I asked.

"I know practically everybody," she said, rolling her eyes. "That's the problem. They're all so boring. I went to private school with half the girls here, at least the ones who belong." She glared at the ditzy date of the bald-headed man I had seen earlier. "You can bet she's never been a Rose Queen."

That's Pasadena society for you. The swells who inhabited the pricy real estate in South Pasadena had estates that rivaled the swankiest places in Beverly Hills, and there's more room to park your six cars at this end of town.

"Were you a Rose Queen?" I asked the redhead, killing time.

Her face frosted over as she answered. "I was in the Princess's Court." She waited a beat, then added, "But they took more pictures of me."

My eyes wandered away from the little vixen and scanned the dance floor again. That's when I spotted her. My eyes weren't the only ones pawing over the blonde in the gold dress. She looked like a Greek goddess, except this one had arms, legs and all the other accessories. I must have been drooling because the tootsie noticed.

"When did she get back in town?" said the redhead, then she did a double-take. "Too many chocolate éclairs for her. She looks ten pounds heavier."

Meow. I guess ladies in any economic bracket bring out the long knives when they have rivals. But that golden goddess could buy and sell anybody in the room. Well, maybe she couldn't, but her daddy could.

"Who's that?" I asked even though I knew the answer. I'd been trying to get close to Ms. Chandler for a week.

"Phoebe Chandler. Her father loans money to God."

"Isn't Chandler Aviation bidding on a contract to build a fleet of private jets for some Saudi prince? The deal's worth a few billion."

Rolling her eyes again, the girl said, "I thought Phoebe was a pain before. She'll be totally obnox now."

"Did you go to school with her?"

"Her father sent her to an exclusive place in New York after eighth grade. It's so schmancy, it has an unlisted ZIP code."

"Was she ever a Rose Queen?"

She harrumphed. "With that much money? Of course."

"My name's Hamilton Chase," I said, turning on the charm. "Would you care to dance?"

I picked that name because it sounded like money. That's another thing mom told me I'd never have. She was always telling me my dreams were too big, but here I am, ma, right in the middle of the cannoli. So what if I stole the invitation. The Zenga suit was mine.

"I'm Brandy Lawford," said the little flirt. "My father owns all those car dealerships. You've seen the ads."

Late night TV was full of those cheesy commercials with scantily clad bimbos slithering over the hoods of equally hot cars.

As we squeezed between the dancers, I bumped into a man wrestling a heavyset woman across the floor. I figured it was his wife until I got a look at him. He was close to my age, twenty-four. The lady was pushing sixty, and pushing it hard. I've been paid to escort a few old crows myself, and most paid well, like in Zenga suits. Hey, rich women can have their toys, too.

Brandy was saying something to me, but I had tuned her out. That's when I noticed Phoebe Chandler staring at me. Her dark blue eyes were giving me the once over. This was going to be easier than I thought.

I danced every dance with Brandy that evening. If I could have found her mute button, I would have punched it earlier, but instead, I tried dominating the conversation. That didn't work, either.

"What did you say you did?" she was asking when I tuned back in around ten o'clock when the band was playing a set of romantic old favorites.

"Stock broker. I'm with Putman and Putman." They were the biggest brokerage firm on the West Coast, and I figured most wealthy people had heard of them.

"Never heard of 'em," she said. "All I know is cars, and I don't know much about them. Booooring."

They weren't the only thing.

"You don't look like a broker," she said. "You look like a male model in that suit. Fits you great."

There was laughter behind us. I swung Brandy around on the dance floor and saw several guys making fools of themselves over Phoebe Chandler. Some guys have all the luck.

Mine was about to change.

Phoebe eased the guys out of her way and walked toward the lobby. The Ladies Room was in the opposite direction, so I had a feeling she was leaving. She turned as some guy ran up to her and no doubt made some stupid remark. She shook her glorious blonde hair and waved him away with a jeweled hand. That's when she looked toward me and I saw those Mediterranean blue eyes sizing me up.

If that wasn't an invitation, I don't know what was.

"Gotta go," I said to Brandy. "I left my car double parked. Catch you later."

The hatcheck girl handed Phoebe a full length mink coat that she dragged over the counter. A twenty dollar bill seemed to appear out of nowhere, since I didn't think that gold dress had pockets, but then I saw a small, jeweled purse hanging over Phoebe's golden shoulder from a thin gold chain as she walked away.

I handed the girl behind the counter my stub and paniced when she took her time retrieving my overcoat. I shot a glance at the door and saw Phoebe lean over and "air kiss" some silver-haired lady sitting in a chair. They chatted about something for a minute, Phoebe doing most of the talking, until the tall blonde straightened, slipped on her mink, and sailed through the front doors and into the night.

I followed.

She was halfway across the parking lot, heading toward her silver Jag. I had done my homework and knew what kind of car the twenty-five year old drove. I spotted it in the lot earlier that evening when I managed a quick reconnoiter while Brandy was in the Powder Room.

Phoebe stopped, leaned against a dark Mercedes, and adjusted the strap on her gold shoe. She had thrown open her coat so I saw a lot of leg. Even in the dim light from the half dozen lampposts in the parking lot, I could tell it was as tanned as the rest of her, at least what I could see. And it was winter.

She looked up when she heard the sound of my shoes on the pavement. "You have been staring at me all evening. Just now getting up your courage?"

My hand went over her mouth. The chloroform worked faster than I thought and she dropped into my arms, mink and all.

….Continued.

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