He gave another cough-laugh. “That’s why I was motivated to get in touch with Puck and Lucy. Now this.”
Milo returned. “She fell asleep again.”
“I’d better go lock the door,” said Ken.
Milo said, “Why?”
I told him.
“Oh.” Turning to Ken: “Call me if you need anything.”
“Thanks, detective. Are they treating what happened as an accident?”
“Probably.”
“Guess it was,” said Ken. “Sometimes it seems like everything is.”
Outside at the curb, I asked Milo if Lucy’d said anything.
“She held my hand and took turns smiling and crying. Think she has any chance coming out of this reasonably intact?”
“She’s pretty tough, but this … she’s topping off the stress scale.”
“Beautiful day,” he said, looking at the sapphire sky. “I had time to make some calls. The surf shop’s closed, meaning the Sheas may have split, too. Still nothing on Trafficant, and if your Mr. Mellors is a bad guy, he’s been a careful one. Nothing on NCIC. In fact, I can’t find any record of him at all.”
“What’s going on?” I said. “Everyone’s just disappearing.”
He rubbed his face. “We all do, eventually.”
I returned home and tried Columbia University. They’d never heard of Denton Mellors. Either he’d lied about his educational background or was using a false name. Pen name? I got the number for the Manhattan Book Review and called the magazine.
The man who answered let out a stuffed-sinus laugh. “Mellors? And who are you, Lord Chatterley?”
“Sometimes I feel like it.”
That cut off his laughter. “He’s not one of ours. We have no grounds to keep.”
“He definitely wrote for you,” I said. “Reviewed M. Bayard Lowell’s last book.”
“That sounds awfully like ancient history.”
“Twenty-one years ago.”
“Well, that’s paleolithic, isn’t it?”
“Is there anyone on your staff who was working on the magazine at the time?”
“We’re not a magazine,” he said, miffed. “We’re a review—a state of mind, actually. And we have no permanent staff. Just Mr. Upstone, myself, and a bevy of freelance hopefuls.”
“What does it take to be a reviewer?”
“One has to recognize the proper criteria for judging books.”
“Which are?”
“Style and substance. Now, I fail to see the importance—”
“I work for a law firm out in L.A. Mr. Mellors has come into an inheritance. Nothing big, but he still might want to know about it.”
“How nice for him.”
“Was Mr. Upstone around when Mr. Mellors’s review came out?”
“Mr. Upstone has always been around.”
“May I speak with him, please?”
“If you’re good.”
“I promise.”
He laughed. “California … how can you live there?”
A few minutes later, a cross-sounding tobacco voice said, “Mason Upstone.”
I repeated my request.
Upstone broke in. “I won’t tell you a damn thing. Haven’t you ever heard of the right to privacy?”
“I’m not—”
“That’s right, you’re not. Tell your friends at the CIA or the FBI or whoever it is you’re with to do something more constructive than spying on creative people.”
Slam.
I went out on the deck and tried to relax. The sky out there was even bluer, but I couldn’t unwind.
I couldn’t stop bad things from happening to Lucy, but I should have been able to deal with a dream.…
Lowell, Trafficant, Mellors.
I pulled out the clipping on the Sanctum party and read it one more time.
Lowell holding court.
Trafficant with his own circle of groupies.
Had they tried to outdo one another the night of the party?
Had Karen Best been the victim of that competition?
There had to be some way to connect the pieces.
I ran my eyes down the names of partygoers. The usual Westside showbiz list, no indication any of them had a relationship with Lowell. With one exception: the film producer who’d financed construction of the retreat, Curtis App.
His name had come up before. I shuffled through articles till I found it: A PEN fund-raiser at App’s Malibu house had been the site of Lowell’s reentry into the public eye.
Fund-raiser for political prisoners.
Had App shared Lowell’s sympathy for talented criminals? Or was he just a generous man?
Calculated generosity? Film people’s self-esteem often lagged their wealth. Had App tried to buy himself respectability by hitching up with a Great Man?
An “independent producer” had optioned Command: Shed the Light for film. App, or some other patron?
Paying to adapt poetry to the screen seemed an absurd business decision. More charity?
Great Man on the skids … App buying in cheap?
Sinking money into Sanctum, then watching it all fall apart as Lowell lost interest.
He might very well have a few opinions on Lowell.
No phone listings under his name. No great surprise.
Didn’t producers belong to some kind of trade group—the Producers Guild?
I found the address—400 South Beverly Drive in Beverly Hills—and was just about to punch the number when my service clicked in.
“Someone on your line from Mr. Lowell, doctor. She wouldn’t give a last name. Sexy voice.”
I took the call.
Nova said, “Are you still planning to bring the daughter up?”
“There were no plans.”
“I was under the impression there were. He’s expecting her—the best time’s late afternoon. Five or later. He takes a long nap after lunch, and—”
“There were no plans,” I repeated, “and something’s come up.”
“Oh, really,” she said coolly. “And what’s that?”
“Mr. Lowell’s son Peter was found dead today.”
Silence.
“When did this happen?” she said skeptically.
“The body was discovered this morning. He’d been dead for a while.”
“How did he die?”
“Heroin overdose.”
“Damn,” she said. “How am I going to tell him?”
“Call the police and let them do it.”
“No, no, it’s my job.… This is obscene, the man’s been through so much. When he wakes up he’ll expect me to tell him about the daughter’s visit. You should have her come. Especially now. He deserves it.”
“Think so?” I said.
“Why are you being so hostile? I’m just trying to do what’s right.”
“So am I.”
“I’m sorry.” Suddenly, a softer tone. “I’m sure you are. This caught me by surprise. I have no experience with this kind of thing. I really don’t know what to do.”
“There’s no easy way to tell him,” I said. “Just find the right time and do it.”
“What’s the right time?” she said, almost timidly.
“When he’s not drunk or highly medicated or upset about something else.”
“That doesn’t leave much … but you’re right, I’ll just have to bite the bullet.”
Sounding miserable.
“What’s the matter?” I said.
“What if I tell him and he has a fit and—he’s in such bad shape. What if he has another stroke? What do I do, all alone with him?”
“He obviously needs a doctor.”
“I know, I know, but he hates them.”
“Then I don’t know what to tell you.”
“He likes you. Would you come up and be there when I tell him—maybe coach me?”
I laughed. “I think you’ve got the wrong guy.”
“No, no, he does. Said he’d given you both barre
ls and you’d shot right back. He respects you. It’s the first time I’ve heard him say anything respectful about anyone. I know it’s an imposition, but I’ll pay you for your time. Please, this freaks me out; I don’t do death well. Too much weirdness in this family, this wasn’t what I expected when I took the job. But I can’t abandon him—too many people have.”
“It seems to me he’s the one doing the abandoning.”
“You’re right,” she said. “But he doesn’t see it that way. He can’t help himself—he’s too old to change. I’m really worried I’m going to mess this up. Please help me. I’ll make it worth your while.”
“I won’t take your money,” I said. “Conflict of interest. But I’ll come up. And it has to be now.”
The kindly therapist, even as I mapped out a walk through the grounds. Looking for lacy trees.
“You will?” she said. “That’s so incredible. If there’s anything I can do in return …”
Sexy voice.
“Let’s just get through this,” I said. “I feel sorry for the whole family.”
“Yes,” she said. “They’re a pitiful bunch, aren’t they?”
CHAPTER
34
She was sitting on the porch and got up to meet me as I pulled up to the hitching posts. She had on a soft black minidress and black sandals. A bra this time, the cups patterned in relief under the cotton. She jogged down the big wooden steps, smiling, and I felt about to be tackled as she came straight at me. Stopping inches away, she took my hand.
Her body was sleek, but this close, with the sunlight bathing her face, I noticed tiny tuck scars where her ears met her jawline.
Face lift. Older than I’d thought?
Her hand held on to mine and I looked down and saw other scars, on her arms. Small, barely discernible, with the exception of one long white line running parallel to the knuckles of her right hand.
“Thank you.” She pecked my cheek. “He’s still sleeping.”
Letting go, she directed me onto the porch with just a touch at the small of my back.
“How long does he usually sleep?” I said.
“He can go anywhere from two to five hours. I try to ease up on the morphine before lunch, so he’ll have an appetite, but he generally reacts strongly to it.”
“Who prescribes the morphine?”
“A doctor in Pacific Palisades.”
“Does this doctor ever actually see him?”
She rubbed her index finger with her thumb, sighed, and smiled. “What can I say?”
I thought of how Lowell had despised Puck for his addiction.
“Come on in.” She opened the front door.
“How about a walk?” I said. “I’ve been cooped up all day.”
“Sure,” she said, smiling and smoothing back her hair. “Let me get something, first.”
She ran up the stairs and came back with a white plastic hand radio with a rubber antenna. The brand sticker said KidStuff.
“It’s for babies,” she said, clipping it onto her waistband. “But that’s what old people are, right? Big babies.”
She rotated a dial on the radio and static came on.
“It’s got a range of about five hundred feet, so we can’t go too far. Sometimes he wakes up like a baby—crying out. He wears diapers, too.”
She stayed very close to me as we strolled around the house. Directly behind the building was a dry unplanted parcel broken only by an empty laundry line on metal posts.
Beyond that, the beginnings of forest, the brush growing so thick it looked impenetrable. Nova and I crossed the dirt, and I studied the house. No porches or balconies, just rough logs and windows and a single door. Drapes covered three of the windows on the ground floor.
“Is that his bedroom?” I said.
“Uh-huh. It used to be the library but he can’t get upstairs anymore.”
She started to walk. I kept looking at the house and she stopped.
“Ugly, isn’t it?” she said.
“Like a big log cabin.”
She nodded and pressed her arm against mine. “Yeah, that old rustic feeling.”
“In his shape,” I said, “I don’t imagine decor means much.”
“I doubt it ever did. Money doesn’t mean much to him either. Probably ’cause he’s always had it. He’s cued in to one thing only: himself.” Cool appraisal, no malice. Everything about her seemed cool.
“Have you worked for him a long time?”
“Six months.”
“What’s your background?”
She laughed. “I’m a writer.”
“What kind of things do you write?”
“Poetry, mostly. I’m thinking of doing a screenplay. About California—the strange things you see here.”
“Are you from the East?”
“No, up north.”
“How’d you hook up with him?”
“I wrote him a fan letter and he answered. I wrote back and he sent an even longer letter. We began a correspondence. About writing: style and story structure, things like that. A few months later he offered me a job as a personal assistant. He made it sound as if he was fundamentally healthy and just needed light care. Then I arrived and found out I was going to have to change diapers.”
“But you stayed anyway.”
“Sure,” she said, swinging her arms and picking up her pace. “He’s an institution. How could I turn him down?”
Not to mention material for a screenplay.
I said, “My impression was that he’s a faded institution.”
Her jaw tightened, deepening the tuck scars. “Maybe to fools who follow the best-seller list.”
Stopping, she raised the volume on the radio. Nothing but the static. She lowered it again but didn’t move.
I said, “I heard this place was once a retreat for artists and writers.”
“Long time ago.”
“Nice concept.”
“What is?”
“Retreating. Getting away from the grind.”
“Oh, you never do. You just change gears.”
She turned and began circling back toward the front of the house. I stayed with her.
“So you’re a fan of his.”
“Absolutely.”
“Any books in particular?”
“Everything.”
“Didn’t he write a book of poems that was considered anti-woman?”
She gave me a sharp smile. “You mean, am I being a traitor to my sex by admiring him? Yes, to him women are meat—he grabs my ass at least once a day. But if women were honest, they’d admit men were meat to them, too. Let’s face it, big cocks are better than little cocks.”
Holding the smile, she swung her arms and brushed my thigh.
“We’re all meat,” she said, almost singing it. “What else is there? At least Buck’s honest about it. I clean his shit, he can’t hide anything from me.”
“Nor you from him.”
“What do you mean?”
“You still have to tell him about Peter.”
She made a grumbling sound, nearly masculine. A scarred hand pinched her nose, then scratched the tip.
“Gnats,” she said, slapping the air. “They think I’m delicious. Yes, I’ll tell him. But just the fact that you’re up here makes me feel good—believe it or not.” Knowing smile. “You’ve got a certain aura. You get off on helping people, don’t you?” Another thigh brush. “Thanks,” she said, touching my chin.
I stepped away from her.
She looked amused. “Any advice for me?”
“What was his relationship with Peter like?”
“Only met the little shit once. Faggodly coward, begging for money. Here’s Buck, struggling to live, using dope only as a last resort, and the stupid little snot shoots it voluntarily into his veins. I caught him once trying to rip off some of Buck’s ampules. Told him to give them back or I’d tell Daddy. You should have seen the way his mouth dropped. He handed them over. Never came back.”
> “Maybe he was being honest in his own way.”
“How?” she demanded, picking up her pace and moving out of touching range. The front porch came into view.
“Maybe being nothing but meat was too much for him to handle.”
“Why? What else is there? A house in the suburbs? Look at that.” She pointed upward, to a bird skittering among the treetops. “How long will it live? A month? A year? One day it will be flying along, and some predator will come crashing down on it, crushing its bones in its jaws, squeezing the juice out.” Her neck muscles were tense. The tuck scars were deep black lines. “But it was here. It served its time. We’re fools if we think we’re any different. Our only meaning is being.”
“So what’s wrong with cutting it short?”
She stopped. “You advocate suicide? That’s a switch for a psychologist, isn’t it?”
“I don’t advocate it. But I don’t judge either.”
“I do. A writer always does, that’s the difference. You’ve devoted your life to learning the rules. I cherish the exceptions.”
Good speech, but Lowell’s voice seeped through.
She put her hands on her hips. “Get her up here—the daughter. What else does he have left? Isn’t he entitled to it?”
“He hasn’t been much of a father.”
“He’s tried.”
“Has he?”
“In his own way.”
“Which is what?”
“Staying out of their lives so his genius wouldn’t overshadow them. Giving them money—who do you think paid for the coward’s dope after he ran through his trust fund? Then he tries to pocket those ampules, the little puke.”
“Why’s Buck so interested in seeing Lucy?”
“Because he’s her father. A girl should meet her father. If she doesn’t, it’s her loss. He’s one of a kind. There’s beauty in that, alone. Don’t you see?”
“One of a kind,” I said.
“Look,” she said, fighting to keep her voice low, “you get off on helping people, but that doesn’t mean you know everything. If you were hiking in some strange place and you came across a snake that had never been seen before—maybe it was poisonous, you had no idea—would you run from it? Or would you try to capture it and learn about it?”
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