Flesh and Blood

by James Neal Harvey

  “Yeah, sure,” Ben replied. “Go ahead. I’ll be right here.”

  He waited as Peggy gently opened the door and slipped into the room. The hallway was quiet, but he could hear the murmur of a TV coming from somewhere far off and, above that, a rumbling that probably was the sound of the furnace.

  Peggy came back out, looking confused. “She’s not there.”

  “What?”

  “Her robe and slippers are inside, but she’s not in her bed.”

  “Let me have a look,” Ben said. He stepped past her into the room.

  There was only a dim glow in here, coming from a small night-light. He flipped on the overhead. The bed had been slept in, but except for the robe and slippers, he saw no sign of the room’s occupant.

  There was a door next to the bed, most likely leading into a bathroom. He turned the knob, but the door was hard to open. He pushed and it swung in. He saw no one in here, either—until he poked his head inside and looked around.

  A young woman was hanging from a hook on the back of the door.

  He turned on the light, knowing at once that she was dead.

  She was wearing flimsy pajamas and bore an eerie resemblance to Peggy, with auburn hair and startlingly green eyes. A jagged scar ran down the side of her face. The belt from her robe was tied around her neck, the other end knotted to the hook on the door. The green eyes were bulging from their sockets and fixed in a grotesque stare, the whites a network of broken blood vessels. Her tongue was protruding from between her lips and a cyanotic shadow had formed around the base of her jaw.

  Peggy moved close behind him, trying to see what he was looking at. “What is it? Is she in there?”

  Ben backed out and closed the door. Turning to Peggy, he placed both hands on her shoulders. “Don’t go in. I have something very bad to tell you.”

  76

  The room was full of people. Nurses were in there, as well as several of the young male attendants, and whenever Tolliver shooed them out, they managed to slip back in again. A number of patients were milling about in the corridor outside the room.

  Peggy Demarest had been near collapse when he told her what he’d found, and two of the nurses had taken her to another room and given her a tranquilizer.

  A Farmington cop was present; Ben had called the police as soon as possible after he discovered Jan Demarest’s body. The officer spent a lot of time in the bathroom, looking at the corpse.

  Dr. Chenoweth was also on hand; he’d hurried over from his home when someone telephoned him with the news. Apparently, he’d been in bed. Now he was wearing khaki pants and a ski jacket pulled over his pajama top. As Peggy had said, he was surprisingly young for his job; Ben thought he probably grew the beard to look older.

  To Tolliver’s consternation, the doctor insisted on taking the body down before a medical examiner could be summoned to the scene. Ben argued, but Chenoweth was icily stubborn, and the local cop supported the psychiatrist.

  “No need to wait for the ME,” the officer said. “Could be a couple hours before he gets here, and anyhow, it’s pretty clear what happened.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Tolliver asked. “Don’t you at least want him to see her exactly as she was when she died?”

  The cop’s name was Jaworski. He was beefy and redfaced, not hiding what he thought of having a New York City detective commenting on his procedures. “Listen, Lieutenant. A suicide is a suicide. You got crazy people here, and crazy people do crazy things. And besides, it wasn’t like we didn’t know anything about her. She wasn’t exactly what you’d call stable, even before she came to this place.”

  “Very unfortunate,” Chenoweth said, “to have something like this happen, especially when she’d been making such good progress.”

  Tolliver kept his mouth in check, with an effort. In the end, Chenoweth had the attendants clear everyone from the area except one of the nurses and several other male medical staffers. Then they cut the belt from around Jan Demarest’s neck and placed her body on a gurney.

  The corpse was covered with a sheet and wheeled away. It would go to the basement morgue, Chenoweth said, where the examiner could see it when he arrived. In the meantime, Officer Jaworski could wait in the reception area.

  In the hallway, Chenoweth asked Tolliver what he was doing at Brentwood. When Ben told him he was conducting an investigation into Senator Cunningham’s death, the psychiatrist seemed dumbfounded.

  “As you know, Miss Demarest used to work for the family,” Tolliver said. “I had a discussion with her sister and wanted to speak with Jan.”

  “At this time of night? That’s incredible. In fact, I think you had no right to come here at all without contacting me first.”

  Several staffers overheard the exchange. They stopped to listen, gaping at Chenoweth and the detective.

  “I think we’d better discuss this in my office,” Chenoweth said. Ben followed him down the stairs to the main floor.

  The office was no more impressive than the doctor. Only the framed diplomas, inscribed in Latin with the names of several heavyweight educational institutions, suggested Chenoweth might be a heavyweight himself.

  “I’ll tell you right now,” the psychiatrist said, “I intend to report this to the proper authorities in New York.”

  “Fine,” Ben said. “Go right ahead. But there are some things I find strange. For instance, why wasn’t she being watched? And how can you run this place with almost no security? You had one guard on duty when we got here, and the guy was asleep.”

  Chenoweth bristled. “How we conduct our affairs is our business, Lieutenant. This is a private facility, and we get along very well without outside interference. What’s more, we’ve never had a problem with security. For you to come bursting in here this way is outrageous. And so is the attitude you’re now displaying. Miss Demarest’s suicide was terrible, but those things happen. What’s more, there was no indication whatever that she might be suicidal. None.”

  “I understand the Cunninghams were paying all her expenses.”

  “That’s something else that’s none of your business.”

  “But it’s true, isn’t it?”

  The doctor folded his arms. “The Cunninghams are very generous people.”

  “The estate’s not far from here, is it?”

  “No. It’s only a few miles farther along the road. And now if you’re finished prying, I’d appreciate it if you’d leave. Don’t concern yourself about Peggy. I think it would be best if she spent the night here with us.”

  “I’m on my way, Doc.” Tolliver stood up. “One other thing. Are you the head of this place?”

  “I’m head of psychiatry, but I’m not the director.”

  “Who is?”

  “The one we had resigned some months ago. A new director is scheduled to arrive in a few days.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “It’s not a he, Lieutenant. Her name is Ardis Merritt. I’ve already called her to let her know what happened.”

  77

  Shelley joined Laura Bentley for dinner in a glass-enclosed sun room. They’d be more comfortable here, Laura said, and more private. The room was in a wing of the mansion, overlooking a terrace and a garden that were illuminated by spotlights. It was decorated in bright stripings and filled with plants, huge ferns that made Shelley feel as if she was sitting in a jungle. Laura called it the Florida Room.

  The meal was excellent: mushroom caps stuffed with crabmeat, followed by Dover sole and braised endive and accompanied by a superb white Burgundy. It was served by a maid and a butler.

  Both women had changed for dinner but were again dressed casually, this time in sweaters and skirts. As they ate, Laura pumped Shelley on how to go about getting her TV career started. Most of what Shelley told her was accurate, but a lot of it she made up as she went along.

  The biggest hurdle, she explained, would be to get a packager to back the project. That would involve shooting a pilot and guaranteeing that at le
ast thirteen installments would be produced. The show would then have to be auctioned among syndicators, who would try to sell it to potential buyers—the stations that would carry it. All of that was factual; understated, if anything.

  The parts she stretched concerned Laura’s ability to attract and hold an audience with a program that sounded like a half hour’s worth of dull crap. The chances of that happening were right up there with the return of Elvis, but Shelley was careful not to say so.

  They talked for a long time, skipping dessert and drinking coffee and after that snifters of cognac. Shelley only sipped her brandy, but Laura drank several. After about the third, most of the actress’s pretensions disappeared. “Let me ask you something,” Laura said. “Be frank, and don’t be afraid of hurting my feelings. I want to know the truth.”

  “Sure, what is it?”

  “What’s your honest opinion of this idea? Do you think it would be as interesting as I do?”

  It was the kind of opening Shelley had been hoping for. “Maybe. But I think it could stand some spicing up.”

  “How would I do that?”

  “For one thing, the audience would be much more interested in your guests’ private lives than in their opinions about art or politics or anything else.”

  “Yeah, I guess that’s true.”

  “Take your own life,” Shelley said. “A beautiful, glamorous woman who made it big in the movies and then married into a rich and powerful family. Great stuff, isn’t it? That’s what would fascinate the audience—the juicy, intimate details.”

  Laura smiled. The brandy had loosened her up considerably. “The details just might be a little too juicy and intimate.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I guess because nothing’s perfect, ever.” She swallowed more cognac. “Especially my marriage. I thought my troubles were over when I married Clay. Instead, they were just beginning.”

  “What happened?”

  “A lot of things. When I met him, he was married to his first wife. He came to California for a big blowout put on by a company called Beverly Hills Investors. Junk bond traders. The chairman was a guy I used to go out with, and he took me to this thing. It was at the Ambassador, in L.A. There were a lot of other actresses there, too, mostly to impress people like Clayton. Anyway, I danced with him, and he flipped. Decided I was going to be his next acquisition.”

  “And so you were.”

  “Right. That’s exactly what I was.”

  Laura drained her glass and the butler stepped to the table. He poured more cognac for her and then looked over at Shelley, who shook her head. The butler bowed and moved away.

  “You were saying?” Shelley said.

  “Clay heard I was in town for the opening and called me. I was staying at the Plaza. He gave me quite a rush. Dinners, flowers, presents. I was dazzled, of course. Not long after that, he divorced his wife and we got married.”

  “And your dreams came true.”

  “For a time, yes. I loved the role, too. The great lady, moving in glittering social circles. With an apartment in Manhattan, weekends here on Long Island, winters in Palm Beach. To say nothing of trips to Paris and London in between. It was heavenly.”

  “What went wrong?”

  “I forgot the past. So of course, it repeated itself. And now Clay has other little friends he doesn’t think I know about. Listen, this is all off the record, isn’t it? I mean, we’re just talking now, right?”

  “Sure,” Shelley said. “We’re just talking.”

  “The mistresses are one of his main interests, but not the most important. That one is business. Even when we’re out here, that’s all he and the others talk about. Most of the time, they hole themselves up in the cottage.”

  “The cottage?”

  “It’s down at the beach. It’s a house, actually, but they call it the beach cottage. That’s where they hatch a lot of their schemes.”

  “What kind of schemes?”

  “You know, the financial operations and the real estate. And the—” She caught herself. “The other things.”

  “Will they go out there tonight?”

  “I don’t know. They were having dinner in the dining room. They might go down there afterward. They often do that at night.”

  “What are they working on at the moment, do you know?”

  “Yeah, I have a pretty good idea.” She sat back in her chair, suddenly looking befuddled. Then she leaned forward again. “Listen, I shouldn’t be talking about this stuff, least of all to you.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Shelley said. She wished she’d brought along a pocket tape recorder.

  “And remember,” Laura said, “anything I said stays between us, right?”

  Her speech was getting sloppy. She’s drunk, Shelley thought. All that wine and brandy has gotten her bombed. “Sure, absolutely.”

  “That’s good. You know, I’m so glad we’re doing this. You have no idea what it’s like, seeing some of my old pictures, knowing what I gave up.”

  Yeah, Shelley thought. What a sacrifice.

  “Did you see Eternal Love?”

  “No, I missed it.”

  “One of my best performances. The reviews were lousy, but it was one of the top grossers that year.”

  “Must have been great,” Shelley said. “Maybe I can pick up a video. Listen, Laura, it’s been a long day and I’m really bushed. I’d like to turn in, okay?”

  “Yes, of course. Sure you won’t have another brandy? I’m gonna have a nightcap.”

  “I’ve had plenty, thanks. But you go right ahead. I’ll just go on up to my room.”

  “Okay, sleep well. We’ll do some more tomorrow on the show.”

  “Fine. Good night.” Shelley got up from the table and left the room.

  The guest quarters were on the floor above. She walked along the corridor and went up the wide staircase, and when she reached the landing, she heard the sound of voices. She looked back as a group of people emerged from a room on the main floor.

  Shelley got only a glimpse of them, but she spotted Clay Cunningham and his sister, Ingrid. Behind them were Ingrid’s husband, Kurt Kramer, and some others she couldn’t see well enough to recognize. The group went out through French doors at the rear of the house.

  She turned and looked out the window on the landing.

  The people crossed the terrace and stepped out onto a flagstone walk. In the distance, Shelley could make out lights in another building, realizing that must be the beach house.

  Turning back, she ran up the stairs and down the hallway to her room, going inside and closing the door.

  She took off her skirt and put on a pair of black slacks and a black zippered jacket. Then she exchanged her shoes for a pair of black Reeboks. Lastly, she pulled on a black knitted watch cap, tucking her blond hair under it and rolling the cap down over her ears.

  From her travel bag, she took out a small flashlight and put it into a pocket of her jacket. Glancing into a full-length mirror hanging on the wall opposite the bed, she saw that the only part of her appearance that wasn’t dark was her face, but that couldn’t be helped.

  Moving quietly, she opened the door and slipped out of the room.

  78

  Tolliver got into his car and started the engine. Never in his years as a cop had he come up against anything like this. Three deaths, all of them suspicious as hell, and yet with no evidence they were anything but what they seemed on the surface. One heart attack, two suicides.

  Which added up to a ton of bullshit.

  Why had two attempts been made to kill Jan Demarest, the second one successful? He felt sure she’d been murdered and that the Cunninghams were involved in some way. But how?

  And what about Ardis Merritt becoming head of the institution where Demarest had died? How did that figure?

  For that matter, how could the family run their affairs with such utter contempt for the rules the rest of the world lived by?

  And how could one gu
y stand up to them? Ben felt like an infantryman who’d been given the point and contacted the enemy, only to discover there was nobody backing him up.

  He sat there for a few minutes, his anger building. He’d been told the estate was only a few miles farther down the road. Going there would mean putting his ass on the block once more, but by now he didn’t give a damn.

  And besides, Shelley was there. She could be in danger.

  He drove down the winding driveway, turning onto the road and accelerating rapidly.

  His headlights illuminated a desolate landscape, remote and inhospitable. He passed no buildings of any kind as he drove along the narrow road. The night was cold and dark, with only a sliver of moon showing and with a stiff wind coming in off the sea.

  Identifying the estate was easy. There was a high brick wall surrounding the grounds, with wrought-iron gates at the entrance. He didn’t see a guard as he went past, but he was sure members of Evan Montrock’s security force would be around—and probably Montrock himself.

  He parked some yards down the road from the gate, pulling the Taurus into a grove of pines that had been stunted by the salt-laced wind. Getting out, he looked over at the wall and judged it to be about ten feet high. He took off his raincoat and tossed it into the backseat, then went around to the rear of the car and opened the trunk.

  He took out a grappling hook and, rummaging around, came up with a length of nylon rope, which he bent onto the hook.

  Lastly, he got out his old standby, the Smith. Carrying an extra weapon just might give him an edge. He checked the cylinder and strapped the holster containing the pistol to the inside of his left ankle.

  Then he crossed the road and approached the wall.

  The hook caught on the first try. He tested it, tugging at the line, and when he was satisfied it would hold, he clambered up the brick surface. Once on top, he lay flat on his belly and squinted into the darkness.

  Across a long span of lawn and trees was the mansion. He’d expected it to be impressive, but even so he wasn’t prepared for what he saw. The place was huge, a turn-of-the-century Gothic monstrosity, built of granite. Enough lights were showing for him to make out the imposing center section, the wings and cupolas, the steep roofs and pointed arches, the tall chimneys. Before the entrance was a large paved area where cars were parked.