Flesh and Blood Page 9

  “She told Salander investments, never got specific.”

  “A student with investments,” he said. “Tell me everything you know about her, Alex. Right from the beginning. The long version.”

  * * *

  Death ends confidentiality. Freed from that hurdle, I spilled. Not much confidentiality to honor anyway. Therapy with Lauren had amounted to so little, and the retelling drove home how little I'd accomplished. When I got to Phil Harnsberger's party, my voice grew louder, faster. Milo kept his eyes on his pad, looked up only when the Ventura Freeway appeared and I forgot to veer to the right. Realizing my error, I asserted myself across three lanes as he sat up and gripped the armrest. Managing to bounce onto the eastbound off-ramp, I tortured my shock absorbers, drove for another couple of miles, exited at Van Nuys, found the south end of the Valley comfortingly quiet.

  He said, “Well, that got my heart rate up. No need for the treadmill.”

  “When's the last time you saw the inside of a gym?”

  “Sometime in the Pleistocene era. Me and all the other Neanderthals, pumping chunks of granite.”

  I stayed on Van Nuys, reached Valley Vista, turned left, found Devana Terrace, and cruised slowly, looking for Jane Abbot's address.

  Dark street. Pretty street. I finished the account of Lauren's strip, the recognition that had passed between us like a virus.

  Milo wanted nothing to do with the confessor role, waved his pen, said, “Remember the other girl's name?”

  “Michelle.”

  “Michelle what?”

  “Lauren never said.”

  “Same age as Lauren?”

  “Approximately. Around the same height, too. Dark-haired, maybe Latin.”

  “Blonde and brunette,” he said, and I knew what he was thinking: Someone ordering a matched pair for the evening.

  After I'd left, how far had Lauren and Michelle taken things?

  He said, “Anyone mention the name of the company they worked for?”

  “No. And even if you find the guys who organized the party, I doubt they'll admit to anything. We're talking medical school professors and financial types, and this was four years ago.”

  “Four years ago would be right around the time Lauren was working for Gretchen Stengel. So maybe Gretchen had a party-rental sideline.”

  “Where is Gretchen?”

  “Don't know. She served a couple of years for money laundering and tax evasion, but your guess is as good as mine.” He closed his pad. “Investments . . . So maybe Lauren stayed in the game. Be interesting if she and Michelle maintained a relationship.”

  “Andrew Salander said Lauren didn't have any friends.”

  “Maybe there were things Lauren didn't tell Andrew. Or he didn't tell you.”

  “That could very well be,” I said. Thinking: Lauren lied about the research job, so she'd probably erected other barriers. Constructing her own confidentiality.

  Now all her secrets were trash.

  9

  THE HOUSE WAS too easy to find.

  Two-story white colonial at the end of the block, almost grand behind black stripes of iron fencing, so brightened by high-voltage spots that it seemed to inhabit its own private daylight. Mullioned windows, green shutters, semicircular driveway, two gates, one marked ENTRY. Milo tightened the knot of his tie as I parked. We got out and walked toward the entrance gate. The night seemed drained of life force, or maybe it was the task at hand.

  Lights yellowed a couple of upstairs windows, and the fanlight above the front door flashed chandelier sparkle. A white Cadillac Fleetwood blocked the view of the front door. Shiny enough to be brand-new but of a size no longer hazarded by Detroit. Handicap license plate. A metallic blue Mustang coupe, also spotless, was parked behind the Caddy, trailing the big car like an obedient child.

  Milo glanced at the call box, then at me. “Either way.”

  I pushed the button. A digital code sounded, then a ringing phone.

  Jane Abbot said, “Yes?” in a sleepy voice.

  “Mrs. Abbot, it's Dr. Delaware.”

  Her breath caught. “Oh . . . what is it?”

  “It's about Lauren. May I please come in?”

  “Yes, yes, of course. . . . Just one second, let me . . . Hold on.” Her voice climbed in pitch with each truncated phrase, and the last word was a tight screech. Moments later the door opened and Jane Abbot ran out wearing a quilted silk robe, hair pinned up. In her hand was a remote control that she aimed at the gate. Iron panels slid open. She was two feet away when we stepped through.

  Ten years since I'd seen her. She was still trim and fine-boned, the blond hair now a salon ash barely darker than the platinum Lauren had sported. The decade had hollowed her face and loosened her skin and acid-etched fissures in all the typical places. As she ran toward us she breathed through her mouth. Fluffy slippers flapped on brick.

  Milo had his badge out, but it wasn't necessary. He had that terrible sadness on his face, and Jane Abbot's curse was comprehension. She raised her hands to her head, jerked away from him, and stared at me. I had nothing better to offer, and she screamed and beat her breast, tripped and stumbled as her legs gave way. A slipper flew off. Pink slippers. The things you notice.

  Milo and I caught her simultaneously. She struck at us, all bones and tendons, oddly slippery through the chenille of her robe. Her grief was raw and head-splitting, but no one else came to the door of the house. No reactions from the neighbors either, and I had a sudden taste of the solitude she'd face.

  I picked up the slipper, and we guided her across the driveway and back inside.

  * * *

  Except for the chandeliered entry and a front room lit by a ceramic table lamp shaped like a beehive, the house was dark. Milo flipped a switch and revealed an interior surprisingly modest in scale: low ceilings, white wall-to-wall carpeting, furniture that had been pricey during the fifties, grass-cloth walls painted pink-beige and crowded with what looked to be real Picassos and Braques and tiny Impressionist street scenes. A sliver of eastern wall held built-in white bookshelves filled with hardcover books and black-spined folders, interspersed with framed plaques and gilded trophies. A rear wall of glass looked out onto nothing. We sat Jane Abbot down on a stiff, ocean blue sofa, and I settled next to her, smelling her perfume and metallic sweat. Milo took a facing armchair much too small for him. His pad wasn't out yet. It would be soon.

  Jane's hands shook, caught in the fabric of her robe, became sharp-knuckled, paralyzed talons. Her cries degraded to gasps, then snuffles, then tortured squeaks that caused her to twist and jerk.

  Milo watched her without seeming to. Relaxed but not blasé. How many times had he done this? Suddenly she became still, and silence captured the house— a cold, rotten inertia.

  Where was the husband?

  “I'm sorry, ma'am,” said Milo.

  “My God, my God— when did it happen?”

  “Lauren was found a few hours ago.”

  She nodded, as if that made sense, and Milo began giving her the basics, speaking slowly, clearly, in low, even tones. She kept nodding, began rocking in sync with his phrasing. Shifted her body away from me and toward him. The logical realignment. I welcomed it.

  He finished, waited for her to respond, and, when she didn't, said, “I know this is a hard time to be answering questions, but—”

  “Ask anything.” She clutched her head again, and her face crumpled. “My baby— my precious baby!”

  More tears. A beeper went off. Milo reached for his and Jane Abbot pulled one out of her robe.

  “My other baby,” she said wearily. She rose unsteadily, one foot still bare. I was holding the slipper, handed it to her. She took it, smiled terribly, shuffled to the next room, and turned on the light. The dining room. Mock Chippendale furniture, more pretty paintings.

  She touched something near a side door, and the walls hummed and the door slid open. Home elevator. “I'll be right back.” She stepped in, disappeared.

 
Milo exhaled, got up and walked around, stopped at the bookshelves, pointed to one of the trophies. “Hmm.”

  “What?”

  “Couple of Emmys . . . from the fifties . . . early sixties. Writers Guild awards— and this one's from the Producers Guild. . . . Melville Abbot. All for comedy. Here's a picture of Eddie Cantor . . . Sid Caesar. . . . ‘Dear Mel.’ Ever hear of the guy?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Me neither. TV writer. You never hear of them. . . .”

  He pulled out one of the black-spined volumes, muttered, “Script,” just as the elevator door slid open and Jane Abbot came out pushing a man in a wheelchair. Her pink robe had been replaced by a long black-and-silver silk kimono. She still wore the fuzzy slippers.

  The man wore perfectly ironed, pale blue pajamas with white-piped lapels. He looked to be eighty or more. A brown cashmere blanket draped a lap so shrunken it barely tented the fabric. His small, gray egg of a head was hairless but for puffs of white at the temples. His nose was a droopy, salmon-colored balloon, his mouth, pursed and lipless above an eroded chin. Small brown eyes— merry eyes— took us in, and he chuckled. Jane Abbot heard it and flinched. She stood behind him, hands squeezing the bar of the chair, her grimness a reproach.

  He gave a thumb-up wave, called out in a jarringly hearty voice: “Evening! Les gendarmes? Bon soir! Mel Abbot!” Decibels above the tentative phone voice of a few hours ago.

  Jane moaned softly. Abbot grinned.

  “Pleased to meet you, sir,” said Milo, approaching the wheelchair.

  “Les gendarmes,” Abbot singsonged. “Les gendarmes du Marseilles, the constabulary, de stiff awm o’ de law.” He craned, tried to look back at his wife. “Alarm go off again, dearest?”

  “No,” said Jane. “It's not that. . . . It's different, Mel. Something— Mel, something terrible has happened.”

  “Now, now,” said Mel Abbot, winking at us. “How terrible can it be? We're all alive.”

  “Please, Mel—”

  “Now, now, now,” Abbot insisted. “Now, now, now, now, cutie pie.” Raising a palsying hand, he reached back, groped without success. Finally, Jane took hold of his fingers, closed her eyes.

  He winked at us again. “Like when they asked Chevalier, How does it feel to turn eighty? And Chevalier says, How does it feel?” Studied pause. “I'll tell you how it feels. Considering the alternative, it feels terrific!”

  “Mel—”

  “Now, now, dearest. What's another false alarm citation? Así es la vida, you plays, you pays, we can afford it, denks Gott.” Melville Abbot freed his hand and waved floppy fingers. His head lolled, but he managed another wink. “The main thing is everyone's alive, like Chevalier said, when they asked him how does it feel to turn eighty.” Wink. “And Chevalier says—”

  “Mel!” Jane lurched forward and grabbed his hand.

  “Dearest—”

  “No jokes, Mel. Please. Not now— no more jokes.”

  Abbot's eyes bugged. His crushed-crepe face bore the humiliation of a child caught masturbating.

  “My wife,” he said to us. “I'd say take her, but I wouldn't mean it. Can't live with 'em, can't live without— State trooper stops a fellow on the highway, fellow says, I wasn't speeding, Officer. Trooper says, Didja notice a mile back your wife fell outta the car? Fellow says, Oh, good, I thought I was going deaf.”

  Jane must have squeezed his fingers because he winced and said, “Ouch!” She moved around to the front of the wheelchair and kneeled before him.

  “Mel, listen to me. Something bad has happened— something terrible. To me.”

  Abbot's eyes hazed. He looked to us for rescue. Our silence made his mouth drop open. Oversized dentures, too white, too perfectly aligned, emphasized the ruin that was the rest of him.

  He pouted. Jane placed her hands on his narrow shoulders.

  “What's wrong with a little levity, dearest? What's life without a little spice—”

  “It's Lauren, Mel. She's—” Jane began weeping. The old man stared down at her, licked his lips. Touched her hair. She rested her head on his lap, and he stroked her cheek.

  “Lauren,” he said, as if familiarizing himself with the name. His eyes closed. Movement behind the lids— flipping through a mental Rolodex? When they opened he was smiling again. “The pretty one?”

  Jane shot to her feet, and the chair rolled back several inches. Gritting her teeth, she inhaled, spoke very slowly. “Lauren, my daughter, Mel. My child, my baby— like your Bobby.”

  Abbot considered that. Turned away. Pouted again. “Bobby never comes to see me.”

  Jane shouted, “That's because Bobby—” She stopped herself, murmured, “Lord, Lord.” Kissed the top of the old man's head— hard, more of a blow than a gesture of affection— and covered her face with her hand.

  Abbot said, “Bobby's a doctor. Big-shot plastic surgeon— Michelangelo with a knife, big industry practice, knows where all the wrinkles are buried.” He brightened, turned to his wife. “What do you say we go out for breakfast? All of us? We'll pile into the Caddy, go over to Solly's, and have some . . .” A second of confusion. “. . . whatever, with onions. . . . Omelette? Maybe with lox?” To us: “That means you, gents. Breakfast is on me, long as you don't give us a ticket for the false alarm.”

  * * *

  Jane Abbot lied to him as she wheeled him back to the elevator. Making breakfast plans, telling him they'd have lox and onions, maybe pancakes— she needed some time to straighten up, he should think about what he wanted to wear, she'd come back in a few minutes.

  The lift arrived, and she pushed him in.

  “I'll wear a cardigan,” he said as the door closed behind them. “One of the good ones, from Sy Devore.”

  Milo said, “My, my,” when we were alone again. He made another trip to the bookshelves. “Look at this. Groucho, Milton Berle— the guy knew everyone. Here's a photo from a Friars Club Roast they did for him twenty years ago. . . . The fires sure dim, don't they? Gives me hope for the future.”

  I inspected the signatures on the artwork. Picasso, Childe Hassam, Louis Rittman, Max Ernst. A tiny Renoir drawing.

  The elevator vibrated the walls, the door groaned open, and Jane Abbot ran out, as if escaping suffocation. Her eyes were sunken and inflamed and she looked old, and I tried to think of her as a young flight attendant, smiling easily. “I'm sorry, he's just— it's been getting worse. Oh, God!”

  She collapsed on the sofa, cried softly. Stopped and talked to her lap. “Bobby— his son— died ten years ago. Skiing accident. He was Mel's only child. Mel's wife— Doris— had been ill for a while. Bad arthritis, she bound up to the point where she couldn't move. Bobby's death made her worse, and eventually she needed round-the-clock care. After my divorce I went to nursing school, got my LVN, hired out for private duty. I took care of Doris until she died. Terrific lady, never lost her spirit. For five years I cared for her, sometimes I did two shifts a day. Basically, I moved in here. Mel was older than her, but back then he was in great shape. We all got along great. He had the best sense of humor— they both did.”

  She clawed a cheek. “The man used to be pure sunshine. And brilliant. He had a repertoire of thousands of jokes, could rattle them off by category— you name it, he'd know twenty gags. After Doris's funeral I moved out and got a job at a rest home. Two months later, Mel called me. When he asked me out, I thought it was for old times’ sake— to thank me. When he showed up at my apartment all spiffed up with a corsage, I was taken aback— shocked, really. I had no idea. But I didn't want to hurt his feelings, so I went along with it. He took me to The Palm, we ate steak, drank great wine, and I ended up having the best time of my life. He was . . . We dated for a long time. I finally agreed to marry him two years ago. I quit smoking for his health. I know the age difference is . . . but it's not what it seems.”

  “No need to explain, ma'am.”

  “Sure there is,” she said. “Sure there is— there's always a need to explain. I know you'r
e thinking this is another May-December gold-digger routine. But it isn't. Mel's well-heeled, his art alone . . . But we have a prenuptial, and I don't know the details of his finances— don't want to know. I get an allowance. I've never asked him to amend his will. He's the nicest man in the world. Until recently we—”

  “Ma'am—”

  “— just had the greatest time. Traveling, taking cruises, living life. Lauren only met him a few times, but she liked him— he made a point of telling her how gorgeous she was, ‘a regular Marilyn.’ She never got that from her father. Lauren's never gotten anything from her father, and maybe that was my fault.”

  She sobbed. I sat down next to her.