by Meg O'Brien
“Having a baby changes a woman,” she said, her voice shaking. “It makes her do anything to take care of that baby, to save her from harm. I did what I had to, leaving her at home, Mary Beth. And I did what I had to do coming down here. You would probably never understand the things a mother has to do for her child!”
Her words stung even more than the sound of the slammed door as she disappeared into the bedroom. I sat quietly thinking, wondering if I should go in there. But a few minutes later, she came out fully dressed, the ratty tote bag she’d arrived with over her shoulder.
“I really thought you’d understand,” she said. “I thought we could be friends again. Silly me.”
“I do understand,” I said, getting up and walking over to her. “Lindy, please don’t leave like this. I told you, we’ve got reservations to fly up to San Francisco in the morning. We’ve got a plan, remember? I know it can work.”
When she shook her head, I grabbed her by the shoulders. “Lindy, this isn’t all about you. Or me. It’s about Jade.”
She wrenched away. “You know what? You’re cold, Mary Beth. You always were, and I guess you haven’t changed a bit.”
With that, she left. Just walked out the door. No goodbye, no “Thanks for everything.” Just a hasty retreat, blowing out as quickly as she’d blown in, like a fallen leaf in a storm.
Which didn’t fool me at all, even though she’d slung her worst at me while departing, and had appeared to leave because she was angry with me.
It was my questions—questions that had been getting much too hot for Lindy Lou.
I wondered what she was hiding.
I tossed and turned all night, and when the sun came up I still had no fix on what was really going on with Lindy, or why she’d come here. The only thing I still knew for certain was that I’d help her, whether she liked it or not. And I was clear about my reasons: not just loyalty to an old friend, but as a way to pay back Roger for what he’d done to me.
Something had been stirred up in me, and throughout the night it had reached a boiling point. How dare Roger Van Court do the things he did to women? How dare he play God in women’s lives, making them move this way and that like so many chess pieces? I dreaded to think what Lindy’s baby would grow up to be like under her father’s tutelage.
While showering, I decided to use my reservation to fly up to San Francisco this morning. The eight o’clock had already taken off, but there were flights out every hour, and I was pretty sure I could get on one for ten or eleven.
Over coffee, however, I had second thoughts. What if Lindy hadn’t gone back to San Francisco at all? What if she was still in L.A., or still on the road, hitchhiking north? And how would I ever find her, even if I went to San Francisco?
I supposed I could get the address of her and Roger’s house from Dan, who would probably have that information. Or, once in San Francisco, I could go to Gerard Burton’s office and ask him to give me Roger’s address.
I doubted that he would, though, and to show up on Roger’s doorstep after seven years might tip him off that I’d been in contact with Lindy.
I’d have to think about that one. Besides, Lindy herself might have had second thoughts about going home. What if she came back here tonight, only to find me gone.
It seemed best to stay put until later. If I hadn’t seen nor heard from Lindy by tonight, I’d ask Dan for her address in San Francisco and take it from there.
What I would do once I got there, I really didn’t know, as my plan wouldn’t work without her cooperation. The only thing I did know for certain—if anything could be called certain where Lindy was concerned—was that she’d wind up in San Francisco eventually to see her baby.
I finished my coffee, read the L.A. Times and checked in with Nia, who said everything was running smoothly at the office. She offered to pass the time answering phone calls and mail, while I called undertakers and took care of some other business at home.
The first undertaker I called sounded as if he were talking from a sepulchre, like an old bit-player in The Addams Family. He was helpful, however, and not the money-grubbing kind I’d heard about. Once I’d explained the situation, he advised me that it would be less expensive if all three bodies were picked up at the coroner’s office together. He also told me I could save money on the caskets if I got them directly from the manufacturer rather than him, which I thought was nice and more than ethical. He gave me a number to call and told me what models to ask for, saying I could have them delivered to his mortuary. They were all coffins that were simple and relatively inexpensive, he said, but decent.
I made a note to call the coroner’s office and ask when the remains would be released, then thanked the man with the otherworldly tones. “I’ll get back to you after I know that they’re finished with the autopsies,” I said, my stomach doing a flip-flop. Never had I started my day off with such gruesome tasks.
“Feel free to drop in, meanwhile, to choose the service, the flowers—”
“No,” I interrupted with a shudder. “I’m not sure there will be a service. We can talk about that later, okay? Thanks very much for your help.”
Relieved to be hanging up, I placed my next call to the El Segundo PD, Detective Division. After a few questions I was connected to Lieutenant Davies, my nemesis from the day Craig was murdered.
“How can I help you?” he asked.
“Well, I’ve been thinking. When I was at that motel, the day I discovered the…uh, body, I saw a manuscript next to Craig Dinsmore’s computer. Do you know what happened to it?”
“Any special reason you’re asking?” he responded.
“I feel an obligation, as his agent,” I said, making up a reason quickly. “Craig was working on a book that I was trying to sell on a proposal. If I can get another writer to do something with it, a sale could help satisfy any creditors he left behind.”
The truth was, Craig’s estate would have something to say about that, so finding him a postmortem sale—while a valid enough idea in the world of publishing—wasn’t the only reason I wanted his manuscript.
Still, my answer seemed to work for Lieutenant Davies.
“The forensics team probably bagged the manuscript to check for DNA, prints, and so on,” he said. “I don’t remember it, but I’ll see what I can find out.”
“You don’t think the book could have been thrown away, do you?” I asked, horrified at the sudden thought. “Would they do that?”
“Not likely.”
“Well, just so you know, they’ll find my prints on the manuscript. I was curious about how much work Craig had done, and when I first walked into his room I thought he’d just gone out for a run. So I…I sort of flipped through it.”
When Lieutenant Davies didn’t respond right away, I panicked. “I mean,” I added lamely, “I didn’t know Craig was lying dead in the bathroom all that time. I just wanted to see the manuscript so I could ask him about it when he came in.”
“If there’s a clear set of your prints on the manuscript,” the lieutenant said, “I’m sure forensics already knows. We took your prints that day, remember.”
“Oh. Right. I guess I didn’t realize…”
I hadn’t yet thought through what my prints being on record might mean. If they didn’t find any others on the scene, would that make me their prime suspect?
“Does that mean you’ll be keeping the manuscript for evidence?” I asked. “Because my prints are on it?”
“Can’t say. Why don’t you call tomorrow around this time. I might have more information for you by then.”
I wasn’t ready to give up. “Lieutenant, all I really want to do is read the manuscript. Couldn’t I do that down there? I don’t need to bring it home.”
“Sorry. Can’t let you at it until we know for sure if there’s other evidence on it, and what that evidence means. You’ll have to give us some time.”
I was pretty much out of words, and couldn’t think of anything else to say.
�
��You will be available, of course,” the lieutenant said coolly, “if we need to talk to you further.”
I was pretty sure that wasn’t a question. “Of course,” I answered. “No problem.”
So. The plot was thickening, and it looked as if the author of this little mystery might be turning me into the surprise villain.
The worst of it was that my tough, sharklike skills seemed to make little or no impression on the authorities, who were nothing like New York City editors. All they could do was turn down a book. Brother Law could send me to jail.
I fixed myself a turkey sandwich and worked for a while on my computer at home, going through my finances and figuring out my assets versus debts. I barely knew what time it was until the late-afternoon sun started burning my arm through the open window. I closed up the computer and went into the kitchen, pouring and drinking two glasses of water.
By seven o’clock I still hadn’t seen nor heard from Lindy. It was too late to fly to San Francisco, and belatedly I remembered that Patrick had left a message on my voice mail about dinner. Talking about old times with an ex-lover/ex-author sounded more like stress than relaxation to me, so I’d been dragging my heels about whether to go or cancel.
The outcome of my financial report decided it. I could and would do almost anything to have Patrick back in my stable of authors. He not only had a book finished and ready to go, but Patrick was as dependable as Tony had been, and would come up with one year after year.
If he came to me from his other agent, of course, he would have to split his royalties three ways. I was certain she’d never give her share up, and he would still have to pay my fifteen percent.
I called Patrick on his cell phone and told him I’d meet him at the restaurant, as he was visiting someone in West Hollywood and it would have been out of the way for him to come to Malibu. He’d suggested a new “in” restaurant in Beverly Hills that had been given five stars by every critic in town. It was also very pricey, and it felt good to be taken out for once without having to foot the bill.
When I got there he was already at a table, looking handsome as ever. His dark hair was ruffled and damp, as if he’d just stepped out of the shower. Further, he managed to pull out my chair before the waiter could get to it, even going so far as placing my napkin on my lap. I had to smile at his show of chivalry, but it felt good not to be the one in charge for a change.
By the time I’d finished an excellent salad, prime rib and Yukon Gold potatoes buried in garlic butter, I was ready to talk about anything—even old times. It didn’t hurt that Patrick had ordered a perfect Cabernet, one of my favorites.
Over coffee we sat and talked about bygone times, carefully skirting the old arguments and the breakup. The wine helped, casting a rosy glow around the good memories.
“Remember how we started out?” Patrick said, smiling reminiscently. “You were living in that ugly little place in Hollywood—”
“Hey, hold on there. It wasn’t ugly, it was just old.”
“You can say that again.” He grinned. “One of my first jobs as your neighbor was to fix the plumbing the night you almost drowned in your own—”
“Water,” I said quickly, blushing at the memory. How embarrassing, having a man you’ve only dated for two months plunging your toilet and mucking out your bathroom. “It was your own fault for living right next door,” I added.
The grin widened. “But what other neighbor would do that for you? Only a man in love. Besides, if we hadn’t lived next door to each other, we might never have met.”
I sipped my wine and smiled. “It was fun back then, wasn’t it? Not the cranky plumbing, of course. But looking back, even the hard times seem like laughs. I guess being…you know…made them bearable.”
There must have been a wistful tone in my voice, because he reached across the table for my free hand. “Being in love, you mean?” he asked softly. “Isn’t life as much fun now, Mary Beth? Is it less bearable than back then?”
I laughed. “No. Not really. Just more…conventional? Less interesting?”
“Hmm. I can see we’ve been apart far too long. And you know, I don’t even remember how that began. Why did we break up, Mary Beth? Not last year, over the rape book, but before that. As a couple.”
“You don’t remember?”
“Not really.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure it had something to do with one of your books. Didn’t we argue over the negotiations for it? You wanted more than their final offer, and I thought you should take it, rather than go a whole year, or possibly more, with no book coming out.”
“You thought the publishers would drop me if I didn’t accept that offer.”
“Not drop you. But the reality is that if one author doesn’t want a deal, there’s always another one who does—someone who’s ready and eager to step into that author’s shoes. We talked about that, Patrick. I was trying to do what was best for you.”
“Oh, I know,” he said, squeezing my hand. “I never doubted that for a minute, Mary Beth. But why the hell did we break up?”
“Darned if I can remember,” I said. “Lord knows we had enough arguments and always made up.”
“And did we ever!” he said, good memories making his dark eyes shine. “Remember that night on the beach? That was long before you got your house in Malibu, and I think we went down to Redondo after a fabulous dinner at that little Armenian restaurant in Hermosa Beach.” He frowned. “Come to think of it, what were we doing in Hermosa?”
“We went there to see Jay Leno at the Comedy and Magic Club. That’s where he always went to try out his Tonight Show jokes, remember?”
“Yeah, that’s right. You think he still does that?”
“I don’t know.” I sighed. “I’ve been too busy to go to comedy clubs lately.”
“Me, too.”
“There were several couples walking along the beach that night,” I recalled. “The air was soft and warm, and there was no cloud cover, so you could actually see the stars for a change. An absolutely brilliant night.”
“And when we couldn’t keep our hands off each other any longer, we hid underneath a lifeguard station,” he reminded me.
“Well, barely hid. It’s a wonder someone didn’t turn a hose on us and call the cops.”
Patrick was silent a moment, stroking the back of my hand with one of those long, tanned, slim fingers I remembered doing so many magic things to my body in the past. Looking up at me then, he said, “We could have that again, Mary Beth. I’m not with anyone now, and you’re—I guess I should ask, are you?”
“No. Not really.” Unless my newish “relationship” with Dan Rucker qualified me as being “with” someone.
He lifted my hand and drew his lips softly over my palm. “Why don’t we ditch this place and go to mine.”
I felt a moment of shock as his mouth touched my skin. It was still there, the old tingle, the chemistry thing. Without even thinking, I was ready to leave with Patrick in a hot second.
Which probably makes me somewhat of a slut, having so recently been in bed with Dan Rucker. Still, when the chemistry’s there, it’s hard to ignore it.
That hot second got a dash of cold water, however, as our waiter arrived with a dessert list. I wanted to say “No, thank you,” but Patrick insisted that the lemon custard with Cointreau was out of this world, ordering for both of us. When the presentation came, it was so beautiful I really had to try it. The one thing that could seduce me more than a man—any day—was a great dessert.
After that we had coffee. Patrick seemed to want to linger, and to have forgotten how desirous he was of bedding me only minutes ago. My hot second had passed, and I found I was okay with that. We ate and talked, ate and talked, mostly about everyday things. It wasn’t until we’d finished our after-dinner coffee that Patrick brought up the subject of his current representation—the reason, it turned out, that he’d been lingering all along.
“It pains me to admit it, Mary Beth, but I’m not compl
etely happy with the way Nolan-Frey is handling things. In the first place, just about everyone at the agency is doing drugs. It’s not all that shocking, since almost everyone in L.A.—at least, in the business—does drugs these days, it seems. But the thing is, I think they’re making bad decisions about my career because of it.”
“Really? It’s that bad?”
He made a grimace of distaste. “I was there one day when the agent I was talking to sent his assistant—not an agent, but a gofer—downstairs to pick up his ‘mail.’ The kid came back with a manila envelope and the agent pulled out a baggie half-full of cocaine right in front of me. He was using the kid as a runner, Mary Beth. A mule.”
I wasn’t entirely surprised by this story, as I’d heard similar ones over the years. Even so, I said, “You’re sure it was cocaine?”
“Oh, I’m sure. He used it right there in front of me. Even asked me if I wanted some. It’s all out in the open, Mary Beth. Nobody turns anyone in because so many are doing it, and I guess the kid couldn’t tell anyone what was going on because he’d lose his job. You know how hard it is for kids to break into those places and do well there.”
“Uh-huh. It’s a real coup when they do.” I sipped the last of my wine.
“And that’s not all. There’s one agent there whose girlfriend likes someone to watch while they have sex. So he calls his assistant in and they do it, right there on the agent’s desk—while the assistant, who’s so embarrassed he can’t do anything but gulp, stands there watching. I’m telling you, Mary Beth, it’s dirty as hell out there.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, trying to be patient until he got to the point. Was he ever going to ask me to take him back?
“Look, it’s not that I’m a moralist,” he said. “You know that. But with all this going on, when can they get any work done? I’ve been waiting four months for the negotiations on my next book to wind up, and they never seem to get anywhere.”
“Who’s your agent inside Nolan-Frey? They’ve got thirty of them by now, don’t they?”