by Meg O'Brien
“Oh, God. More,” she said, leaning her head back against the sofa and holding out the glass.
I hesitated. I know that people can still feel a certain kind of love for their partners even when they’ve divorced, and I really did want to help Julia. Still, all I needed was yet another wounded bird to take care of. And if she passed out here…
“More, please?” she said plaintively, like a little kid asking for a third dip of ice cream.
I shrugged and poured her another glass. But when I went to hand it to her, I found her bent over, her face buried in her hands. When she looked up I saw that she’d been silently crying. I set the glass on the coffee table and sat down next to her. I didn’t say anything, just offered a sympathetic presence, as I often do to a disappointed author. I knew she’d begin talking to me eventually.
After a few minutes she gulped the vodka down and set the glass on the coffee table with a thunk. “Do you have any idea, Mary Beth, what it’s like to live with a writer?” She looked at me. “I know you have your own problems with authors, but you can at least go home at night. Imagine living with one. Especially a male writer. Most of them have wives who take care of them, you know. They do the shopping, the cooking, the cleaning, while His Holiness sits and writes all day. Or not.” She made a grimace of distaste. “And we don’t get much in return. When Craig and I were first married, he wrote his way through every holiday. Twenty hours a day, seven days a week. We never even had time to talk, and when he came to bed he was so tired we didn’t do much else, either.”
She puffed on the cigarette, then stabbed it out angrily in the saucer. “As he got older he would lock himself into his office and put out a Do Not Disturb sign, for God’s sake. If I even tried to feed him lunch, he’d snap at me for daring to breach the barrier, for disturbing him while he was working on his ‘next best-selling novel.’ Most of which, as I’m sure you know, never lived up to that promise.”
“Craig did well for a while, though,” I said, only partly in defense of myself as his agent. “Eight books in six years, and two were best-sellers. Plus, all the others sold-through, which meant that his royalties paid back his advance and then some. That’s not easy to do these days, Julia. As for his next book, Paul Whitmore was all over me about it today.”
“I wondered what he was saying to you.”
“You know Paul?”
“Not really well. We run into each other in New York at various functions. I’ve known of him, of course, for years, as Craig’s editor. But it’s not as if he visited the house.”
She took a sip of vodka. “Did you know Craig was a gambler? That’s where all his money went. Our money.” Then, shrugging, she added, “It wasn’t the money that bothered me, really. I always had a hand in the antiques business, and after Craig and I divorced I did very well. I never needed or asked for alimony.”
She took a deep breath and dried her eyes with the tips of her fingers. “The thing that hurt was the constant rejection, feeling that he was only living with me because I kept a nice house and took his clothes to the cleaners. As if our home was a hotel, and I was the chambermaid.” Her eyes welled again. “When he finally did want to have sex, I felt like a prostitute. Like I was still serving him, but on another level.”
“I’m so sorry, Julia. That must have been awful for you.”
Her smile was grim. “It was. But I didn’t take it for long. I finally got to the point where I pushed him away, rather than feel the way he made me feel.”
She reached for another cigarette, and I wanted to stop her so bad my teeth ached. Even more than that, though, I wanted to hear what else she had to say, and I didn’t want to break the atmosphere of confidence.
“That’s when he started going to Vegas,” she said, her hands shaking as she took a silver, art deco– style lighter from her purse and held it to the cigarette. “I knew even before we married that he went several times a year to gamble, but when I started to reject him, his trips became more frequent, like several times a month. I really think he bought women there, too. Women he could just use, I mean, and then toss them out so they wouldn’t be a bother when he wanted to write. He always refused to take me along, of course. He’d say he was ‘doing research’ for a book, and he wouldn’t be any fun.”
She looked at me. “But he never did write that book, did he, Mary Beth? About gambling, I mean.”
I shook my head. “Not that I know of. But you know, authors don’t always show their books to their agents, especially if they aren’t happy with them and don’t think they’re ready.”
“No, he never wrote it, I’m sure. You know how I’m sure? Because to tell a good story, Craig would have had to tell the truth about gambling. You know—the dark side. And Craig was so addicted, he never would have admitted that there was a dark side. So never in a million years would he have been able to write a decent book.”
“If his addiction was that bad, I’m sure you’re right. I just never realized. I saw Craig only occasionally, and if I had thought there was something wrong, I probably would have assumed he was drinking again. So you think he went broke from the gambling, then? That’s why he was living in that motel and trying so hard to come up with a bestselling book?”
“I don’t know. But most addicted people just go from one addiction to another. They give up drinking and start gambling. Or they drink too much coffee, or build too many model boats. Hell, what do I know? I just think it might have been someone he met in Las Vegas that killed him. Maybe he owed a lot of money to somebody there.”
“I guess that’s possible,” I agreed.
“Do you know if the police are looking into that aspect?”
“No. I don’t really know anything much. Except that they seem to suspect me.”
“What? You’re kidding! Why on earth—oh, because you’re the one who found his body, right? I forgot. But surely they don’t suspect you of killing Tony and Arnold!”
I shrugged. “Who knows? I guess they have to look at everyone connected to all three men.”
“Well, that’s ridiculous,” Julia said. “Especially as far as Craig’s concerned. It’d make a lot more sense if they just talked to his connections in Las Vegas.”
“Maybe they don’t know about that,” I said. “Have they talked to you yet? Did you tell them about Craig’s gambling?”
She shook her head. “They called me in New York. I wasn’t home, but they left a message saying they wanted to meet with me when I came out for the funeral. I called back and they said the day after the funeral would be okay, since I wasn’t coming in till last night.”
She picked up her drink and took another hefty gulp. “Mary Beth…there’s something else. I was hoping you’d help move things along for me.”
“Things?”
“The book sale. The one Craig finished and that Paul Whitmore wants. This may sound mercenary under the circumstances, but I really need a fresh inflow of cash. I’d like to get some of the money back that Craig threw away all those years.”
“But how? Legally, the advance and royalties will go to his estate now. And you and Craig were divorced, Julia. I’m not a lawyer, but as an ex-wife, you probably can’t make a claim against his estate.”
She gave a short laugh. “Oh, God, Craig didn’t tell you? Well, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Mary Beth, Craig and I are married. Or we were, before he died. We got married again, almost a year ago.”
I was so stunned, it must have shown on my face.
She sighed. “I know, I know. Lends a whole new meaning, doesn’t it, to the theory that people keep marrying the same people over and over again.”
“But you and Craig? Once you knew all this about him, why on earth would you marry him again?”
She took out another cigarette and lit it, then puffed on it hard, as if doing so might save her life. “Because I was stupid, what else? I fell for the same old story. Craig swore to me that he’d be faithful this time, that he realized now that there was no one for h
im but me. Then I caught him with another woman, surprise, surprise. I wanted to divorce him again right away, but he had just about hit bottom financially, and somehow I didn’t have the heart to do it. I went back to New York, though, and we’ve been living apart.”
“How long ago did you leave him?” I asked.
“A few weeks after we married,” Julia said. “Just before he started writing Lost Legacy. I remember him calling me one night and saying that our reconciliation had given him the incentive he needed to write the book, and that it was going to be really good.”
“Had you remarried here in L.A.?”
Surprisingly, she smiled. “I flew out here one weekend to be with Craig. We’d been talking on the phone a lot, and it suddenly made sense to get together and see if we still worked at all. We met at the Beverly Hills Hotel, which I paid for. Craig said he wanted to wine and dine me, but I was pretty sure he couldn’t afford that, so I offered to pick up the whole tab—meals, room, far too much liquor…”
She broke off and rubbed her eyes, leaving them covered for a few moments. Then she straightened her back and began again.
“At the end of the weekend I was certain I still loved him, and he swore he loved me, too. We got married in one of those quickie wedding chapels. You know the kind? A fake nineteenth-century heir-loom certificate, fake flowers, canned music, thirty-minute ceremony…”
She smiled again, as if recalling a good memory. “We drove up to Big Sur for our second honeymoon, and stayed at the Post Ranch Inn. Do you know it?”
I nodded. “Gorgeous view of the ocean from the cliffs.”
She laughed. “There were yoga classes in the morning. You should have seen us, trying to stretch muscles that had never been stretched before. Then, at night, they had some guru from Esalen, that New Age place, giving talks.”
“Sounds romantic,” I said wryly.
Julia had the most expressive dark eyes I’d ever seen, and now they were so misty they seemed luminous. “Actually, it turned out to be a great four days. We could hardly keep from laughing during the ceremony, and afterward we laughed all the way back to Beverly Hills. Big Sur was just the icing on the cake. We giggled our way through the yoga, too.”
She gave a shrug, and the exquisite silk suit she wore moved over her shoulders in soft ripples. “Somehow, it was romantic. Don’t ask me why.”
Having loved someone who was easy to laugh with, I understood why. Ask women what they find sexy in a man, and the majority will tell you “humor.” Tony and I had gone to a college play once that was so boring we couldn’t stop giggling, our hands over our mouths. The campus kids must have known how bad the play was ahead of time, because the auditorium was suspiciously empty of all but a few other people. We finally couldn’t control ourselves and had to sneak out, laughing all the way home. It was one of the best times we ever had.
Except that I would have liked to make love afterward, having ended the evening on such a high note. Instead, Tony gave me a chaste kiss on the cheek at the door and I was left standing there alone, hating what I would have to do to get rid of all those feelings.
It was clear that Julia still had deep feelings for Craig, despite his flaws. I felt sorry for her loss, which in a minor way paralleled my own. I knew in that moment that a small part of me would always love Tony Price, no matter what direction my life took from now on.
I was tired from the funeral and Julia, and half-asleep on my bed, watching TV, when the doorbell rang. I wasted no time getting to it, hoping the visitor was Lindy. She had sworn she’d come back to L.A., but I hadn’t seen or heard from her since leaving her house a couple of days ago.
It wasn’t Lindy, though. Patrick Llewellen stood there, leaning against the door frame and looking tipsy. He had a bottle of wine in his hand.
“I thought you might like to join me in mourning the dead,” he said. “A last farewell.”
“It looks like you’ve been mourning all day,” I said dryly, taking the bottle from him.
“No, just celebrating.”
“Oh?” I put the bottle on my breakfast bar.
“Here, let me open that for you,” Patrick said.
“It’s already open.” I held the bottle of Cabernet up and saw that there was only an inch or so left. “Where the heck have you been?”
“Oh, here and there. Gay bars all over West Hollywood. They aren’t my type, of course, but when all you need is to get drunk, they suffice.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve been driving like this. And with an open bottle? For God’s sake, Patrick.”
“No, ma’am. I’ve been taking cabs. Julia insisted, and she paid for them.”
“Julia Dinsmore? She went with you?”
“And Mark and Gary, from the funeral. They invited me, and Julia came because she thought I’d need somebody to keep me on the straight and narrow. Besides, I didn’t want her sitting around her hotel room alone.”
Letting Patrick get this drunk wasn’t my idea of keeping him on the straight and narrow. Still, Julia’s experience at dealing with someone under the influence may have kept him from getting worse. If nothing else, she’d paid for the cabs and kept him off the road.
“Go sit down,” I said. “I’ll make coffee so you don’t get arrested for drunk walking on your way home.”
He laughed. “Drunk walking! Hey, that’s funny!”
I sighed.
Patrick sat on the couch, then, and talked about the old days when he and Tony hung together, while I made the coffee. Some of his stories were funny, but then he’d well up and go quiet. Seemed to me I’d had a lot of broken-winged birds showing up lately. How did I get to be the neighborhood vet?
I put a large mug of black coffee on the coffee table and sat on the couch with him.
“You really do miss Tony, don’t you?” I said.
He raised the coffee to his lips and took a sip, saying, “Ow! That’s hot!” He put down the mug and faced me. “Oh, hell, Mary Beth. The truth is, I didn’t even like Tony Price all that much.”
“You didn’t? But I saw you at all his parties, at least the ones that he gave for people in publishing.”
“Yes, well, we all show up for the parties, don’t we? Even the ones we don’t want to be at. It’s part of the game—the glad-handing, the networking.”
“I didn’t realize you felt that way.”
I wondered if he’d been jealous of Tony’s success, and the thought must have shown on my face.
“You think I was envious of him? Ha. If you only knew….”
His voice trailed off, and I said, “Knew what? Come on, Patrick, out with it. I’ve never known you to pussyfoot.”
He picked up his mug, blew on the coffee and took a deep swallow. “Okay, but you have to promise not to tell anyone about this.”
I didn’t know what to say, and he pressed me on the point. “Swear, Mary Beth. I won’t tell you, otherwise.”
“I guess…if you think it’s that important.”
“It is. The thing is, Tony and I used to be good friends. But then he got burned out. Did you know that?”
“I knew he was getting tired of doing the same kinds of books, but he told me he was working on something new he was excited about.”
“Something new,” Patrick said sarcastically. “Yeah, it was new, all right. You know what he was working on, Mary Beth? My book. The bastard stole my book.”
“What?” Patrick must be drunker than I thought. “I can’t believe that!”
“Oh, you can believe it,” Patrick said. “Tony didn’t steal it physically—not the actual manuscript. But we went out for drinks one night and I stupidly talked about it. In detail. I was stuck on a point, and I thought it would be fun to work it out with another writer.” He made an angry sound and set his mug down. “I forgot how easily that can end up in plagiarism.”
“You’re saying Tony stole your ideas?” I asked. “But ideas can’t be copyrighted, Patrick.”
“Not just my ideas. It was worse t
han that. A few weeks later I was at a party in his apartment—you remember the one he had to celebrate winning the Docher Award? You and Tony and a few other people were in the kitchen, and I was looking for a pen and paper to write down some thoughts. I opened up a drawer of that fancy desk he had in his living room and found a forty-page synopsis for a book. My book, Mary Beth. The one I’d been working on for months.”
“I don’t understand. You mean he came up with a similar synopsis?”
“Dammit, Mary Beth, no! It was an almost exact duplicate of the synopsis I showed him that night we talked. A couple of paragraphs were switched around, and a few words changed, but that’s all. I remembered then that Tony never did have any suggestions, anything that would help me with the point I was stuck on. All of the ideas in that synopsis were mine—and they were there in black and white, in absolute detail, with the words by Tony Price under the title. He must have been taping our conversation that night, Mary Beth.”
“My God,” I said, stunned. “I never would have believed that Tony would do such a thing.”
“Well, he did. And when I confronted him about it after the party, he said he didn’t remember talking with me about my book that night at all. Said he remembered we went for drinks one night, but he thought we’d gone there to pick up girls.”
“Pick up girls? He liked to pick up girls in bars?” I wondered if I’d ever known Tony at all.
“It’s one of the things he didn’t talk much about, but a few of us knew it. We went out together sometimes, and Tony would flirt with any woman in sight.”
“But the way he was murdered…”
I realized then that Patrick didn’t know about the Chinese dildo found at the crime scene, as the police still hadn’t given that information to the media. Or the fact that from the beginning, they had been thinking that Tony and Arnold were gay.
Of course, I knew that some gay men make a point of flirting with women, as a cover. And some just enjoy flirting with women, cover or no.