Case #4: Hot Ice
Date: April 14, 2002
Location: Los Angeles, CA
By the time I got back to my cabin that evening,
the phones were ringing. Every working phone
in the place. They all had different numbers,
so I was either the most popular guy in town
or last month's checks bounced, and I was
in big trouble. I picked up the first annoying
pain in the butt on the desk.
"Hello?"
No answer, but the phone was live. Covering
my other ear, I heard noise through the receiver,
but I couldn't make it out. After a few seconds,
the words registered.
"Johnny! Johnny!"
Somebody was calling my name, but they were
far from the mouthpiece. "Pick up the
phone!" I yelled.
Nada.
Other phones were ringing. I knew I should
have tossed most of the cell phones into
the bushes. Every time a new gadget came
on the market, I had to have it. I think
there were five working cellular devices
lurking around the cabin at the time.
The place was also wired with four different
land lines so I could use both computers
and the two regular phones separately along
with those cell phones. I probably had more
phone lines than the president had at Camp
David.
Funny thing was, I hated the telephone. Every
time it rang it was bad news.
I reached for another buzzing pest. Again,
it was live, and again, I heard my name.
The voice was farther away this time.
"Johnny! Help me! Help me!" said
a barely audible voice.
"Who is this? Pick up the other phone!"
Phones were still ringing. I clutched the
two devices in my hand and went for the phone
with the answering machine near my favorite
chair. The LED readout was flashing. 27!
27! 27! Twenty-seven messages were waiting
for me and another call was coming in. I
tripped over a stack of videocassettes of
my favorite old movies before I finally picked
up the receiver.
"Hello? Are you there?"
There was a muffled noise followed by a loud
crash. That phone went to the dial tone.
Two more phones started ringing in the cabin.
I made for the one in the bedroom.
"Hello? Dammit!"
Nothing.
Listening for a second, I distinctly heard
a voice through one of the instruments I
still held in my left hand. Though faint,
the sound moved closer to the phone at the
other end of the receiver nearest my ear.
"Johnny! Don't hang up. Don't hang up!"
Ten seconds later, there was heavy breathing
on the phone. My first thought: it was some
kind of gag. We were coming off Easter recess,
and the punks that flock to the mountains
with their parents were having some fun with
the phonebook.
"Johnny, it's Iris. You gotta he'p me.
Are you there, Johnny?"
"Good God, Iris. You called every phone
in the house!"
"You forgot to give me your new cell
phone 'numer' so I called all your ol' ones."
Now I remembered why I didn't give Iris the
newest number.
"What's the matter, Iris?
"Somebody's watchin' the house, Johnny.
I'm scared 'shpitless'."
Her speech was slurred. She must have just
polished off her bedtime vodka martini and
had taken her teeth out.
"Did you call the police?" I asked.
I knew the answer already. Screwy Iris had
the cops on speed dial, right after all my
phone numbers, on every phone in her house.
Her house was actually my house. I had been
renting it to her for the past three years.
It was wired with three phone lines and Iris
also had a pair of cell phones.
"By the time the flatfoots got here,
the bum was gone."
"Did you recognize him?"
"He was 'cross the street," she
said.
"Did you use your binoculars?"
Again, I knew the answer. I had seen the
pair of Tasco 7x50mm binoculars on the table
by the front picture window. She could zoom
in on all the neighbors with that baby. My
own pair was seven years older and didn't
have the range-finding reticule with a built-in
calculator dial. I could have used Iris as
an operative when I had my detective agency
down in L.A. She had more stamina than most
of the guys I hired to do leg work for me.
And from what I knew about Iris, she used
to be known for her legs.
Iris Sherwood was a big movie star… fifty
years ago. Her career started in the mid-Thirties
when she literally wandered in front of a
camera and caught the director's eye. She
was a shop girl in a downtown Los Angeles
department store and stepped out the wrong
door right into fame and fortune. Notable
fame and modest fortune. It was the succession
of wealthy husbands and Stage Door Johnnies
that kept her in luxurious furs and expensive
jewels.
Iris played a wisecracking dame in twenty-five
"B" movies during her early career.
She went on to play roughly the same part
in a leading role in twenty-five "A"
movies for another dozen years. She was good
at it. She told me. A million times. The
old gal had been a looker. I saw her flickering
across the screen in some of those vintage
movies I love to watch. Now nearing 86, Iris
had lost most of that glamour. But just like
her false teeth, the real glitz was still
in jars hidden somewhere around the house.
By that, I mean her jewels, boxes of them.
I installed safes in the house located north
of Los Feliz Boulevard and I tried to get
her to use them. Iris had other ideas. She
had stuff stashed behind books in the library,
in cabinets, even hanging on the chandelier
in the dining room. I always wondered how
many of her famous guests realized they were
dining in the glow of three yards of choice
pearls, and God knows how much expensive
ice in her freezer.
There she was, worth several million dollars
in jewels alone, and she rented my house
instead of buying some nice shack out in
Westwood or Encino. As for old Iris, she
was always saving for that rainy day.
"They're my security, Johnny. A girl
can't be too careful," she always said.
"You ought to keep your five carat insurance
policies in the safe, Iris."
"They're not going anywhere, Johnny."
They would if anybody knew about them, I
thought. But I could never convince Iris
to lock up her baubles.
"Did you get a look at the guy across
the street?" I asked her, again.
"I couldn't see his face. He was wearing
a blanket."
"A blanket?"
"Yeah. Like an Injun. You know, with
feathers."
"He was wearing a headdress?"
I knew I was going down the rabbit hole with
Alice, but I had to ask.
..........................Continued