Mother Shadow E-Book

Melodie Johnson Howe

• Herausgeber: Elliott & Thompson
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Seitenzahl: 433

Beschreibung

Praise for Melodie Johnson Howe's City of Mirrors:"City of Mirrors is deftly written and smart. On top of that, it is entertaining as hell."--Michael Connelly"A fine crime novel with an engagingly cynical edge"--Simon BrettWhen the wealthy Ellie Kenilworth commits suicide and a crucial part of his will goes missing, his temporary employee Maggie Hill finds herself being circled by his greedy surviving kin who are out for their slice of the pie by any means necessary. Maggie turns to Claire Conrad, an eccentric but resolute private detective, and together they fight to protect the last wishes of a dying old man."Howe has created a wonderful, highly entertaining (and just a touch bizarre) pair of female sleuths."--Library Journal"[A] gem of a mystery . . . with wonderfully vivid characters and a deft plot abounding with twists and turns."--Publishers Weekly

Leseprobe

The Mother Shadow

An LA Murder Mystery

Melodie Johnson Howe

For Bones Howe

Contents

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

Acknowledgments

Preview: Beauty Dies

1

A LOW, SMOOTH MALE voice infiltrated my sleep. The voice told me: “Virginity is making a comeback. Polls taken on high-school and college campuses find…”

I opened my eyes and turned off the radio. Sitting on the edge of my bed, staring at my unshaven legs and the chipped red nail polish on my toenails, I waited for my usual morning sadness to slowly disappear. Ever since I was a little girl I have experienced a sense of loss upon awakening. I think of this loss, this sadness, as a bridge of melancholy which I must cross to get from the comforting darkness of unconsciousness to the painful light of morning.

Since this was the morning of my thirty-fifth birthday, and I’d just been told by the radio that virginity was making a comeback, I knew my sadness was going to linger. My breasts felt heavy. How could these two little things feel so burdensome? Gravity. And how was it possible for virginity to make a comeback?!

The telephone rang. It had to be my mother, who lives in Versailles, Ohio, on a street called Main. She would be calling to wish me a happy birthday, and to announce, not for the first time, that I was now a mature woman who must face the fact that not everyone can be a success in Los Angeles. Please come home.

I found the telephone under yesterday’s clothes. “Hello?”

“Miss Maggie Hill, please.”

“Speaking.”

“Ellis Kenilworth here.” Kenilworth was my current temporary employer. “Would you mind coming in earlier this morning? Say, around nine o’clock instead of ten?” His cool, educated voice was frayed with tension. “I will be meeting with a Roger Valcovich, and it’s imperative that you be here.”

“Is something wrong, Mr. Kenilworth?”

“For the first time, I’m trying to make things right. Miss Hill, I’ve grown to respect you over the short period of time we’ve worked together. I hope that feeling is mutual.”

“It is.” I did respect Kenilworth. He was a true gentleman. In fact, he was the only gentleman I knew. His manners and courtesies were extended with admiration, not with a pat on the head.

“And I always felt, if need be, I could rely on your discretion,” he said.

“Of course.”

“Good. Nine o’clock, then. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

In my family, discretion meant that you kept your goddamn mouth shut. I hung up the phone. His choice of the word “imperative” was odd. For the last three months I’d been working out of Kenilworth’s mansion in Pasadena. I put his handwritten inventories of his coin collection into his brand-new computer. It was one of my easier temporary jobs. There was nothing imperative about it.

I stared at my own computer. It was delicately stacked and balanced on the short, narrow bar top that separates my tiny kitchen from my tiny living-bedroom. The monitor was blank faced, the floppy disks empty. I was a writer. I had written one novel, which was published to overwhelming silence. I looked at my watch. It was eight o’clock. No time to shave my legs. Again.

Heading toward the bathroom, I flipped on the television. Jane and Bryant were sitting on the NBC sofa, looking all shiny faced and spruced up. Before I turned on the shower, I heard Jane bouncily announce that her next set of guests were Mr. J. L. Henderson, a wife beater; Mrs. Alice Henderson, his twenty-year victim; and Dr. Arnold Meitzer, psychologist. But first…

Warm water…soap…Maybe I could wash virginity back into my life. I shut my eyes.

There was the image of my exhusband, Neil. He was no wife beater. I was no victim. And yet…all that shared pain. Why did I marry a policeman? Do not go over this again, Maggie. Oh, hell, what are birthdays for if not to review your past failures and torture yourself with those failures? Almost as much fun as picking a pimple. I married him because I thought I needed his sense of structure, his authority, his knowledge of right and wrong. I immediately rebelled against all he had to offer me. Confusing me. Confusing him.

I had liked his impersonal way of having sex. We didn’t make love. We fucked. But then he had an impersonal affair, and I discovered just how very personal betrayal can be.

I got out of the shower and opened the door to let the steam out of my windowless bathroom. I heard Bryant declare that New York was going to let the local stations tell the viewers what was happening in their part of the country. I always thought that was really nice of New York. They didn’t have to let us know what was going on.

I dried off the mirror. Serious dark-brown eyes looked at serious dark-brown eyes. High cheekbones reflected high cheekbones. My hair, the same color as my eyes, was cut just below my defiant chin. My nose avoided being cute by turning slightly down instead of up. I would have opted for cute. My mouth secretly embarrassed me: the lips were full and looked as if they were waiting for kisses. Men always looked at my mouth first. Rubbing cream into my face, which I knew didn’t do a damn thing, I decided there wasn’t time to blow-dry my hair.

Back in the living-bedroom, I struggled into control-top panty hose, trying not to work up a sweat. A blond young man with a smirk appeared on the TV. He told me he was David Dunn. He had his eye on L.A. But first…

I searched through my dresser for a forty-five-dollar French bra. I’d just bought it. I couldn’t afford it. A pure white lacy strap gleamed among the twisted mass of panty hose, slips, scarfs, sweaters, and underwear. The top of my dresser was strewn with makeup, costume jewelry, paperback books, notes to myself, dirty underwear, and my grandmother’s rosary. This wasn’t the dresser of a thirty-five-year-old woman. This dresser looked like it belonged to a fifteen-year-old girl. My sadness was deepening into depression.

Extricating the bra, I heard the name Roger Valcovich. I faced the television. A puffy man encased in a beige suit sat behind a functional-looking desk. His round little hands were folded tightly in front of him. Except for the potted fern, they were the only objects on the desk. He talked carefully into the camera.

“Even if you have a prior drunk-driving conviction, we can help. Whatever your legal needs, the law offices of Roger Valcovich are here for you.” He tilted his oblong head toward the camera. Curly silver-gray hair caught the light and twinkled. “I’m Roger Valcovich. I can help. Remember, justice does not have to cost a high price.” Small lips inched into a frozen smile.

Coincidence—there had to be more than one Roger Valcovich in Los Angeles. Ellis Kenilworth used a very conservative, expensive lawyer. He certainly wouldn’t be using an ambulance chaser who had to advertise. I was feeling uneasy. Kenilworth had never involved me in a meeting before, imperative or not.

I turned off the television and finished dressing. Black skirt. Pink shirt. Black patent sling-backs. Black-and-pink tweed jacket with big shoulder pads. Shoulder pads make me feel less melancholy. They also make me look like I don’t have a neck. You can’t have everything.

I grabbed my grandmother’s rosary. She’s eighty-five but thinks she’s a hundred and helps Willard with the weather on the “Today” show. I took a paperback of Madame Bovary and, along with my rosary, dropped it into my leather sack of a purse. I was reading Bovary for the third time. I understood why she had to kill herself. But I kept hoping.

I turned on the phone machine, a small lamp by the bed, and the radio. I found the classical station. It was the only kind of music my landlady let me play all day. Maybe if I get robbed the classical music will soothe the burglar and he won’t vandalize the place.

I stepped outside my tan stucco apartment. The architecture was third world. Locking my door, I made the mistake of taking a deep breath. The smell of burritos, swimming-pool chlorine, exhaust, and early-morning coffee brewing at the 7-Eleven across the street, violated my body. I had not come out to Los Angeles to live in the San Fernando Valley. That was not part of the dream. But the rent was cheaper on this side of the hill, and that was part of reality. Another failure to torture myself with.

Maneuvering my Honda east on the Ventura Freeway, I rolled back the sun roof so my hair could dry. The radio rocked. I loved being alone in my car. I loved driving. My Honda was the only thing in my life I had control over.

I kept thinking about virginity making a comeback. What form would she take? She wouldn’t dare return in the bowed and draped form of the Blessed Mother. Virginity wasn’t coming back because she was sacred or moral. No. Virginity was traipsing back into our lives like an old exmovie queen. Big tits jiggling. Flabby hips swaying. A thin halo of platinum hair. Diseased pink flesh stuffed in hourglass white.

“I’m back in town, big boys,” she’d coo, scared to death.

2

THE POOR AND THE old wealthy are living closer together in Pasadena—at least what remains of the old wealthy. Most of their mansions have been crushed by quick money. Condominiums, gated for the safe life, have been erected in their place. The surviving mansions grace wide, shady streets which run parallel to wide, shady streets dotted with shabby bungalows and disintegrating apartment houses. But no matter how the city changes, Pasadena has a highly polished Calvinistic shine that will never tarnish. It produces Rose Queens with the same hardworking enthusiasm with which it produces a new civic center.

I turned down a street lined with aged oak trees and parked in front of the Kenilworth home. It was a large two-story white house with an elegant veranda sweeping across the entire length of its façade. Steps cascaded from the center of the veranda onto a spread of lawn that made me think of picnics and croquet and ladies in white linen dresses. Nine chimneys jutted from the roof. Smoke drifted from only one: the fireplace in the mother’s bedroom always burned. A narrow strip of asphalt ran alongside the house under an ornate portico. The driveway was a begrudging afterthought to the endurance of the automobile. No iron gates, no attack dogs, no video cameras protected this house. The Kenilworth mansion displayed itself openly to all who passed by. I admired this unguarded house. It wasn’t boldly displaying wealth; it was defiantly displaying continuity, survival. I didn’t know the Kenilworths well enough to know what survival had cost them. But at this moment in my life, when I was contemplating the return of virginity, why shouldn’t I believe in the basic goodness of big white houses?

I made my way up to the veranda and the giant square of a solid mahogany door and rang the bell.

Holding a bone-china coffee cup splattered with red roses, Sutton, Ellis’s younger brother, let me into the white marble foyer. Pale blue eyes widened. “My, you’re early this morning!”

I smiled.

“Who’s in there with Ellis?” He tried to look disinterested, but his reddish-blond brows arched.

I wasn’t sure if my discretion included the family, so I changed the subject. “How’s your mother?” I asked.

“In her sitting room, by the fire, drinking tea and warm milk. Beautiful as an angel. You’re looking even more attractive this morning, if that’s possible.”

“Thanks.” Our eyes flirted.

Sutton had once been a very handsome man. His hair was still wavy sun-blond, and he carried himself with a certain specialness that beautiful people possess. But time had smoothed the jaggedness of his features, turning his beauty soft. When he smiled, as he did now, the sharpness of youth shone through. Sutton and I had a relationship based on flirtation. The boundaries were tacitly understood: winks, innuendos, admiring looks, and the touching of hands on arms were allowed; nothing more. I don’t know how that sometimes happens between men and women, but it does. And it’s fun.

Cupping his hand under my elbow, he made a grand display of promenading me across the foyer toward the office door. The heels of my sling-back shoes made tippity-tap noises on the marble floor. Tippity-tap. It was a vulnerable sound. Tippity-tap. A female sound. Tippity-tap. Tippity-tap. The sound of thirty-five.

“It’s my birthday,” I blurted. Oh, hell, someone should know that it wasn’t just another day.

“I hate birthdays. They always make me wish I’d never been born,” he replied.

As we passed the open double mahogany doors to the library, Judith Kenilworth, sitting on a rose damask sofa by a silver tea set, raised her blond patrician head from the Los Angeles Times and stared at me. I smiled. She didn’t. She had never smiled at me in three months. But I kept trying.

Sutton deposited me in front of the office door. Leaning close, he whispered, “Happy birthday, Maggie. If I were my own man I’d spend my nights trying to seduce you.”

“Whose man are you?” I asked, half seriously, half flirting.

“You know where sister and I are breakfasting if Ellis needs us,” he said, ignoring the question. “But he never does need us, does he?” He turned and sauntered away as the large, shadowy American clock, which stood in the gliding curve of an august stairway, began to discreetly chime nine. I always felt that the clock was embarrassed to break the silence of this stately home by its boorish mechanical need to tell time.

I opened the door to the office. Ellis Kenilworth stood as I entered the room. He performed his manners as easily as my ex opened a beer can. He had never been as handsome as Sutton; he had also not gone soft. His features were hawk-like. In contrast to their sharpness, his hazel eyes were gentle and seemed to focus more on what he was thinking than on what he was actually seeing. His lean body was clad, as usual, in gray slacks, cashmere blue blazer, button-down shirt, and muted striped tie.

“Miss Hill, this is Mr. Valcovich.”

It was him—the star of law and television. He didn’t get the hint from Kenilworth and stand. Instead, he nestled his rump back into a green leather chair and waved a round, chubby hand laden with two huge gold rings at me. The rings had not appeared in his commercial.

I sat at my desk, which was opposite Kenilworth’s. He sat down, not looking at Valcovich. There was an awkward silence which I’m sure only Kenilworth and I felt. Finally I spoke.

“Saw you on television this morning.”

“Which commercial did you see?!” I thought he was going to leap up and demand I let him sign an autograph.

“Something about drunk driving.”

“That’s a great one. ‘Justice doesn’t have to cost a high price.’” He beamed: Kenilworth’s cheeks flushed. He still couldn’t look at him. And I couldn’t figure out what he was doing here. Kenilworth’s faraway eyes attempted to focus on mine. He ran his hand over his ash-blond hair. I was in the land of the blonds—the real blonds that come in various shades.

“Mr. Valcovich has just helped me draft a codicil. I want you to type it and then witness it.”

“I’ve never typed a codicil.”

The star of law and television grabbed his legal-size yellow pad and slapped it onto my desk. “Just type it as I’ve written it. If you can’t make out a word, don’t guess. Ask.”

“And when you have finished, Miss Hill, please pay Mr. Valcovich three thousand dollars, cash, from the safe.” “Three thousand dollars!” I don’t like to see people get taken, no matter how much money they have. I couldn’t help myself. I turned on Valcovich. “I thought you said justice was cheap!”

“This has nothing to do with justice. And I think you’re out of place, little lady.”

“Little lady?!”

“Miss Hill, please,” Kenilworth said.

“If my secretary talked like that she’d be out on her ass.”

“Ass?!” It was my turn to slap the legal tablet on the desk.

“Mr. Valcovich, that is enough!” Kenilworth almost raised his voice. “Miss Hill, please proceed.”

“Do I make a copy?” I asked.

“No.”

Valcovich leaned forward. “I should have a copy.”

“No.”

“That’s very unusual…”

“I have paid you an outrageous sum because I want you to do exactly as I wish. You will not have a copy. You will not talk to any member of my family. And when you leave here, that is the last I will see of you.”

Valcovich leaned back and crossed his legs. “Whatever you say, Mr. Kenilworth.”

As I put the paper in the typewriter, Kenilworth swiveled around in his chair and stared out the floor-to-ceiling arched window that overlooked his beloved sculpture garden. The garden ran the entire length of the property. Hedges and bushes were cut and sculpted into clapping seals, jumping fish, diving birds. A dark green dog walked on his hind feet while a bushy green cat curled into sleep. There were even a unicorn, a Pegasus, and the American eagle carrying an unfurled flag in his beak. Being all in green, the eagle and the flag lost some of their patriotic stirring. But the garden itself was awe inspiring.

I read Valcovich’s writing very carefully. I felt his eyes on me. They looked just as small as they had on TV. But what the TV didn’t show was their greediness.

The codicil was short and to the point. Ellis Kenilworth was leaving his entire collection of rare and ancient coins to Claire Conrad, who resided at Conrad Cottage, the San Marino Hotel, San Marino, California. If she should die before she could take possession, the collection would go to auction but never revert back to his family. I wondered who Claire Conrad was. I also wondered why Kenilworth didn’t want his mother, brother, and sister to share in the profits of his collection.

As I began to type, Valcovich turned and looked out the arched window. “Must cost a lot of money to keep up a garden like that,” he said.

“Unnecessary things are very expensive,” Kenilworth said sadly.

“Who’s the kid?”

“Excuse me.” Kenilworth went out the French doors to the garden.

Valcovich repeated his question to me. I looked out the window. Kenilworth was picking up a red ball as a small male form, arms akimbo, lumbered toward him.

“He’s not a kid,” I said. “He’s probably in his late twenties. Suffers from Down’s syndrome. I think his name is Jerry.”

“Kenilworth’s?”

“No.”

“How did he get into the garden?”

“I don’t know. You see, it’s none of my business,” I said pointedly. Actually, it had never occurred to me to ask. In the last three months I had seen the young man in the garden maybe six times. He would appear, then disappear. Sometimes Kenilworth would play ball with him. Sometimes he would just stare at him from the window.

Valcovich leaned over my shoulder. “You’ve made three errors. Type it over.”

“You know, you’re much looser in person than you are on television.”

“Thank—” He stopped; the small eyes narrowed. He was trying to figure out if he’d been complimented or put down. I gave him a sweet smile.

There was a quick knock and the office door opened. “Where’s Ellis? We’re going to be late,” Judith demanded, looking around the room.

“In the garden.”

She shut the door behind her. Her honey-blond hair was tied back with a black ribbon. Her thick hair was her only good quality. She had Ellis’s aquiline features, which should have given her an angular strength and beauty; but because she was so uptight they made her look pinched and strict. Her mouth was fixed, as usual, in a straight line. Folding her arms across her bony chest, she peered at Valcovich. “You look familiar. Do I know you?”

“Probably saw me on TV.”

“Oh. You’re an actor.” Unimpressed, she moved toward the French doors. Then it dawned on her. “What’s an actor doing here?” she demanded.

“I’m a lawyer. I advertise on television,” he said proudly.

“You have business with my brother?”

“Me,” I heard myself saying. “I mean…he’s my lawyer. I had an accident with the car and he’s helping me out,” I babbled, trying not to look at the paper in the typewriter.

“Just like Ellis to let you do it on our time,” she said, going out to the garden.

Valcovich smiled at me. He had small teeth. They were the best feature of his smile. The worst feature was a calculated intimacy, as if he and I had just shared a sexy moment.

I took the paper out of the typewriter and put in a fresh one.

“You better tear that draft up. We wouldn’t want sister to know she’s not getting any of the ancient jingle-jangle.” Again the intimate smile. “By the way, do you always lie so easily?”

“You seemed so enthralled with your TV persona I was a little worried about your ability to remain confidential.” I tore the draft into shreds.

“‘TV persona.’” He repeated the words softly, lovingly.

Judith followed Ellis back into the office. “I have been working months on this symposium,” she said. “You promised you would go!” Her bluish-white skin flushed red with anger.

“I said no.”

“Brian Waingrove is expecting you.”

“I am conducting business. And you know you’re not supposed to be in here while I’m working.”

Judith’s mouth trembled. “Waingrove could help us.”

“You are not supposed to be in this office. Please leave.”

I had never seen the Kenilworths argue. It was disturbing to see Ellis treat Judith like a little girl. It was even more disturbing to see Judith act like one. Her lower lip pushed out into a pout. Hazel eyes filled with tears. I guessed Judith to be in her forties, but right now she looked like a middle-aged child. How could she give up those hard-earned years so easily? Her whole life reduced to a pout. I looked away. It’s not easy to see another woman reduced to a child—maybe because we all live on the edge of a pout.

There was a knock. The office door opened. This time it was Sutton. “Are we all ready to go?” he asked cheerfully.

“Ellis isn’t coming.” Judith’s voice quivered.

“You promised her,” Sutton said, looking steadily into Ellis’s eyes. “You really must stop breaking promises.”

It was strange, but of the three it was Ellis who looked the most betrayed. Sutton extended his hand to Judith. I waited for the door to slam, but it closed quietly behind them. In my family the door would have slammed so hard the framed family photos would’ve fallen from the walls.

I put a fresh sheet of paper in the typewriter and began again. Ellis slumped back in his chair, his faraway eyes staring at a spot on the wall just over my head. Valcovich kept a steady watch on my typing, which made me nervous. I could hear Sutton’s car backing slowly out of the narrow drive. When I finally got a clean copy, Kenilworth decided there was a problem with some of the wording. After much talk they revised the codicil. An hour later I sat down to re-type it. Valcovich looked out the window. Kenilworth burned the other drafts in an ashtray, then dumped the ashes into the wastepaper basket.

I handed him the clean draft. Both men read it. Kenilworth signed, then asked me to sign. I did.

“Pay him, Miss Hill.” His voice was heavy with fatigue. “I went to the bank yesterday. The three thousand dollars is in the safe.”

I unlocked the safe and took out three neatly wrapped bundles of money and handed them to Valcovich. He counted through the money with the quickness of a Las Vegas dealer. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Kenilworth,” he said, trying to look professional instead of devious.

“Show the gentleman out, Miss Hill.”

We crossed the foyer to the sound of my shoes beating out their tippity-taps. Valcovich’s all-knowing smile was firmly in place, the greedy eyes on my lips. Slowly, they moved down my body to my feet. By the time we reached the front door his eyes were back on my lips. Even after liberation and the sexual revolution there are still men who can make me feel cheap. Valcovich was one of them. I opened the front door. He swaggered outside, turned quickly around, and gave me another once-over. I squared my padded shoulders, readying myself for the sexual pass. My hand firmly gripped the door handle. I was going to let him throw his remark, then I was going to block it by slamming the door in his face.

“Funny a man like Kenilworth would hire a lawyer like me,” he said. I hadn’t anticipated the truth, but my reaction was already prepared. I slammed the door in his face.

I went back to the office. An envelope, dove-gray with my name written on it in blue ink, lay on my desk.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“The codicil.”

“It has my name on it. What’s going on here, Mr. Kenilworth?”

His eyes slowly focused on my face. “You have spunk.”

“Okay, I have spunk. Why is my name on this envelope?”

“Actually, you have guts—a quality I lack.”

“Mr. Kenilworth…”

“Do you know how much my coin collection is worth?”

“No.”

“A little over four million dollars.”

“You mean all those names I’ve been entering into the computer—Livincius Regulus, 42 B.C.—are worth…”

“Yes, Miss Hill. My father willed me his coin collection. At the time it was probably worth ten thousand dollars. Mother was given everything else. Nobody cared about his old coins. But I did. It was one of the few things in life for which I had an ability and a passion.” Pale lips formed a sad smile. “Now, the family is very interested in my collection. They need my money.”

“You don’t want them to have it. Fine with me. But why is my name written on this envelope?”

Kenilworth moved from behind his desk and picked up my purse. “I want you to keep it for me while I’m at lunch.”

“Oh, no. Put it in the safe.”

“The combination is well known in this household.”

“Nobody’s here.”

“Mother is.”

“I can’t take the responsibility.”

“Whether you like it or not, Miss Hill, you are a responsible woman. I’ll just slip it in this sack you carry. I have a feeling it will be very safe in here…You’re reading Madame Bovary.” He pronounced it with a French accent. “I always felt very deeply for her. I suppose that’s Flaubert’s triumph. But in my case I think it was just one bourgeoisie identifying with another.”

“Mr. Kenilworth, listen to me. I do not want to be responsible. Please, take it back.”

“After lunch. I will make arrangements then.”

“But what if something should happen?”

He looked sharply at me. “Like what?”

“I don’t know…anything…”

“Whatever happens, Miss Hill, I do not want my family to get their hands on this. Now, will you keep it till I return?”

I took a deep breath. I always do before I give in. “Yes.”

He gave my hand a fatherly pat. And I felt like the good daughter. A disturbing feeling: I learned very early that daughters can never be good enough.

“It’s none of my business, but do you love her?” I asked, feeling a little foolish.

“Love? Who?”

“Claire Conrad.”

“I’ve never met her.”

He moved toward the office door, paused, then turned and faced me. “I do know her by reputation. I probably should have made it clear that the coin collection is a form of payment to her. Payment for the truth—a truth I am unable to deal with. If anything should happen, Miss Hill, tell her that.”

“But nothing’s going to, right?”

“Right. I will see you after lunch.” He left the office.

Feeling totally confused and wondering what kind of truth could be worth four million dollars, I began to compute, with a new respect, old inventories and list new ones. The hall clock prudently chimed one, and like Pavlov’s dog I automatically looked out the window to see Aiko, the houseman, setting up my lunch tray in the garden. He waved. I waved back. Commanding the computer to save, I headed toward the French doors. I stopped, turned, and stared at my bag. I usually left it by my desk while I ate lunch, but today I picked it up and lugged it outside.

Aiko always placed me at a large table on the stone veranda overlooking the garden. The table was shaded by a fringed umbrella. This afternoon I was having an onion tart with a small mixed-green salad lightly flavored with mustard dressing. A glass of Chardonnay, so he informed me, glistened in the sunlight. I leaned back in my chair and sipped the wine, which tasted like green olives, and thought about Kenilworth’s sad eyes…Valcovich’s greedy eyes. Why did I lie to Judith about Valcovich? Why didn’t I just keep my mouth shut? Why did I always get so involved? What was this need I had to protect people? Rescue people? What business was it of mine? In other words, why did I have Ellis Kenilworth’s codicil in my purse?

But the sun was warm, the wine was making me lazy, and all the green little animals had been trimmed to perfection. A fish arched. A rabbit crouched. A seal balanced a ball. There was the smell of freshly cut grass, and there was a bird, a real one, perched on the rim of the umbrella, tugging at a cord of twisted fringe. This bird was going to have a very well decorated nest, I thought, shutting my eyes.

A gun exploded the silence. The bird screamed. I stood up, knocking over the wine. And then I was running. Down the veranda. Through the French doors. Into the office. Silence. Out into the foyer. Aiko and the maid stood frozen, looking toward the top of the stairs. I ran up the stairway. Stopped. Listened. Only my breathing. I walked slowly down the wide hallway. All doors closed. Both sides. The smell of gun. One door. Open. White tiles. White rug. Lysol clean. Blue cashmere blazer. Gray slacks. Blue button-down shirt. Striped tie. Neatly folded. The shower. Glass door open. He was there. Sitting. Naked. Shotgun between his legs. Pieces of his head. Blood. Bone. Ash-blond hair. Skin. Splattered on white tile. Not one piece of him on the white rug. I turned away and leaned against the bathroom wall. I was going to vomit. I was going to faint.

“What was that noise? That noise? Ellis? Sutton?” the mother’s frightened voice called from the hall.

I groped my way toward the door, swallowing my saliva, blinking away bright yellow dots lined in black. I tripped over his clothes. An ebony fountain pen rolled on top of a white note card. His writing.

“Ellis? Ellis!” She was almost to the door.

“It’s me, Mrs. Kenilworth. Maggie.” I grabbed for the note and lunged out into the hallway, shutting the bathroom door behind me. As I looked at Eleanor Kenilworth, I realized all I had in my hand was the pen.

Tall and frail, she leaned against the hallway wall. Aquamarine eyes searched my face. She clutched at a pale green bed jacket slipping from her shoulder.

“That noise…what was it?” Her skin was as white as her hair.

“It was nothing…a car backfiring.” I took her thin hand—a circle of diamonds turned loosely on her wedding-ring finger—and guided her back to her room.

“I used to hunt pheasant. I was a very good shot. We had grand hunting parties. Our land went for miles and miles then. Pheasants flew up from the bush. Their beautiful feathers caught in the sun.”

Her sitting room was pale green. I helped her to a green chaise lounge by the fireplace. The flames cracked.

“So you see, I know that sound,” she said, leaning back, studying me. Her eyes narrowed. “What are you doing up here? You don’t belong up here.”

The room was hot and smelled of perfume, roses, and face powder. I backed away from the fire, feeling dizzy.

“I came up to get Mr. Kenilworth’s pen.” I held out my hand to show her. She shut her eyes.

“Oh, God…oh, God…You must get me tea now. I need to be soothed. That noise…I need to be soothed.”

“I’ll tell Aiko,” I said, backing out of the room.

“See that you do.” She dismissed me with a wave of her hand.

I hurried down the stairs. Aiko and the maid, their eyes waiting for an answer, looked very small standing in the large foyer.

“Mr. Kenilworth is dead.”

The maid’s hand flew to her mouth. Aiko put his arm around her, repeating, “No, no, no.”

“Aiko, I want you to call the emergency number, the police, and I guess the family physician. Maria, I want you to go in and fix tea for Mrs. Kenilworth. Take it up to her and stay with her.” I was amazed how calm and assured my voice sounded.

As they hurried off, I slowly went back up the stairs. I looked down the long corridor. It ended in a small glassed-in rotunda. A Victorian table centered in the rotunda held red garden roses. In the dim lines of sun the roses looked black. I walked down the hall. Taking deep breaths, I opened the bathroom door. Everything was exactly the same. Ellis Kenilworth was still there, head smeared over the shower walls. His clothes…I stared down at his clothes. The suicide note was gone. I searched his jacket and trousers. There was no note. And then I felt it. Fear. Inexplicably, I was afraid for my own life. I whirled around to face the door. It was just as I had left it. Closed. I looked at another closed door. I opened it and peered into Kenilworth’s bedroom. I shut my eyes. Get hold of yourself, Maggie. I walked out of the bathroom and down the hallway and stood by Mrs. Kenilworth’s room. Her door was closed. Just as I had left it. There was the smell of perfume mixed with the smell of roses in the corridor. But there would be—she had been in the hallway with me.

“Excuse me.”

I spun around. The maid stepped nervously back, almost spilling the tea.

“Maria, you frightened me.”

Opening the door for her, I looked into the room. Eleanor Kenilworth was just as I had left her. She was on the chaise with her eyes closed.

As I went back down the stairs, I could hear the sound of sirens in the distance. I crossed the foyer. My heels clicked tippity-tap, tippity-tap. The hall clock discreetly chimed two times. I made my way through the office and out into the garden. My purse was right where I had left it. I grabbed it and started back into the house. In the foyer I stopped and opened my bag. The dove-gray envelope with my name written on it was there.

Just as I reached for it, the front door flew open. Sutton stood there with a large bouquet of pink and yellow flowers. “Happy birthday!” he said, thrusting the flowers into my arms. “I know it’s a surprise, but a simple ‘thank you’ would do.”

The paramedics, fire trucks, and police cars turned onto the street and began lining up in front of the house. Sutton stared out at them.

“Good God, what’s going on? It’s not Mother?” He was halfway up the stairs.

“Ellis. Suicide!” I yelled.

He looked over the banister at me. “Ellis?! Does mother know?”

“I’m not sure.”

It was eight o’clock when I finally drove into the underground parking lot of my building. The smell of Mexican food wafted through the garage from one of the apartments. I had spent the rest of the day and the evening repeating my story over and over to the police, the plainclothes detectives, the firemen, Dr. Granger, the family physician, Sutton, and Judith. My story started with the sipping of my wine and ended with my accepting Sutton’s flowers. Like a good daughter, I never mentioned the amendment to Ellis Kenilworth’s will. I thought of telling the police, but I was afraid they’d turn it over to the family. Instead, I talked about what I thought was a missing suicide note. But it was finally decided with the doctor’s help that I had been in a state of shock. It seems I had wanted an answer, an explanation to Ellis Kenilworth’s actions; therefore I had imagined a letter. But it wasn’t a letter. It wasn’t paper. And when pressed, I could not honestly describe what I had seen, except it was white, and looked like the back of a photograph, and I knew I had seen it. Ellis Kenilworth had written something on the back of a photograph. Sutton was the only one who seemed to believe me.

I got out of the car and walked up dirty cement steps into the cool, damp courtyard. The swimming pool glared baby blue in the night. At the end of the pool was a small area of grass where one shaggy palm tree grew. A bright yellow light bathed it in sunshine glow. I started up the stairs to my apartment.

“Where have you been? You’re late.”

Now I knew why I’d divorced him: always the accusation in the form of a question. He was sitting in a deck chair, holding a beer can in one hand and a bottle of champagne with a ribbon around its neck in the other. The pool light reflected dark ripples on his wide, handsome face. His thinning black hair was flecked with gray. The dark, assessing eyes never looked away. The mouth tilted up at the ends, making him look as if he were smiling at a joke that only he understood.

“What are you doing here?”

“Celebration.”

“You mean now that we’re divorced you finally remember my birthday?”

He stood up, smiling even more. He was developing a slight paunch, but he still had the build of a man who relied on his body to protect himself.

“Did it ever occur to you I might’ve had a date?” I asked, going up the stairs. He followed.

“I took a chance.”

I unlocked the door and pushed it open with my foot. We went in and he kicked the door shut with his foot.

“I brought you something,” he said.

I threw my purse in my only chair and turned off the radio. “The beer? Or the champagne?”

“One of the WB’s in the apartment downstairs gave me the beer while I was waiting. This is for you.” He handed me the champagne. His lips curled. I loved those lips. But I’d never trust them again.

“Thank you. He’s not a wetback. He’s legal.”

“Do you have a corkscrew?” He downed the last of the beer and tossed the can in the bathroom wastebasket.

“This is champagne. You don’t need a corkscrew.”

“Just like beer.” The dark eyes studied my face. The lips stopped smiling. “You’re not going to like me for saying this…but you look terrible.”

“My employer blew his head off with a shotgun today.”

“Goddamn!”

He was there. Arms around me. And I began to cry.

What else are big shoulders for?

3

VIRGINITY WAS NOT HAVING her comeback in my life. My breasts were tender from making love, and my morning sadness was overwhelming. Ellis Kenilworth was dead and I had gone to bed with my ex-husband. Cause and effect. Death and sex.

Last night, I had wanted passion to obliterate the image of Kenilworth’s shattered skull. It had nothing to do with Neil—or so I kept telling myself. I had told Neil to leave. Obediently, he sneaked out in the early-morning hours as quietly as a burglar. I didn’t want to fall asleep in his arms and be jarred awake by the moans of his unconscious cries; body jerking, feet moving as if running. I didn’t want to witness his vulnerability in sleep. And I didn’t want him listening to my night murmurs—watching my body, a trembling shadow, fragile in sleep. A man and woman needed to trust one another for that.

Trust. The word, like a magnet, pulled my thoughts away from Neil across the room to my purse. It was in the chair where I had tossed it last night. Kenilworth had trusted me. I turned my purse upside down, spilling out its contents: car keys, makeup kit, wallet, hair brush, comb, Filofax, checkbook, overdrafts, aspirin, bank statements, Tampax, Madame Bovary, pens, sunglasses, my grandmother’s rosary. The large dove-gray envelope was there. I opened it. The codicil was gone.

My body cold, I sank back down onto the bed. Pulling a pink kimono around me, I tried to organize my thoughts. My mind raced over possibilities. Neil. But he didn’t know about the codicil. Even if he did, he wouldn’t take it. What he stole from me was never tangible.

I went into the kitchen. I began brewing coffee. Think, Maggie, think. I had heard the shot. Ran into the house, leaving my purse in the garden. For how long? I made the coffee strong. I had gone back to the garden, gotten my purse, and looked in it. The envelope was there. But I never looked inside the envelope. Think, Maggie! Maybe it was taken later, when I was talking to the police. Did I leave my purse somewhere? Think! But all I could remember was Kenilworth’s body, zipped into a cocoonlike purple bag, strapped to a stretcher. The wheels of the stretcher squeaked on the white marble floor.

After three cups of coffee and pacing in a small circle—all my apartment would allow—I decided to call Valcovich. He was the only one who could back me up about there being a codicil. I got the phone book and flipped through the Yellow Pages. I found the magic word: Attorneys. He had a quarter of a page. Roger Valcovich, Attorney-at-Law. Green Cards. Disability. No-Fault Divorce. Vets Welcome. He did it all.

I searched for the telephone and found it wedged between a box of half-eaten pizza and the empty bottle of champagne. I dialed.

A husky female voice answered, “Law offices.”

“Roger Valcovich, please.”

“Who’s calling?” She smoked; I could hear the rattle of phlegm. Her kind of voice, once considered sexy, was now a sign of death.

“Maggie Hill.”

“Please hold.”

In a few seconds he was on the line. “Yes, Maggie?”

“We met yesterday in Ellis Kenilworth’s office.”

“How could I forget?” His voice was too cheerful. “Yesterday was when I got lucky. I’m the luckiest guy in the world. What can I do for you, Maggie?”

“You helped write a codicil for Mr. Kenilworth.”

“Codicil?”

“An amendment to his will.”

“I know what it is. But that wasn’t why I was in his office. I was there because of you. You were in an auto accident.”

“What’s going on, Valcovich?”

“If you wish, you can make an appointment.”

“Listen, you son of a bitch…”

“Now, now…”

“How did you get lucky, Valcovich?”

A long pause, then a grating chuckle. “I looked out a window.”

“What window? What are you talking about?”

Another grating chuckle.

“The police might be interested in your luck.”

“What will you tell them? You have no proof of anything. I heard on the local news this morning that Kenilworth killed himself. You’re unlucky, Maggie.”

“Listen, you bastard—”

“And you’re out of work, too. I’d hire you, but I just couldn’t take your lip.” He slammed the phone down.

He was right. I had no proof. I decided to call Neil; he was a policeman. I dialed.

A sleepy female answered the phone. “Hello?”

I tried to control my voice. “Is Neil there?” I didn’t do too well. It was shaky with rage.

“Working.” Pause. “Who’s calling?”

I recognized the sound of suspicion. I could’ve eased her fears. Told her just the ex-wife calling. Only a business matter. I didn’t. I hung up without answering.

I wanted her to worry. I wanted him to worry. Son of a bitch! Betrayal was a habit with Neil. My reactions to his betrayals were habit. I knew my emotional knee-jerks as well as a woman knows which fingernail she likes to gnaw on. First there’s pain—the kind that takes your breath away. Then there’s a sense of abandonment—the kind that makes you feel like a lost little girl, the kind you hate yourself for feeling. Then there’s anger—the kind that makes you feel righteous and powerful, the kind you never want to let go of. Why did I still feel these emotions? Why was I still thinking of him? Oh, hell, I’d only wanted passion.

Think about another bastard, Maggie. Think about Valcovich. How does a man like him get lucky? He takes advantage of other people.

I decided to pay the Kenilworths an unannounced visit.

My Honda smelled like a funeral chapel. I had left Sutton’s flowers in the backseat. I threw them in the apartment dumpster. But even with the sun roof down I smelled dead flowers all the way to Pasadena.

It was the kind of Los Angeles weather I detested: perfect. A strong, warm spring wind had blown all the haze, fog, smog, and clouds into a brown bundle and thrown it out over the Pacific. A relentless sun burned down, distilling the subtle hues of nature into a blinding glare. Every car, every home, every human I passed made me squint. The lawns of Pasadena looked as if they’d been glazed with green enamel. The sidewalks reflected like paths of chrome. But I was safe. I had on my designer shades. Sunglasses protect my soul against perfect weather.

I pulled up in front of the big white house. A hunter-green Jaguar was parked behind a blue van in the driveway. The Kenilworths drove only American. As I made my way toward the house I took a look at the van. A large hunk of a man in tight jeans, holding a phallic-looking rug cleaner, was painted on its side. Printed over the muscle-bound head was the name CHUCK’S and a phone number. I guess Kenilworth got a little of himself on the white rug.

Aiko answered the door. He looked tired but pleased to see me.

“Hello, Miss Hill, you come in.”

“Hi, Aiko.” As he shut the front door I could hear the sounds of Chuck’s machinery cleaning away upstairs.

“I need to talk to Judith and Sutton. Are they here?”

“Miss Kenilworth in library. Follow me.”

Before I could do that, Judith appeared in the foyer.

“We didn’t expect you, Maggie,” she said, closing the library doors behind her. In the three months I had worked there, I’d never seen the library doors closed.

I studied her face for some sort of reaction to my presence. She was as unsmiling and austere as ever. “That will be all, Aiko.” She buttoned another button on her gray cashmere cardigan. “Did you come to clean out your desk? You didn’t pick a very appropriate time. We are a family in mourning.”

“I came to talk to you and Sutton.”

The library doors opened. A woman, draped in lavender suede, stood staring at me with tilted green eyes. “Sorry, I thought it was Brian.”

Her skin was wedding-gown white. Pinkish-blond hair curved seductively around a face that had been pulled and tightened into the never-never land of agelessness. She was probably in her late fifties. Her breasts were higher and firmer than mine. She wasn’t bad looking if you liked man-made women.

“Go back and finish your coffee,” Judith told her. “Maggie was just leaving.”

“Maggie?” She stepped forward. Diamond studs the size of my thumbnail were embedded in her earlobes. She looked more like Rodeo Drive than Lake Avenue.

“The secretary?” She said it the way some people say “the wife” or “the girlfriend.” Why have these words become permanently disabling?

“Temporary secretary.” Oh, hell.

“You found the suicide note?”

“I saw it.”

She looked at Judith, then back at me. “I guess Judith isn’t going to introduce us. I’m Patricia Kenilworth. Ellis’s widow.” Mauve lips pushed against tight skin, trying to form a smile.

I slowly closed my open mouth, then opened it again: “I didn’t know Mr. Kenilworth was married.”

“I’m the family secret. Have been for years.”

Judith blanched. “You’re his ex-wife,” she snapped.

“His only wife,” Patricia said defiantly. “The Kenilworths don’t like outsiders. Maybe you’ve noticed?” She studied me. “Did you read the note?”

“No.”

Her eyes were as shifty as a cat’s. “If I found a suicide note, I’d read it.”

“I didn’t have time to read it. And when I went back for the note, it was gone.”

The eyes were trying to decide if I was telling the truth. “It must’ve been terrible seeing him…a shock.”

“Yes.”

“Maybe you just thought—”

Judith interrupted. “That’s what we were trying to explain to Maggie last night. It was a shock. She imagined a letter. Or she saw a piece of paper in his jacket that was unrelated to his suicide. Why don’t you come back next week and clean out your desk, Maggie, when things have calmed down?” She took Patricia’s arm and they headed toward the library.

“The suicide note wasn’t written on a piece of paper. It was written on the back of something like a photograph. And I’m not here to clean out my desk. I’m here—”

I didn’t get to finish. Patricia broke away from Judith and moved quickly to me, sliding a hand as soft as velvet around my wrist. Her eyes were frightened.

“Photograph? What photograph? Do you have it?”

“Patricia!” Judith snapped.

“I need a drink. Suicide is terrible…a terrible tragedy. Ellis is dead. He doesn’t have to suffer anymore. But the rest of us…” She disappeared into the library.

“Judith, I need to talk to you about Ellis’s will,” I said.

“His will is none of your business.”

“I think you’d better get Sutton. There’s something else missing besides the suicide note.”

She studied me for a moment, then headed for the library. I followed. She went to a leather-top desk, picked up the phone, and pushed the intercom button.

“Sutton? Maggie Hill is here…No, she hasn’t come to pay her condolences. She’s here about…just a minute.” She looked at me. “What did you say it was?”

“A codicil to Ellis’s will.”

She spoke into the phone. “Ellis and his will or something…I have no idea what she’s talking about. Would you come down?…For God’s sake, you can leave her alone for a few minutes!…Well, tell the cleaning crew to turn off the machine if it bothers her.” She carefully put the phone down. “Mother is very upset.”

“Eleanor is finally old now. I always thought her power would diminish with age, but it hasn’t.” Patricia poured straight scotch. The sun angled in through the opening of the rose damask drapes and glanced off her thick gold bracelet. She moved out of the line of the sun and sat on a beige silk chair next to a wall of leather-bound books. By the slow way she crossed her legs I knew she thought she had the best pair in the room. She sipped. Ice tinkled.

“You didn’t tell me anything about a codicil, Judith.”

“I don’t know anything about it. I don’t even know what one is.” Judith took her usual place on the rose damask sofa. She sat with her knees pressed tightly together.