Rebecca Schwartz 05 - Other People's Skeletons

by Smith, Julie

  “And then there’s the night job.” I was beginning to realize she was probably a very depressed woman— what had looked like a failure to grieve was probably just her accustomed lack of affect. Well, that made two— Adrienne was no Little Miss Sunshine herself. And come to think of it, Rob had said she always wore black to the office. I wondered if they were into tattoos and piercing as well. And if that meant S&M. The culture changed so fast it was hard to know what went with what. For all I knew you wore pink polka dots to signify S&M these days.

  “Who’s next on the list?”

  “Let’s do another girlfriend. I’m dying to see if we’ve got a pattern here.”

  “How about Felicity Wainwright, the oncologist? What do you bet she’s just a bundle of giggles?” Felicity lived in San Mateo, which meant quite a little drive, so it was midmorning by the time we got there. Our plan to surprise people in their beds was rapidly falling apart.

  Her house was lovely— Spanish-style stucco, the house of someone who’d been well rewarded for fighting cancer. I wondered what the job was like. If most patients lived, it was one thing— if they didn’t, it must be one of the hardest jobs in the world. She was probably away, I realized; anyone who lived that stressful a life probably beat a retreat on weekends.

  But there were two teenagers on her porch, a boy and a girl, the girl eating yogurt and granola, the boy practically doing handstands to amuse her. And it looked as if it was working. She kept putting down her bowl and laughing, sometimes touching brow to knees, holding on to her ankles. She had light red hair that hung to the middle of her back in perfect curls, as if she had an expensive perm, but I was willing to bet she was just lucky. Lucky to have that hair, live in that house, be fourteen and in love. She probably didn’t own a single black garment.

  “Is this the Wainwright residence?”

  “Uh-huh. You want to see my mom?”

  I nodded.

  “Mo-om!” It was a piercing shriek.

  “Yes?”

  I’d been expecting a harried parent to rush out the door holding her ears. Instead, a woman rounded the corner of the house, wearing khaki capris and gardening gloves, which she was pulling off delicately, finger by finger.

  “Felicity Wainwright?”

  She nodded, wary.

  Rob said who he was. “And this is Rebecca Schwartz.” No more ID than that, which was fine with me. “I was a friend of Jason McKendrick’s. I wonder if you’d mind talking about him with us?”

  “For a newspaper story?” She was petite, almost birdlike— and from the look on her face, she’d fly away if the answer was yes.

  “Actually … not yet. We’re very concerned, as you might imagine. And frankly, we’re a little pissed that the police haven’t arrested anyone. So, I guess you could say this is background right now— we’re trying to find out who had a reason to kill Jason.”

  The two kids on the porch were riveted. Wainwright glanced at them nervously. “Let’s go in back, shall we?”

  We walked behind her, Rob admiring her tiny, perfect butt. I knew that because I knew him so well, but then anybody would have. Felicity Wainwright was one of those perfectly shaped tiny women who made you feel like picking them up like a baby and counting their fingers and toes. Like her daughter, she was a redhead, copper hair cut short and bouncing about her head in unruly curls. Her face was more pink and white than the usual redhead gold, more a blonde’s coloring, and her eyes were a very light blue, azure almost, and they were round, which gave her a look of innocence and youth. She looked almost as much like a teenager as her daughter— and about as likely to wear black. There was something about the curls, or perhaps an Irish shaped face— elflike, with pointy chin— that made her look merry as the month of May.

  She took us to a patio paved with flagstones and seated us at a white table under a Cinzano umbrella. She laid her dirty gardening gloves on the table as if they were white-lace ones and this were a formal occasion. “Would you like some iced tea?”

  “Sure,” said Rob, though I would have declined, eager to get to the interview. He had told me once that he always accepted beverages, it got people used to the idea that he’d be awhile. So I nodded, going along.

  When we were all genteelly sipping, Wainwright said, “I don’t know how I can help, really. I feel like I hardly knew him.”

  “We heard you two had been dating.”

  “Dating. Yes.” She frowned. “But not so much lately. God, he was fun. He figured out what my favorite foods were and always made sure he let the chef know in advance— things would just magically appear, variations on themes, you know, different things every time but still all my favorites. And then the chef would come out, and Jason would joke around with him— he just had such an easy manner. But— you know— I hadn’t seen him in two weeks, maybe three, when I heard the news. Tell me— there’s no question he was murdered, is that right?”

  “The police have a couple of witnesses who say he started running to get out of the way, but the car backed up and went for him again.”

  “My God! Who’d want to do that?”

  “We were just wondering if you had any thoughts.”

  “Not unless it was somebody he skewered in one of those wicked reviews of his. He was a completely hilarious writer, but I was always afraid he’d go too far. Other than that, I wouldn’t have any idea because I don’t know anything about his life— he was one of those guys who only do small talk.” She gave me a wry look, as if to say, You know the type?

  “So I take it,” said Rob, “that you weren’t deeply involved with him.”

  “You mean was I sleeping with him?”

  Rob had the good grace to look taken aback, but she kept talking. “I belong to this group that my friend Trudy calls JerkEnders. We have this little rule— no sex before the tenth date.” She laughed. “Only two people have ever managed it, I think, but the theory is you should get to know somebody first. Very obvious, huh? And very nineteenth century. Well, it’s this way— either those two people must have dated Jason McKendrick, or maybe he belonged to another branch of it, up in the City.”

  “Not exactly Fast Eddie, I take it.”

  She spread her hands, not hiding a thing. “It was kind of refreshing at first. After awhile I got to wondering.”

  “Wondering what?”

  “What was going on.” She got Rob in a hammerlock stare. “It isn’t exactly guy behavior.”

  “I, uh— I guess not.” It was all I could do not to laugh out loud. It wasn’t every day I got to see Rob Burns get flustered. From the shade of pink he was starting to turn, I gathered his cover had just been blown— that he most assuredly knew guy behavior when he saw it, and he was thinking he’d like to indulge in some with Felicity Wainwright.

  I changed the subject, to get him off the spot. “We hear you’re an oncologist.”

  She nodded. “Use lots of sunscreen, and maybe we’ll never meet professionally.”

  “I was just wondering how you met Jason.”

  “At a friend’s house— Toby Hunter. I mean at Toby and her husband’s house. They had us both to dinner one night.” She smiled, a little embarrassed, I thought. “I guess it was a fix-up.”

  “Just the four of you?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I guess it was. How did Jason know the Hunters?”

  “They have a PR agency— I think with a lot of theatrical clients. I guess it was frustrating because Toby couldn’t fix them up with Jason, whom she adored. She was always telling me how funny and urbane he was— all of which was true. I just don’t know.…”

  “What?”

  “If there was anything there.” She lifted an eyebrow. “But there had to be. A man who takes you out for two months and doesn’t make a pass must have some kind of explanation for it.”

  “Maybe a war wound.”

  “Insane wife in the attic.”

  “Respects you too much.”

  We burst out laughing— somehow, we’d ma
naged to bond. Rob stared, amazed. I said, “What does Toby think?”

  “She thinks a disgruntled actor killed him and just hopes it wasn’t one of her clients.”

  “I mean about the other thing.”

  “Oh. Well, she thinks he’s in the closet. What else is there to think? Unless he just doesn’t like redheads.” But of course that couldn’t be it because then he wouldn’t have asked her out in the first place.

  “Do the Hunters know him well?”

  “Actually, I don’t think so. I think that’s the only time they ever had him to dinner. I guess it was dicey, considering their career and his.”

  “And how did you know them?”

  “I guess … that’s the sort of thing I’m not supposed to talk about.”

  Which told the whole story, of course— that one of them was a patient; Toby, probably. That Toby felt Felicity had saved her life and wanted to pay her back. And so she decided to introduce her to the man of her dreams— and Felicity was a good sport who’d gone along with it.

  I liked her. Why, I wondered, wasn’t she McKendrick’s cup of tea? Why weren’t Rob and I each other’s? What was this thing called love?

  Chapter Six

  “So he was gay. I’ll be damned— Jason McKendrick.”

  “Well, it could have been a war wound,” I said.

  “No way. You heard what Felicity said about ‘guy behavior.’”

  “But Jason must have been complicated— I’ve been thinking about something.”

  Rob was driving on the way back to the city to try to catch couple friends and men friends. We’d decided to go for the men first— the better to check out the gay idea.

  He looked at me curiously.

  “If you work at the Chron, you have to make guild scale, right?”

  “At least.”

  “And Jason was a pretty big star and an aggressive guy, so it’s reasonable to assume he was paid over scale, right?”

  “I got a look at one of his checks once. He was way over scale.”

  “And are you?”

  “Not much— just a little.”

  “But you live in a pretty nice place. How come Jason lived in a hovel with no furniture?”

  “I was wondering about that. And his car was an old wreck.”

  “Why don’t we ask Adrienne what he spent his money on?”

  “Good idea. I already did.”

  “Speedy Gonzalez.”

  “I phoned to make sure she was okay at her dad’s, and just happened to inquire. She doesn’t know.”

  We had three men on our list— Barry Dettman, Cal Perotti, and Bobby Auerbach. Barry was our first stop— we’d been told he was one of Jason’s oldest friends, maybe his closest. He lived on Potrero Hill, apparently with another friend. A woman answered the door. Television sounds came from somewhere.

  As it turned out, Barry was watching a baseball game he just couldn’t miss and agreed to see us only if he could take time out when something important happened. We went for it.

  Rob gave him the spiel about who we were, and he nodded, not even looking our way. “Oh, man, oh, man, I could just kill Jason for this— he had a hell of a nerve dying on me.” It sounded weird coming from a man I could see only in profile. “Know how we met? Playing softball about a million years ago, in Golden Gate Park. We were both on some bar’s team. We had a league, bars that played other bars. I’d just gone to Sanborn-Permenter then. ” That meant he was an architect. “Oh, man, I loved Jase like a brother.”

  I said, “It must have upset you the way he didn’t take care of himself.”

  “What?” Now he did look. It was written all over his face: Who is this broad, and what the hell is she talking about?

  “I mean his apartment. It was just so depressing.”

  He stared. “His apartment was depressing?”

  “You know, the black walls. No furniture. And the mess— I guess he wouldn’t even get a cleaning lady.”

  His cheeks grew slightly pink. “It’s a funny thing. I don’t even know if I was ever in it. We used to meet in restaurants, or at the theater sometimes. And of course he came over here— about once a month, I guess. I guess we dropped him off there— a million times maybe— but I never thought about it. In all the years I’ve known him it just never came up.” The announcer said, “There’s a play at the plate,” and his head turned like a robot’s.

  “And of course there was that terrible old car.”

  The side of his face said, “Jason loved that car. Everybody teased him about it.” His mouth drew down at the memory.

  “Did you know his assistant was living with him?”

  “Adrienne. Sure. That was Jason’s one bad quality. Boy, he treated that kid bad.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, it’s no secret— he had a million women. Clarice and I tried to talk to him, but”— briefly, he turned toward us, then back to the screen— “I guess there’s a piece of Jason that just never grew up.”

  Then, as if he’d had an electric shock, he swiveled to face us. “Omigod. You don’t think Adrienne finally…”

  Rob shrugged. “She says she wasn’t his girlfriend. That he was just letting her stay there for a while.”

  “Oh, no way. The two of ’em tooled around all the time. After she moved in, we started having ’em both over to dinner.” His face took on the look of someone reaching back into the past. “They kidded around. They were involved. Believe it.”

  “Why the other women then?”

  His shoulders went up. “Jason was like that— a big kid. Liked to have a pretty woman on his arm, but I guess he was more comfortable with someone like Adrienne. Young, not real smart…”

  “Malleable.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did he ever get involved with the others, or was all that just for show— so no one would know he was living with his assistant?”

  “You bet he got involved. He was crazy about that doctor— Felicity something. You should talk to her.”

  “We did. She says she hardly knew him.”

  “Oh, come on. He was nuts about her.” He sighed. “Of course, he was nuts about some disc jockey a few months ago, and before that…I forget.”

  “Did you know them?”

  “Funny thing was, sometimes we met them— we’d run into Jase at the theater or something— but he never brought them over. He talked about them, though. He and I’d go out and shoot a few baskets, something like that, he always had some new lady friend.”

  “But he always dumped them.”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t keep them long; that’s all I know.”

  I said, “What we were wondering was, did any of them go off the deep end when he dumped her? Did he ever talk about one of them acting strange?”

  “Well, one used to call him a lot at work. But Adrienne mentioned that, not him. I know what you’re getting at, but if he had any enemies, I don’t know about them. I still can’t believe somebody murdered him. Those witnesses were probably wrong, you know what I mean? You know how people can think they saw something they didn’t?” Suddenly a tear popped out of his eye, and he turned quickly away, not wiping it, which would have drawn attention to it.

  Neither of the other men friends were home, so we took a desperately needed lunch break and called on a couple, Nick and Susie Rodenbom. They had known him as long as anyone, Adrienne had said, Nick having been his mentor years ago when he’d first come to the Chronicle. Rob could remember him— a white-haired editor who’d left to teach college journalism; a kindly sort who had taken the raw material of a brash young man with a brand-new diploma and a ton of ambition and made him the extraordinary writer Jason had been when he died.

  Despite the hair, he didn’t look old— probably about fifty or thereabouts, but he had an avuncular presence, and I could see why Adrienne had put the Rodenboms on the list of “couple” friends and Barry (though obviously part of a couple) on the men’s list. Barry was a basket-shooting kind
of pal and clearly these were parent figures. Susie was also white-haired, and plump, very pretty, I thought, but not someone whose appearance mattered a great deal to her. And from what I was learning of Jason, perhaps the only kind of woman he could relate to as a friend.

  “Bullshit!” said Rob later. “You heard Barry. He and Adrienne were friends, if nothing else.”

  “All he said was they kidded around— not that he confided in her.”

  “Well, guys don’t do that much.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  The Rodenboms seated us in their living room, a place of smart sofas and halogen lamps, the most conventional room we’d seen that day. But Susie was an artist, and there were odd pictures on the walls— of cats bringing gifts, not of mice, but of swimming pools, espresso makers, burglar alarms, even a Barbie doll. They were very funny, and I was entranced.

  “Susie’s pussy period,” said Nick. “Last year she did dragons.”

  I must have looked puzzled.

  “Of course, they were all wearing darling designer outfits, fully accessorized.”

  I thought I could like Susie. A lot. She had blue eyes and a warm, round face. I wished that sometime, somehow, I could achieve the self-confidence to look the way she did, but it just isn’t in the genes. My mom has standing appointments with so many waxers, cutters, filers, and peelers I don’t know how she works in shopping for her state-of-the-art wardrobe. She despairs of her two politically correct daughters (not that she isn’t p.c. as well, just a very well-groomed feminist), but, still, I’d like to see the day I let my hair go gray.

  Susie turned to me. “We miss Jason so, so much— already. Did you know him well, my dear?”

  “I didn’t, really. Rob was his friend.”

  “Oh? Are you new at the Chronicle?”

  It was the first time I’d been challenged. I took a deep breath— I wasn’t after anything I could use in court, but you never knew, and lying’s never a good idea. I said, “I have another interest in this, to tell you the truth. The police are investigating my law partner in connection with Jason’s death.” I liked Susie a lot, and Nick seemed like a fine man whom Rob knew— these people were known quantities, I told myself. And took a chance. “They found her name in Jason’s pocket, but she didn’t know him. Rob is a friend of hers, too, so one of the things we’re trying to find out is why it was there.”