by M. M. Mayle
“That’s enough, Amanda.”
“I’m not done.”
“Yes you are. Not another word about this,” he says with Bemus’s words on the subject still fresh in his mind. “If you have something to say about more pressing matters, go ahead, otherwise—”
“What, pray tell, could be more pressing than cementing a management team in place for Colin and Laurel? Isn’t that what you advised him yesterday?”
“Is there anything he didn’t tell you about that conversation?”
“I don’t think so. He was pretty forthcoming once I said I didn’t want the job. He quoted you as emphasizing that the present mess requires organized—no, that’s not the word—”
“Structured.”
“Yes, that’s it, structured. The present mess necessitates structured representation. Yes, I remember now. Contractually obligated representation. That’s what he said that you said.”
The groan escaping him as he levers himself up from the deep couch covers all manner of frustration and annoyance.
“What?” Amanda springs from the desk chair, intercepts him midway to the door.
“Nothing . . . never mind.” A sudden awareness of the Polks envelopes in his side pocket propels him toward the next encounter with potential for discord. “Do you know where Laurel is? There’s something I need to go over with her.”
“If you’re gonna ask her how she’d feel about having you back in charge, don’t bother because I already know she’s all for it because she never really blamed you for going overboard where Colin’s concerned because you couldn’t help becoming a Nanny Nate after seeing him broken and withdrawn for so many months and because—”
“Are you on something? I’ve never seen you so wired.” Nate attempts to sidestep her persistence, but she follows his moves, gets right back in his face to the extent she can at minus five feet without her shoes.
“Excuse me all to Helena for trying to distract myself and you and anybody else around here from the fact Laurel’s poor old father was indeed killed in cold blood to facilitate another murder that turned out to be David Sebastian’s! She glares up at him. “I’d rather wrap my head around almost anything than that! Go on, now! Shoo!” She hands him the plastic bag of Chandler items and waves him away. “Laurel’s in the front room. She’s expecting you. And Colin’s upstairs somewhere if there’s something you want to hammer out with him.”
— ELEVEN —
Late afternoon, August 17, 1987
After a detour to the kitchen, Nate finds Laurel alone in the salon where he was told she would be. She’s seated in front of the fireplace in the open-armed chair she occupied the first time they were together in this room. Her twitchy agitated state is evocative of that night—so much so that if she were wearing dinner clothes and heels instead of sundress and sandals, Nate could think this was April instead of August. The feeling lingers when he takes a chair opposite and Laurel settles and resettles herself, uncrosses and recrosses her legs the way she did prior to the start of his narrative on the previous occasion. He senses now, as he did then, that she is as loathe as he is to begin.
“I’m . . . sorry,” he says, “I am terribly sorry I was right about your father . . . about the way he died.”
“Don’t be. He couldn’t have suffered and nothing you could have done would have prevented it.”
“I’m not so sure about that.”
“I am. No one could have guessed that the bastard was going to take out my father in order to draw Colin into range. No one, Nate, and it’s nothing short of a miracle that you figured it out at the last minute.”
“Maybe so, but if I’d figured it out a little sooner, things might have ended differently. For David, anyway.”
“Hindsight’s never changed anything and second-guessing’s a ridiculous waste of time. I had to remind Colin of that when news came about my father and he again bathed himself in blame. I told him, and I’m telling you, that if you have to blame someone, blame Aurora. Blame whatever she did to reinforce this Jakeway creature’s twisted belief in her.”
“Now there’s a thought,” Nate says.
“That’s not just an idle thought, as it turns out. While I was waiting for you to get back, I recalled something Rayce told me about Aurora. He was speaking of the way she enjoyed relating past cruelties and cited a story she often told about one of the locals—Rayce referred to him as an American aborigine—who was infatuated with her during her high school years. Rayce quoted her as laughing when she told about leading the poor fellow on, then ridiculing him behind his back, mocking everything from his funny name to his racial origins. Rayce said she told this over whenever she thought her listeners needed reminding that she was superior to the coloreds, as she called them.”
“You just now remembered this?”
“Yes. There’s a lot I’ve put out of mind since the biography project went on hold.”
“Do you remember—did Rayce say what the funny name was?”
“Rayce wasn’t a hundred percent on the name, but he thought it was ‘Coop’ or something similar. The actual name wasn’t important at the time, only that Aurora was eager to make fun of it.”
“Jesus, I guess it’s the day for confirmations, isn’t it?”
“I’m afraid so, and if anyone wants further confirmation of what Rayce said about Aurora, Amanda will undoubtedly remember when reminded. She transcribed the tape I made of Rayce’s statement, so it’ll all come back to her too.”
“But you haven’t reminded her yet.”
“No. It only dawned on me a little while ago . . . as I just said.”
“Then Colin doesn’t know, either.”
“He doesn’t, and I’m tempted not to tell him. I’m not sure how much more he can handle—how much more he should have to handle.”
“He didn’t have a delayed reaction to what I revealed yesterday, did he?”
“Not that I could tell. He said he preferred not remembering, so if your information shed any new light he wasn’t looking at it.”
“That’s basically what he said when I talked to him yesterday.”
“You mean when you advised him to lock in a new management team as soon as possible,” she says.
Here it comes. She’s going to lay it on like Bemus did and present an even stronger argument than Amanda did. But she fools him. She says nothing about his refusal to resume the top job, only expresses her regret that Amanda was unable to take it on.
“Colin made a few calls this morning. Nothing felt right, however, so it looks like this will be a long drawn-out process—this starting from scratch. I’m afraid it may have to wait until we’re back in the UK and under less pressure. Speaking of, do you happen to know if Colin and I will be free to leave after David’s funeral?”
These soft-spoken innocuous remarks land like sharp reprimands. Nate hears reproach in every syllable and indignation in the words left unsaid.
“Nate? I was asking when—”
“I heard you . . . thinking. Just so you know . . . I had no idea Amanda would reject the offer when I made the recommendation.”
“I see.”
“Offhand, I’d say you’re free to leave after David’s funeral. You’ve given your statement and you’re delaying your father’s funeral indefinitely. So unless Grillo throws up a bureaucratic roadblock, you should be able to go home whenever you’re ready.”
“I’d like to see my father before I go. I was hoping they would have released the body by now. Even though we can’t hold a memorial service for him yet, I’d still like to pay my respects.”
“I understand.”
“You found the clothing okay?”
“Yes, and the other things, except for an item missing from the hiding place under the floorboards. I couldn’t find the diary you described. Because this damned sling may have kept me from finding it, I had Bemus double-check, but he came up empty as well. Are you sure that’s where you stashed it? You sure you didn’t take it with you
when you left for England or maybe hid it someplace else?”
Her reaction is stronger than expected. He can almost see the wheels turning as she questions herself, doubts herself.
“Well, I suppose I could have forgotten where I put it. If I’m capable of forgetting Rayce’s remarks until now, I guess anything’s possible, isn’t it? But you’re absolutely sure the diary wasn’t there?”
“I’m sure. I have the other things, though. I left the clothing with Mathilde to be refreshed—I’ll explain about that in a minute—and the rest is in a bag in the kitchen.”
“Thank you. I am so very, very grateful that you were willing to—”
“Don’t worry about it, no big thing.”
“Oh but it is. You’ve always gone the extra mile where I’m concerned and who knows how many extra miles where Colin’s concerned.”
“Please . . . Don’t.”
I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
Like hell you didn’t, and you’re doing a fantastic job of it, he’d say if he wanted to change the entire tenor of the conversation. Instead, he returns to the subject of old Mr. Chandler’s wardrobe and what’s being done for it.
“I’m not sure I understand why everything needs refreshing,” Laurel says. “I know the clothes are hopelessly dated, but I thought they were clean and pressed when I stored them in the cedar closet.”
“They were clean and pressed. I’m the one that creased and soiled them. By accident, when I got a mixture of headache powder and coke on my hand.”
“I’m sorry, what did you say?” Laurel does a slow take, then gasps. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“I dropped the clothing. This goddammed sling caused me to drop the clothes down inside the garment bag. When I fished everything out I also came up with several unsealed glassine envelopes of a type made familiar by Colin’s persistent use of Polks Extra Strength Headache Powders. There were more in the bottom of the bag, a dozen or so individual doses that I could see. I had no idea what to make of this at first, but when I randomly tasted from two of the envelopes that were leaking all over the place, I identified both aspirin and coke as having soiled your father’s clothing.”
“But . . . Good lord . . . How did it get there? How did any of it—coke or aspirin—get inside the storage bag?”
“I was hoping you might have some idea.”
“You can’t think . . . No, of course not. I might be able to explain the Polks product . . . Colin might have used the garment bag as an emergency dump because he knew I disapproved of the powdered product as much as you did—for being misleading, I’m saying—but if that had been the case, he would have dumped his entire supply. He wouldn’t have had any with him on the Rajah plane, which still doesn’t explain the presence of cocaine in the garment bag unless . . . unless you think . . . You don’t, do you?”
Laurel’s stream-of-consciousness reasoning is worthy of Amanda. So is the glare Laurel directs at him. “Well, do you?” she demands.
“Absolutely not. No way do I think Colin is using. That’s not a remote possibility and even if it were, what in hell would he have been doing skulking around in your cedar closet?”
“Oh that’s easy to explain. He was in and out of the closet several times on the day we left together for England. He had to go through it to bring luggage from the attic, then later on when he checked the attic for the squirrel I was afraid had gotten in. Earlier that day I thought I heard scratching noises coming from the attic and it wouldn’t have been the first time one of the little buggers squeezed in under the eaves.”
“Back up a sec. You haven’t said how you knew Colin had the Polks with him on the plane. Did customs challenge it when you were boarding?”
“No, customs didn’t even look inside his toiletries kit. They were far more interested in the Icon statuette and a decorative glass object he had in his carry-on. It was later that I discovered the package of Polks. Toward the end of the flight, when Colin went to shave, he left the open kit on the seat next to me. I saw the package inside and was getting ready to confiscate it when Rayce came along and helped himself to several doses. The remainder I flushed down an airplane toilet, packaging and all, and if Colin missed it he’s never said so.”
While Laurel seems satisfied with that part of the explanation Nate’s mouth goes dry. His teeth feel foreign, his tongue feels swollen to twice its size. “Jesus . . . Jesus God,” he struggles to enunciate.
“What? What’s the matter?” She hunches forward in her chair.
“Don’t you see?”
“See what? You’re scaring me!”
“The fucking attic, Laurel. The coke I discovered in the attic. The sonuvabitch was in there replacing headache powders with high quality uncut cocaine and spilled some along the edge of the platform. And that was no squirrel you heard that day, that was Jakeway doing his dirty deeds. But something must have spooked him into a hurried exit and that’s when he trashed the extras in the conveniently located garment bag. Then he somehow managed to plant the lethal doses in Colin’s Dopp kit, and as luck would have it, customs didn’t pick it up. At either end, so it appears.”
Laurel’s jaw drops as the awful realization sets in.
“Jesus, just think about it,” Nate goes on. “Rayce had to have gotten off that plane with a pocketful of unadulterated coke and no one caught it. And later that day he took a double or triple dose by mouth, believing it was a quick-acting analgesic, then flushed the packaging—just as you did on the plane—when he took his final piss.”
“Stop it! I don’t want to hear this!” She covers her ears and shakes her head so hard her hair clip goes flying and her hair falls down around her shoulders.
In his rush to reconstruct, he’s forgotten she’s newly pregnant and still recovering from another huge shock. He took neither condition into consideration when pole-vaulting to conclusions and staggering her with the results.
“Can I get you something?” he says after she uncovers her ears and smoothes her hair away from her face. “Are you going to be sick? Shall I get Colin?” He half-rises from his chair.
“No! Stay there! Whatever you do, do not get Colin! He must never know of this. Never! If he thought he contributed in even the smallest way to Rayce’s death, I hate to think what might happen.”
She has a point. This isn’t in the category of kickstarting a memory. This is about creating a new memory Colin might not be able to live with.
“And you mustn’t tell Amanda,” Laurel continues. “No one else can know about this. No one. Do you understand?”
He remains on the edge of his chair; he does understand her concern, he does support her in theory, and he is duty-bound to disagree in the face of her shortsightedness.
“But,” he begins.
“No!”
“But,” he repeats, “If this very strong likelihood—extremely strong likelihood—is never revealed, Rayce’s death will always be labeled a suicide. Are you saying that’s preferable to exposing the truth?”
“The people who knew and loved Rayce don’t believe for a minute that he took his own life. They’ll persist in that belief whether or not we give them a reason—a reason that could destroy another life. If that’s selfish of me, too goddammed bad. Colin’s already under a tremendous load. He already feels an inordinate sense of responsibility for my father’s death and for David’s. Anything more—especially if it has to do with Rayce’s death—could break him.”
Nate focuses on the intense colors of the Vlaminck water scene displayed on the end wall. He wants to smile; he wants to laugh. This is, after all, a former officer of the court—a former ADA, at that—demanding that he withhold evidence in a capital case. And he is, after all, an old hand at withholding evidence for reasons that weren’t always as good as hers.
“You do know that you’ll have to tread extremely carefully, as will I,” he says. “And I don’t mean just with Colin. If ever a match is established between the coke Rayce
swallowed and the shitload fed to your father, there could be endless repercussions.”
“That’s not apt to happen. You heard Grillo. He said the FBI doesn’t even want to hear about looking for a match, and he said the local task force isn’t interested.”
“For the most part . . . For the most part, he said of the local task force, and by that I believe he meant he wasn’t in full accord with their stance.”
“So what? He’s just one investigator and if he does get lucky and does bring about a match, he still won’t know how the coke got into Rayce’s pocket. Someone would have to furnish that information and I know it won’t be me.” Laurel stabs him with a determined stare. “Are you ready to say the same? Are you ready to ignore what you uncovered today and get rid of any samples that may have been removed from the scene?”
Does he really have a choice? Does he really want to become her adversary? Her enemy? Who needs this shit, he wants to say as he prepares to give in to Laurel’s stringent demands, Amanda’s reasoned arguments, and Colin’s offer of employment. After he flushes those two samples he has in his pocket, of course.
— TWELVE —
Evening, August 19, 1987
Four days after the giant mistake, Hoop is still holed up in the motel. He leaves his room only to do his job and pays one of the maids to bring carryout meals from the restaurant. The TV he broke and paid for still hasn’t been replaced, so watching the local news is catchas-catch-can when maintenance tasks take him to rooms with sets that work. For reading material, he relies on random sections of newspapers scavenged from wastebaskets and the one fresh whole copy bought from the machine in the motel lobby.
The bought one he hung on to for what all it had to say about the shocking demise of the prominent attorney and the horrifying attack on Colin Elliot’s brand new wife. The parts of the story that interest him most, tell how the police have no strong leads toward catching the unknown attacker and how the survivor of the attack was too distraught to give a detailed description of the knife-wielder.