Web of Evil

CHAPTER 2

Helga called the next morning at eight. "So you know where you're going?" she asked.

Ali had lived in California for years. She knew her way around Beverly Hills. "The West District Courthouse, right?"

"Close, but no cigar," Helga said. "Your husband wanted this divorce in a hell of a hurry. In California, if you don't want to wait in line for court time, you can hire a private judge. I told him fine, as long as I got to choose the judge, which I did. Judge Alice Tennant's court is a few blocks away from there in what used to be a private residence."

"I didn't know there was any such thing as a private judge," Ali muttered.

"You do now," Helga returned.

Helga had referred to Alice Tennant's courtroom as a private residence, but the term hadn't done the place justice. Mansion's more like it, Ali thought an hour and a half later when she pulled up in front of the two-story porticoed edifice with lions guarding either side of a gated entrance complete with a circular drive. Helga was waiting on the front porch, pacing back and forth in front of a pair of Art Deco doors radiant with what looked like genuine Tiffany stained glass. Beyond the glass doors was a marbled foyer, its old-fashioned elegant ambience marred by the mundane and thoroughly modern presence of a wand-holding uniformed security guard and a metal detector.

They were directed into an ornate room that had probably once served as a formal dining room. A magnificent, hand-carved sideboard at the far end was covered with a silver coffee service, plates, cups, saucers, and silverware, and a collection of breakfast pastries that would have put most self-respecting hotel buffets to shame. The display came complete with a uniformed butler who handled the pouring.

Ali was sipping freshly squeezed orange juice and nibbling on a deliciously flaky croissant when Paul's attorney, Ted Grantham, came rushing into the room.

"Paul's still not here?" Grantham demanded of Helga.

"Not so far," Helga returned with a tight smile.

Ted Grantham was someone Ali knew slightly. He had been a guest at their Robert Lane home on several occasions, and he was a regular attendee at Paul's daylong Super Bowl extravaganzas. Now, though, Ted barely acknowledged her. Refusing offers of coffee, he paced back and forth in the entryway, making one brief cell phone call after another. By five to ten, when Paul had yet to arrive, Ted was downright frantic.

"So where's his bad boy?" Helga muttered under her breath. "Hope he's not planning on keeping the judge waiting."

But it turned out that was exactly what Paul seemed to have in mind. At three minutes after ten, a bailiff summoned all three of them into the judge's chambers.

Judge Alice Tennant was seated behind an immense partner desk that reminded Ali of one she'd seen in an antiques shop in the idyllic Cotswold town of Stow-on-the-Wold. Dwarfed by the desk, Judge Tennant was a sixty-something with flaming red hair and a temper to match.

"My time's very valuable, and you know I don't like being kept waiting, Mr. Grantham," she snapped as they filed into the room. "So where exactly is your client? Was he aware that he was expected here at ten this morning?"

"Yes, of course he knew," Grantham said hurriedly. "I've been trying to reach him all morning. He isn't answering any of his phones. The calls keep going straight to voice mail, and he hasn't called me back, either."

"I was given to understand there was some urgency about our doing this today," Judge Tennant observed. "About Mr. Grayson wanting to have his divorce finalized in a timely fashion."

Grantham looked uncomfortable. "Yes," he said. "There is something of a deadline."

"Because?"

Grantham glanced briefly in Ali's direction before he answered. "Well," he said reluctantly. "Actually, Mr. Grayson is due to be married tomorrow."

"I presume that would be to someone other than the wife who happens to be here right at the moment?" Judge Tennant asked. Her sharp blue eyes focused fully on the squirming attorney, whose forehead, by then, had popped out in a very unlawyerly sweat.

"Yes," Grantham muttered. "That would be correct. To someone else. I'm sure I'll be able to locate my client in the next little while. If you could find a spot for us in this afternoon's calendar"

Alice Tennant's reply was brisk. "There is no afternoon calendar. As it happens, I'm leaving town right after lunch," she said with a cold smile. "You'll have to check with my clerk to see if it's possible to reschedule for sometime next weekif that's all right with you, Ms. Reynolds. I understand you've driven all the way over from Arizona."

"Of course," Ali said quickly. "Next week will be fine. I want to stay on until this is sorted out."

"Excellent," Judge Tennant said.

"Perhaps you could see your way clear to hand this off to another judge" Grantham began.

Helga started to object, but Judge Tennant silenced both attorneys with a single wave of her hand. "I was contracted to deal with this case," she said severely. "I have no intention of handing it off to anyone. Once the next court date is set, I trust you'll notify your client that he will be present on the appointed day and at the appointed hour. Please remind him that I may be a private judge, but I can nonetheless cite him for contempt of court. Is that clear, Mr. Grantham?"

"Yes, ma'am," Grantham replied contritely. "Quite clear."

"Just for the record," she added. "If I hear that any kind of marriage ceremony is performed tomorrow without your client being properly divorced from Ms. Reynolds beforehand, I'll see to it that he's charged with bigamy, which happens to be a criminal offense. Is that also clear?"

"Yes," Grantham said. "Very."

"All right then. See my clerk."

Ali couldn't help feeling a bit giddy at the idea that Paul's absence at the hearing had left Twink's lavish plans for her wedding day in utter shambles. Hurrying out into the corridor to wait while Helga Myerhoff and Ted Grantham dealt with the court clerk, she almost collided with a man rushing toward her from the security checkpoint.

"Ali!" he exclaimed. "Don't tell me the hearing's finished already."

Ali recognized the new arrival as Jake Maxwell, one of Paul's fellow network execs. She was surprised to see him there; surprised to think he'd squander some of his precious time on Paul's legal issues. Jake and his ditzy wife, Roseanne, weren't high on Ali's list of social acquaintances any more than Ted Grantham was.

"Hi, Jake," she said. "We're done for today. What brings you here?"

At least he had the good grace to look sheepish. "You know, moral support and all that."

"Well, you missed on that one," Ali said. "Paul didn't show."

Helga emerged from the courtroom wearing a grim smile. "Thursday morning. Ten A.M. again." Then, looking at Jake, she added derisively, "Oh, Mr. Maxwell, you must be Mr. Grayson's cheering section. I'm afraid the match has been rescheduled for next weeksame time, same station. See you then." Dismissing Jake, Helga turned back to Ali. "Is that all right with you?"

"Thursday is fine," Ali said. "I can stay that long if I have to."

Ted Grantham entered the hallway. Jake quickly gravitated in his direction.

"Why isn't Paul here?" he asked.

"Beats the hell out of me," Grantham replied heatedly. "He blew off our court appearance, and now the judge is pissed at me."

"Did you check with April?"

"Of course I checked with April. She has no idea where Paul is. He never came home last night."

The glass doors closed behind the two men, taking the rest of the conversation outside with them.

"So he didn't come home last night," Helga observed. "Not good. Not good."

"It sounds amazingly familiar to me," Ali said.

"Well," Helga said, "if Paul Grayson knows what's good for him, he'll cancel his wedding and make the cancellation a media event all its own."

"Why? The bigamy thing? Would Judge Tennant really put him in jail for going through with the wedding?"

"Absolutely," Helga replied. "Alice Tennant takes a dim view of those kinds of marital shenanigans. Her ex, Jack, did the same thing, you see. Got married while the divorce decree was still warm to the touchthe same day, in fact. It's lucky for Pauland for Ted Grantham, toothat we've already hammered out a property settlement."

Ali was astounded. "Why on earth did Paul agree to use her as a judge?"

"Because he was in a hurry," Helga answered. "Like I told you, I got to choose."

Just then, the glass entry doors swung open and a very tall black woman, clad in sweats and tennis shoes, entered the building. She paused briefly while going through the security checkpoint then came trotting down the hall toward Ali and Helga.

"Am I too late?" the newcomer asked breathlessly, smothering Ali in a bone-crushing hug. "Sorry. I went to the courthouse and looked everywhere for the right courtroom before someone finally pointed me in this direction. Is it over already?"

"Not over over," Ali replied. "But it's over for today."

"Who's this?" Helga wanted to know.

"My cheering section," Ali replied with a smile. "My friend Sister Anne. And Sister Anne, this is my attorney, Helga Myerhoff."

At six foot seven, Sister Anne towered over both Ali and the diminutive Helga. She was dressed in blue-and-white UCLA insignia sweats and high-end Nikes and looked far more like the NCAA championship basketball player she had once been than the Sister of Charity she was now. Jamalla Kareem Williams had left college with a degree in business administration, plenty of basketball trophies, and a permanently damaged knee. Rather than going into business, she had become a nun. For years now, she had managed My Sister's Closet, a Pasadena-based clothing recycling program that helped provide appropriate, low-cost attire for impoverished women hoping to get into the job market. That was where Ali had dropped off her newscaster duds when she had left town months earlier.

Sister Anne held out her hand in Helga's direction. "Glad to meet you," she said with a gap-toothed smile while her beaded cornrows clicked and clattered around her head.

"Sister Anne and I met years ago at a charity fund-raiser and just hit it off," Ali explained. "In fact, if it weren't for her, I probably wouldn't know about you. Marcella Johnson was one of Sister Anne's basketball teammates at UCLA. When I was looking at filing a wrongful dismissal suit against the station, Sister Anne pointed me at Marcella, and when I needed a divorce attorney, Marcella sent me to you."

Sister Anne turned back to Ali. "What do you mean it's not over over?"

"My not-quite-ex didn't bother showing up for the hearing," Ali told her. "The new court date is set for Thursday of next week."

"Well, then," Sister Anne said briskly. "Let's go have some lunch."

Helga begged off, so Ali and Sister Anne drove to Beverly Center and had lunch in a Mexican restaurant where one of Sister Anne's recent clients from My Sister's Closet had hired on as the hostess. Over a shared plate of fajitas, Ali reached into her purse and pulled out an envelope, which she handed to Sister Anne.

"What's this?"

"Money," Ali said. "It's one thing to donate clothing, but this time I decided to give you something that would help pay the rent and keep the lights on."

Sister Anne counted through the bills then looked up. "You can afford this?"

"Helga's a very good attorney. I'm going to be fine."

Smiling, Sister Anne slipped the envelope into a zippered pocket on her pants. "This couldn't come at a better time," she said. "We've been right on the edge of having to close the place down. You have no idea how much we needed this."

The hostess, a young Hispanic woman dressed in a stylish black dress and sling-back high heelsclothing that had been someone else's castoffssmiled shyly at Sister Anne and Ali as she led a group of diners to a table.

"Glad I could help," Ali said. And she was.

After lunch, feeling a strange sense of letdown, Ali returned to her hotel. First she called her mother, who was still at the Sugar Loaf.

"Well?" Edie Larson said. "Are you free as a bird now?"

"Not exactly," Ali said, and then went on to explain the situation.

"My word," Edie said. "If that doesn't take the cake! After you had to drive all that way! It's inexcusable for him to not show up like that. Did you try calling him?"

"No," Ali admitted. "Under the circumstances, that didn't seem like a good idea. His attorney called, though. From what he was saying, it sounded like Paul stayed out all night."

"And he hasn't even married the poor girl yet?" Edie demanded. "Seems like it's a little early for him to be up to his old tricks."

Ali didn't exactly agree with the "poor girl" part. But the "old tricks" reference worked. "Yes," Ali said. "It does seem early."

"You stay there as long as necessary in order to get this all straightened out," Edie said. "Everything here is under control. Chris stopped by last night before he headed for his seminar in Phoenix tomorrow. We invited him to come to dinner Sunday night when he gets home, so he won't starve to death. As for Sam? She's fine. She took to your father the way most strays do. In other wordslove at first sight. What are you going to do with this extra time, hook up with some old friends?"

What old friends? Ali wondered. Other than Sister Anne, she didn't seem to have any real friends waiting for her. The ones she did have were people who were primarily friends of Paul's. In the aftermath of her blowup with Paul and the abrupt ending to her television career, Ali had been surprised and hurt by the number of people who had simply vanished from her life the moment her face had disappeared from the evening news. It had been hard to accept that people she had considered close friends had been drawn by her celebrity rather than anything else. Coming to terms with the reality of those lost relationships still hurt, but Edie Larson didn't need to know that.

"Already handled, Mom," Ali said as airily as she could manage. "Not to worry."

But it wasn't. When Ali got off the phone with her mother, she slipped out of her new Nordy's "court dress" and changed into a T-shirt and jeans. There were, of course, people she could have called, some of whom were bound to be in town. But she didn't call any of them. There was something so trite and Holly-woodyso whiny and patheticabout gathering a group of pals around to hold your hand during stalled divorce proceedings that she couldn't bring herself to do it. Instead, Ali pulled out her computer and turned to Babe of Yavapai's new friendsthe ones who were only a mouse click away.

CUTLOOSEBLOG.COM

Friday, September 16, 2005

Surprisingly enough it's more difficult to be cut loose legally than one would think. The divorce that was supposed to be finalized today isn't because my soon-to-be-former husband was a no-show in court, and our rent-a-judge refused to issue a decree without his being present and accounted for. So here I am stuck in limbo for a little longer. This should all be brought to a conclusion next week, but for now I'm here with time on my hands and not much to do.

In the past I've always had work to fall back on. And family responsibilities. But my son is raised now. I no longer have to look after him, and although I'm not entirely finished with him yet, I no longer have a husband to look after, either.

So I've decided to treat this like an extended vacationa vacation in a place where I used to live, but where I was always too busy working to do the things tourists from around the world come here to do. Starting with the Getty. And the La Brea Tar Pits. Who knows? I may even throw over the traces completely and go for a walk on the beach or spend a day at Disneyland.

In other words, blogging will be light for a while for the very good reason that I'm out having fun.

Posted 2:16 P.M., September 16, 2005 by Babe

After that, Ali read through and posted some of the comments that had come in from her readers while she'd been otherwise engaged.

Dear Babe,

I know you're lawyer said your divorce would be final, but don't you believe him. Divorces ain't never final. They can give you a hundred pieces of paper that say your single, but being married don't just go away because of a piece of paper, especially if you have kids. And I should know. My husband can still drive me crazy even though we've been divorced for fifteen years and hes been dead for ten. If I end up still being married to him when I get to heaven, I may just turn around and walk right back out.

LILY

The next comment came from one of Ali's regulars, a widowed longtime fan from California, who wrote cheery little notes every other day or so. Over the months, Ali had come to think of the woman as a friend, despite the fact that they had never met in person.

Dear Babe,

I know this is a tough time for you. I just wanted you to know my thoughts and prayers are with you.

VELMA T IN LAGUNA

Then there was Fred.

What happened to "Whosoever God has joined together let no man put asunder"? No wonder the world is going to hell in a handbasket. First women wanted the Equal Rights Amendment and now they don't even want to bother with having husbands. And did you ever give any thought as to how you treated your husband and what might have driven him into the arms of another woman? I'm glad I only have sons and no daughters.

FRED

So am I, Ali thought. She decided not to post Fred's comment. Then she changed her mind. She suspected there were a lot of people in the world who shared his opinion and regarded independent women as a direct threat to their manhood and to their very existence. Maybe that was something cutlooseblog needed to bring up as a topic of discussion.

Dear Babe,

My husband did the same thing, married his little cutie two days after our divorce. It didn't last. Two months later he was back, knocking on my door because she'd thrown him out and begging me to take him back, which I did. He stayed for three more years after that then he left again and now I don't know where he is. But I know you're smarter than I am, so if your cheating husband asks you to take him back, whatever you do, don't.

WISER NOW

Ali's phone rang. She recognized the numberthe Flagstaff branch of the YWCA. "Hi, Andrea," Ali said.

Andrea was Andrea Rogers. A year ago, Andrea had been second in command in what was essentially a two-woman nonprofit spearheaded by Ali's girlhood best friend, Reenie Bernard. Reenie had been the outgoing, fund-raising brains of the outfit, while Andrea had functioned as office manager, keeping the place running smoothly in Reenie's absence. After Reenie's tragic murder, it had been Andrea who had tracked down Reenie's personal effects and, for the benefit of Reenie's orphaned children, rescued them from the thrift shop where they'd been shipped by Reenie's less-than-grief-stricken husband.

For Andrea, that one act of kindness on behalf of Reenie's kids had been the beginning of a new sense of self-confidence and independence. The Flagstaff YWCA had been so much Reenie Bernard's baby that, in the initial aftermath of her murder, there had been serious talk of shutting the place down, but Andrea in particular had been determined that Reenie's dream wouldn't perish with her. Over a period of several months, Andrea had managed to keep the doors open while Ali worked to convince the board of directors that, with a little assistance and encouragement from them, Andrea could be groomed to take over the executive director's position.

Her official promotion had happened three months ago. The board had hired a new assistant for Andrea, but Andrea had yet to catch on to the fact that she no longer needed to answer the phone herselfwhich she did most of the time.

Andrea was a plugger. She was dependable. She didn't have the finesse or the vision of a Reenie Bernard. What she had instead was an absolute devotion to her murdered boss and unbridled enthusiasm about carrying Reenie's life's work forward. One way or another, Andrea managed to get things done.

"Is it over then?" Andrea asked.

"It' being the divorce?" Ali asked.

"Of course, the divorce," Andrea returned. "What else would I be asking about?"

"I'm beginning to wonder if my divorce will ever be over," Ali replied and went on to repeat the gory details one more time.

"But what if you're not home in time for the board meeting next Friday?" Andrea asked, as a hint of her old reticence crept into her voice. "I've never handled one of those by myself. I've always had you there to backstop me."

"I'll do what I can to be home by then," Ali said. "But if I'm not, you'll be fine. You know more about what's going on at the YWCA than anyone. You'll be able to handle it."

"I hope so," Andrea said, but she didn't sound convinced.

Ali was talking on her cell phone. It surprised her when the room phone began to ring. "Sorry, Andrea," Ali said. "I need to take that."

"Ms. Reynolds?" a woman's voice asked.

"Yes."

"My name is Detective Carolyn Little," she said. "I'm with the LAPD's Missing Persons Unit. Mr. Ted Grantham said you were staying at the Westwood, and I took the liberty of calling."

"About?" Ali asked.

"About your husband."

"My soon-to-be-former husband," Ali corrected.

"Are you aware he's missing?"

"I know he failed to show up in court this morning for our divorce hearing," Ali answered. "That's all I know."

"He's been reported missing by one April Gaddis."

"His fiancee," Ali supplied.

"Yes," Detective Little answered. "She did mention that she and Mr. Grayson are engaged. It seems he went to a bachelor party last evening and never came home."

Ali felt like mentioning that for Paul to declare himself a bachelor prior to his divorce being finalized was a bit like putting the cart before the horse, but Detective Little didn't sound like she had much of a sense of humor.

"When was the last time you saw your husband?" Detective Little asked.

"That would be Friday, March eleventh of this year," Ali answered at once.

There was a slight pause. "March eleventh? That's a long time agosix months, but you still remember the exact date?"

"And the exact time," Ali responded. "I had just lost my job. I came home, expecting some sympathy from my husband, but in our house, you find sympathy in the dictionary between shit' and syphilis.' He took off with his girlfriend bright and early the next morning before I even woke up."

The "shit' and syphilis'" reference was one of her father's more colorful expressions, one that was guaranteed to send Bob Larson's wife into a spasm. Even Carolyn Little chuckled a little at that, so the woman wasn't entirely devoid of humor.

"This same girlfriend?" the detective added. "The fiancee?"

"Yes," Ali agreed. "That would be the onethe same one who's expecting his baby."

"And you came to town when?"

"Last night," Ali said. "I drove over from Sedona yesterday afternoon. I got a late start. It was almost two in the morning before I finished checking in."

"And you're here until?"

"Paul and I have another court date scheduled for next week."

"On Thursday," Little said. Obviously she had already acquired the information from Ted Grantham. "And you'll be staying at the Westwood? And is there another number in case I need to reach you again?"

It had been six months since Ali had seen Paul Grayson, and she didn't see why the Missing Persons Unit would need to speak to her again, but she gave the detective her cell phone number all the same.

As Ali ended the call with Detective Little, she was already groping for the television remote. Within minutes of turning on the set she located a news tease from Annette Carrera, Ali Reynolds's blond, blue-eyed, surgically enhanced news anchor successor. The promo was already in progress when Ali tuned in: " amp;network executive who disappeared from his bachelor party last night. We'll have the story for you live on the evening news."

Carrera! Ali had to give credit to whoever had dreamed up that name. It was calculated to be high-toned enough to appeal to L.A.'s Porsche-craving yuppies, but it also sounded vaguely Hispanicif you didn't look too closely at the blond hair, blue eyes, and fair skin. In Ali's not-unbiased opinion, Annette was far too young and far too perky. Her hair looked as if she had stuck her finger in an electrical outlet and then moussed the resulting hairdo into a froth of permanent peakslike whipped cream beaten to a turn.

Disgusted at the idea of having to wait another two hours to glean any additional details, Ali reached for her computer, intent on surfing the Net to track down a breaking-news Web site. As she touched the keyboard, though, she heard a new-mail alert. She paused long enough to read the new message.

Dear Babe,

I just saw a news blurb on your old channel. I've gone back to watching them even though I hate that new Annette person. Anyway, it said a man named Paul Grayson, some network bigwig, is missing. I seem to remember that was your husband's name. So is this your Paul Grayson or is it just someone with the same name?

VELMA T IN LAGUNA

No matter who he is, he isn't my Paul Grayson, Ali thought, but she sent Velma an immediate response.

Dear Velma,

Thanks for bringing this to my attention. The missing man most likely is "my" Paul Grayson. Once I have more details on the situation, I'll try to let you know.

BABE