THE HOUSE THAT VANITY BUILT

by Nancy Cole Silverman

  I grabbed the canvas handgrip above my seat and shouted over the noise of the motor. “Protective is one thing, Wilson. Convincing Amy she needs to stay with the doctor is another.”

  “Do you hear yourself?”

  And there we were, back to bickering. Wilson acting smug, implying my own actions weren’t much different than those of the doctor. And me, trying to keep my human feelings for Wilson in check with my psychic-self who knew better.

  “Are we going to argue about this?” I asked.

  “We already are.” Wilson smiled.

  “Fine, I’m not your keeper. You’re perfectly free to come and go as you like. You always have been. But I’ll warn you, your lady friends, those luminaries you’ve befriended, don’t have your best interest at heart.”

  “That’s what this is about? You’re worried about them?”

  “Concerned,” I said.

  “You needn’t be. Do you honestly think I don’t know my way around a few wily women?” Wilson shifted the car from second into third gear, and I fell back against the seat.

  We traveled on in silence. Or as silent as one can be strapped into a vintage roadster with a fearless shade at the wheel. Wilson was right. I was going to have to make peace with the fact he was a free agent. I could only hope he’d be careful.

  Finally, I said, “The problem is, unlike you, I don’t believe Amy has free will. She’s much too vulnerable. The doctor’s trying to convince her that she’s incapable of making it on her own. And under the current circumstances, I’m afraid she’ll believe him.”

  “You think he intends to keep her there?” Wilson asked. “Like he did his wife and paramour, trapped behind the walls of the house that vanity built?”

  “I don’t know, but he did tell Amy and Jared that having a baby would be like starting over again. A whole new family.”

  Wilson glanced into the rearview mirror. His expression darkened. “Did you invite anyone from the memorial to follow us back home?”

  “No, why?”

  I was about to turn around, but Wilson put his hand on my arm. His eyes focused on the rearview mirror. “Because, Old Gal, we’ve got company. We’re being followed.”

  “By who?” I couldn’t imagine why anyone would follow us. Lupe had my card. If she wanted to talk, all she had to do was call. As for Carlene, for the time being, I felt the girl wanted as much space between us as possible. Amy had left with the doctor, who made it very clear he wanted Amy to have nothing more to do with me.

  “I don’t know. But I’m not about to let whoever it is ride my bumper. Any closer, and he’s going to clip us.”

  Wilson put his foot to the floorboard, and, like a flag that had just been dropped at Le Mans, we took off down the boulevard. Ahead of us, a car had come to a stop. Wilson veered left, just missing the car’s bumper, and into on-coming traffic. With one hand on the dashboard, I glanced behind us. A small gray sedan was glued to our fender.

  “Game on, fella. Let’s see how good you are.” Wilson’s eyes narrowed at the rearview mirror. In a quick defensive move, he took a sharp left, cut the corner, and swung the Jag wildly up LaCienega Boulevard.

  The sedan stuck with us like a mad hornet.

  “Hang on!” With both hands on the wheel, Wilson took a hard right onto Fountain Avenue, laid rubber down the narrow street, and then pulled left on Laurel Canyon Boulevard. Just in time to beat the red light, we sailed across Sunset Boulevard and up the canyon road.

  “Got you!” Wilson smiled into the rearview mirror.

  For the moment, we were safe. I sighed as we entered the canyon, then caught my breath. Ahead, a long line of cars worked their way up onto the mountain. Sloth speed. Bumper to bumper. We were stuck. I glanced back over my shoulder—the light behind us about to change.

  “Maybe not,” I said.

  Wilson’s eyes clicked back to the review mirror. “Hold on tight.”

  With my hand pressed against the dashboard for balance, I glanced back. Whoever was following us had jumped the light, and within seconds was gaining on us.

  Wilson yanked the steering wheel to the left. Suddenly the Jag was straddling the center lane, dodging cars in either direction.

  At what felt like warp speed, Wilson took a wicked right. I slammed into the passenger door and held onto the grab strap, my body curled into a fetal position. With one eye open, I watched as Wilson weaved the Jag up a series of narrow, twisted streets with stilt-houses overlooking hundred-foot drops to the valley floor below.

  “It’s you or me, baby.” Wilson pressed his foot to the floorboard again.

  I peeked back over the seat. Whoever was in the car behind us, his intent was clear. One of us wasn’t coming off this mountain alive. I looked ahead. No escape. And then, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Ahead, on a street barely passable for one car, was a slow-moving trash truck.

  Wilson was about to play chicken.

  “No!” I yelled.

  With his hand on top of my head, Wilson pushed me down into the seat. I closed my eyes. I felt the Jag veer right. All sense of gravity escaped me. Were we falling, or had we somehow miraculously scraped by the truck, escaping a thousand-foot fall?

  “Eat them bananas,” Wilson stopped the Jag momentarily and looked back in the rearview mirror.

  Still shaking, I peered back through the Jag’s ragtop vinyl window at the trash truck. With its big lift arms in the air, it dumped a can full of garbage into its bed, some of it falling into the street, blocking all access to the road behind us. The gray sedan, stuck like a pig in a pen, was unable to move forward.

  Wilson started slowly back down the mountainside, toward Ventura Boulevard and home. For now, we were safe.

  Or so I thought.

  As we pulled in the driveway at home, Wilson kept his hand on the gearshift, his foot still on the brake.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “He’s back.” Wilson pulled the key from the ignition. “And it’s too late to lose him now.”

  The small, gray sedan slowed to pass the house. Honked. Then sped away.

  “That’s it,” I said. “I’m calling Detective Romero.” I slammed the car door and huffed my way across the yard, back to the house.

  Romero and Denise arrived within minutes.

  I opened the door and grabbed Bossypants before she could escape into the streets. The cat’s natural instincts had picked up on my jangled nerves, and with her warm body next to mine, her soft purr began to settle my heart’s rapid beating, as I paced the room.

  “I don’t understand what’s happening, Detective.” I exhaled deeply and scratched behind the calico’s ears. “Someone followed me home from Jared’s memorial and tried to run me off the road.”

  Denise insisted I sit down on the couch, and volunteered to make tea. Wilson, who I had expected to retreat to the study, stood with one elbow on the mantle. Both of us curious about the mystery driver who had followed us home.

  Romero sat in one of the wingback chairs. “You’re sure it was someone from the memorial, and not someone else?”

  “Someone else?” The question was preposterous. “What do mean someone else? Who else could it be?” I couldn’t believe Romero might think it was some random stranger who had followed me home, intent on running me off the side of the mountain for no apparent reason.

  Romero’s eyes shifted to the floor.

  “Go on, Detective, tell me.”

  “I’m sorry, Misty, but you drive like a little old lady.”

  Thump!

  Wilson pushed a candlestick from the mantle. I pinched my eyes shut and opened them as Bossypants jumped from my lap and scurried across the room and back to the study.

  Romero looked at me, and I shrugged as though nothing had happened.

  “You’ve got a lead foot. Half the time, I doubt you even see what’
s around you. Maybe you accidentally cut someone off in traffic. Truthfully, at your age, you probably shouldn’t even be driving.”

  “My age! Cut someone off? Me?” I scowled at Wilson.

  “It could have been anyone. Were you able to get a license plate?”

  “No. We, I mean, I was driving. How could I possibly get a number?”

  “Could have been a former client. Maybe someone who was unhappy with your work spotted you and wanted to scare you.”

  “I don’t have unhappy clients. Not like that, I don’t.”

  That wasn’t 100 percent honest. Every psychic has someone who’s not happy with their work. Over the years, I had a few situations, experiences with people close to my clients who felt I had talked their loved ones out of a relationship. Something I couldn’t possibly do, but those unfamiliar with psychic powers frequently believed we had more power than we do.

  “You’re sure?” Romero raised a brow.

  “Of course I’m sure. This was someone from the memorial. I know it. You must have seen something or someone at the memorial that caused you to pause. That was the purpose of your being there, wasn’t it? To check for a murderer?”

  Romero picked up the candlestick and replaced it on the mantel. Wilson put his hand behind it, ready to give it another shove. I shot Wilson a warning look and shook my head.

  “It’s not that easy. As I told you before, the coroner’s not convinced Jared’s death was anything but accidental. And, if it weren’t for the fact that Dr. Conroy is as insistent and as close to the department as he is, I wouldn’t have been there today, and we would have closed out this investigation and moved on.”

  Denise returned from the kitchen with a cup of tea for me.

  “That may be, Detective, and for reasons you may never understand, I believe that’s what our killer wants you to think. But whoever followed me home wasn’t just some random driver with a bad case of road rage. I’m certain he, or she for that matter, was at the memorial and is concerned I might be getting too close to something.”

  Romero stood up. “I’m sorry, Misty. If it makes you feel any safer, I can have a car swing by tonight. Make sure things look okay in the neighborhood. You have my number. If you need anything, call.”

  “Thank you.” I picked up my tea. “If you don’t mind, you and Denise can let yourself out. I’m feeling a little spent.”

  After the door closed, I leaned back into the fainting couch, my hand to my head, my mind full of the day’s activities, our harrowing ride home through the canyon, and a growing list of possible suspects.

  Wilson interrupted my meditative state.

  “It’s four now is it?”

  I opened an eye. Wilson stood at the mantel, the candlestick in his hand. “Are you reading my mind?”

  I knew full well he had.

  “It’s not hard, Old Gal. You’re thinking the killer’s either Jared’s best man, Raul. Or maybe it’s Billy, the beekeeper. Of course, there’s always Matthew Conroy, the doctor’s nephew. Or after this afternoon, you’re wondering if perhaps it’s Madeline Conroy. You thought she was overly close to the doctor.”

  “All possibilities,” I said.

  “But something else troubles you?”

  “And what might you think that is?”

  “Amy. The fact she hadn’t shared with you about her relationship with Billy. You’re concerned about it. And you’re wondering if you’re not the only one who didn’t know about it. Or if it might be some type of trap.”

  “Now, you’ re not only beginning to think like a little old lady, but you’re also beginning to sound like one.”

  Wilson put the candlestick back on the mantle.

  “You could have gone all afternoon without saying that.”

  “I could,” I said. I closed my eyes and put my head back down on the couch. Wilson was changing. A year ago, he wouldn’t have been as sensitive to my remarks.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you now to your reverie.”

  Wilson disappeared into the study and slammed the door behind him.

  I smiled. Shades could be so thin-skinned.

  Chapter 11

  I didn’t sleep well Saturday night. I lay in bed while pictures flashed through my mind like an old-fashioned black-and-white movie, with screenshots of the gray sedan chasing us through the canyon. I felt vulnerable, like a target. More than once, I thought I heard the sound of a car outside. A door opened. Footsteps. Someone on the porch. Was it my imagination? The wind in the trees? A branch brushing against the house perhaps, or maybe a premonition? I went to the window several times, but each time, I could see nothing. No parked car. No mysterious shadows. Wilson, who I rationalized would rouse me if someone were trying to break in, remained silent in the study. I assured myself the advantages of a live-in spirit guide trumped any home security device. Few intruders could match the energies of an angry ghost, particularly one like Wilson, who was so protective of his personal property. Even so, I reached under the bed, where I kept my trusty Louisville Slugger and hugged the bat to my chest until sleep finally overtook me.

  It was close to ten by the time I woke, hours later than my usual time. Anxious to get back into my routine and dismissive of my late-night terrors, I dressed and hurried down the stairs. I was on the couch, reading the paper when Wilson appeared from the foyer with the cat in his arms.

  “Sleep well?”

  “As well as can be expected,” I said.

  In the light of day, my fear seemed to have evaporated. Perhaps Romero had been correct. Maybe Wilson had cut someone off, and the crazed driver, being what drivers are in LA, had reacted poorly and wanted to frighten us. No point in harboring fears for which I had no evidence.

  “Anything interesting in the paper?” Wilson sauntered into the room, paused at the window, and glanced outside. For the moment, I wondered if he was checking for the gray sedan.

  I was about to close the paper when my eye caught a headline on the front page of the business section: “Cosmetics King Names Nephew VP.”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  Wilson settled himself on the couch and with the cat in his lap began to stroke her. “Now that is news. Read on. I can’t wait to hear.”

  “Dr. Elliott Conroy, founder of Conroy Cosmetics, announced late Friday afternoon he had named his nephew, Matthew Conroy, as the company’s new incoming vice president. The announcement was not unexpected. The recent death of Jared Conroy, the doctor’s only son and sole heir, had left investors anxious for Conroy to name a successor to the long-held family business. Sources close to the doctor, who asked not to be identified, claim in-house fighting among members of the board had reached an all-time high. Dr. Conroy said, ‘I feel as though my hand has been forced to make this appointment prematurely, but I abide by the board’s decision and look forward to working with my nephew, Matthew, in his new position.’”

  The article went on, but I paused.

  Undisclosed sources? I wondered if on a board made up primarily of family members if that undisclosed source might be Madeline Conroy, Matthew’s mother. In my mind’s eye, the picture of Matthew standing in front of the dresser in Jared’s bedroom seemed more than a coincidence. Had Matthew planted something to cause Jared’s allergic reaction? Replaced his EpiPen with one that wasn’t working? Was it possible Madeline and her son were working together to wrest control of Conroy Cosmetics and force the doctor out?

  Wilson stood up and paced the room, the cat, purring contentedly, still in his arms. “I wonder how long that’s been in the works?”

  “Good question,” I said. I was about to return to the article when we heard a knock at the door.

  “You expecting someone?” Wilson put Bossypants down and peeked out the window.

  I glanced at the old grandfather clock in the entry. The hands showed it was precisely 10:59. Despite m
y restless night’s concern about the man in the gray sedan, I had the distinct feeling someone close to me was about to reach out for further consultation—a feeling I frequently have when in the midst of a case.

  “I am,” I said.

  I looked up at the clock and waited for the big hand to hit the top of the hour, listened for the chime, then promptly answered the door.

  Carlene entered as far as the entry, her arms wrapped tightly across her midsection, as though she were trying to hold herself together.

  “I promised myself I wasn’t going to come today, but Amy called last night, and—”

  “You couldn’t help yourself.” I pointed to the couch.

  “I’m concerned.” Carlene sat down. “Dr. Conroy insisted Amy stay with him. He’s not allowing her to leave.”

  From behind me, I heard Wilson. “Here he goes again, keeping his women behind those hallowed gates.”

  I raised a brow. “She did mention to me she was staying there. But I’m not surprised.” From the way Conroy had hoarded over Amy at Jared’s memorial, I knew the doctor had no intention of letting Amy out of his sight.

  “You have to do something, Misty. Amy can’t stay there. Not now. Not without Jared. Not ever.”

  “Why not?” I glanced at Wilson. Carlene wasn’t just rattled; she was frightened. “Does it have something to do with why you weren’t sitting with Amy at the memorial yesterday? Or why you were in such a rush to leave before anyone noticed you?”

  Carlene exhaled. “It’s a long story.”

  “I have time, and if you like, I could make a pot of tea. I haven’t had any myself this morning, and it might help to settle your nerves.”

  “No.” Carlene shook her head. “I don’t need anything. I just need to talk. I’ve never told anyone what I’m about to tell you. If I did, I’m afraid it could come back to haunt me.”

  “Does this have anything to do with Jared?” I asked.

  “I didn’t kill him if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Ahh,” Wilson looked up to the ceiling. “Here it comes. The girl’s been schtupping Amy’s fiancé.”