by Bruce Jones
“Maser? Of course. ‘Like him’? What do you mean?”
“What do I mean by ‘like him?’”
You’re very good at making an above average intelligent writer look stupid, you know that, pretty girl? “Carla, what are we talking about?”
“Dr. Maser, I thought.”
“What about him?”
“He’s a prick.”
Richard genuflected. A common enough epithet these days, but wrong somehow coming from Carla’s sweet mouth. “Is he?”
“You don’t think so?”
He studied her.
“Didn’t she ever tell you?”
“Who? This is becoming very elliptical, Carla.”
“Your wife, Allie.”
Richard’s brows went up. “Tell me what?”
Carla’s expression held an ah-so! look. “I guess she didn’t, then.” She looked down at her hands. “And I guess it’s not my place to go blurting things.”
Why not? Join the club? “Tell me what, Carla?”
And she sat that way, studying her hands a moment longer, clearly wanting to tell him, some small thing holding her back. Fear, maybe? But of what? Whom?
“Remember the barbecue in June at Maser’s place?” Just Maser, now, no ‘doctor.”
“Yes.”
“Dr. Maser brought me as his date. ”
“I remember. It’s where we met. You were lovely.”
“Thanks. Allie didn’t think so.”
Oh? “Oh? I think she did. She liked you right away, Carla.”
“At the start, maybe.”
“Later too, I’m sure of it. You’re building to something. Cautiously, but you’re building.”
Carla finally placed her hands atop the table, let out breath. She glanced at her watch. “I have to get back upstairs—“
“Finish fir—“
“—so I’ll finish this up quickly. I was in the kitchen, looking for Bobby. The rest of you were outside in the garden. His mother was in her wheelchair by the pool. I remember worrying she might accidentally roll in. Funny thing—never mind…”
“What?”
“Funny thing is, I somehow got the feeling she’d liked to have rolled in.”
Jesus.
Carla shrugged. “Anyway, I’m on my way up the back flagstone walk from the swimming pool intent on a big glass of iced tea and also maybe just to get away by myself for a moment. Not that it wasn’t lovely party, not that you’re boring, Richard.”
“Without the birdseed, Carla, come on.”
“So anyway I’m standing there at double glass door to the kitchen looking when I hear this noise coming from down the hall, where Bobby’s office is, so I figured he might be in there. But something told me to turn around, just turn around and walk out and drive home…”
She stopped for a moment, staring into space. Richard nudged her gently.
“But you didn’t.”
She looked back at him, her eyes flashing anger suddenly, not at him, but at what she saw.
“They hadn’t even locked the door to the study. I walked right in on them.”
“Who, Carla?”
“Bobby and Allie. He had pushed her down on the couch. He was right on top of her. When he saw me, she struggled out from under him and ran out the door without a word.”
Richard stared at her.
“You all right?”
“Fine. This is Maser we’re talking about?”
“The good doctor himself. You don’t look all right.”
“I’m fine.” He cleared his throat. “So what did Maser do?”
Carla made a rueful little smile. “He had the decency to look guilty, at least. Then he just walked by me as if I weren’t there.”
Richard was shaking his head slowly. He didn’t know what to say. “I can’t believe it.”
“Believe it, Richard. He probably attacked her when her back was turned! He’s an animal! I broke up with him that night, the prick!”
“I just can’t believe—“
“And Allie never talked to me after that, Richard.”
“Yes, but…I’m sure she was embarrassed, for both of you—“
Carla shrugged. “Yeah, that’s what I told myself afterwards. But Bobby had no excuse. No excuse at all…Don’t ever trust him, Richard. He’s not your friend.”
Richard didn’t know what to say.
Carla studied him a moment. Then rose. “I gotta go.”
Richard sat alone at the table for a moment.
Then he looked up and stared into thin air.
“Oh, shit…”
TWENTY-THREE
“Maser felt up your wife?”
Richard didn’t answer from behind the wheel. But his body language said plenty.
Laurie sat next to him, mouth agape. “Carla told you that?”
“Not directly, not in those words, but that’s what happened all right. And why Allie never mentioned it to me, or was able to look Carla straight in the eye again.”
Laurie shook her head, hair bantering in the wind, looked out the side window at the passing night. “She didn’t want to hurt you.”
Richard nodded. “I suppose. In any case, I’m sure it was just one more nail in the coffin of our marriage.” He sighed bitterly. “All those years of telling her what great childhood friends I had, how the Deadenders were the best thing that ever happened to me. Christ.”
Laurie gave him a patiently sympathetic look. “What’s the expression? ‘Don’t go shooting all the dogs just because one of them has fleas’.”
He jerked toward her, hands on the wheel. “Why did you say that? What dog?”
He thought he could almost see his haggard reflection in her eyes. “It’s just an expression, Richard.”
He looked back at the road. ‘Shoot the dog.’ He sighed again, without bitterness now, only weariness. “Yeah.”
Laurie was still watching him quietly. She looked out at the passing street lights, then back to him. “We’re going over there, aren’t we? To Maser’s place.”
“Yes.”
“Why, at this late hour?”
“Something I want to show you. Something I’d forgotten about until just now.”
“Not another book, I hope.”
“A syringe. I saw it there earlier when I was looking for the book.”
“A syringe? What syringe? He’s a doctor, Richard. He has an examining room at home, doesn’t he? It wouldn’t be surprising if he had medical supplies on hand.”
“You’re supposed to put used needles in those special plastic containers, aren’t you, the kind that don’t reopen? AIDS awareness and all that? This one was lying in an open trash basket.”
“Still—“
“In his study. Where Scroogie said he found the gold book.”
Laurie was quiet for a time after that.
Then: “What about his mother, won’t she be home?”
“Upstairs, in a wheelchair. Or in a bed, most likely. Maser said he keeps her sedated most of time. For pain.” He glanced at her. “Supposedly.”
Laurie gave him an alarmed look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know what anything means anymore. I’m making this up as I go along.”
She thought about it. “Surely he wouldn’t just leave her alone while he’s out on call. There must be a nurse with her or something.”
“Maybe. A chance we’ll have to take.”
Laurie grunted ruefully. “We’ll take.”
“I could drop you at home first, if—“
“Just shut up, huh? So. What’s the plan? We’re just going to--what—break-in? How?”
Richard made the next right, turned down the block toward Maser’s street. “Haven’t thought that far ahead yet.”
* * *
They pulled across the street from Maser’s mansion.
It was dark. Inside and out.
Richard cut the engine and they sat looking up at the black sweep of terrace, the stone colu
mns before the carriage circle, the brooding hulk of big two-story Tudor silhouetted against the stars.
“Upper story window,” Laurie said, “far south end.” Richard nodded. Not completely dark; a soft amber glow of pulled shade standing out from the rest of the building like a baleful Cyclops’ eye.
“The old woman’s room?” Laurie murmured.
“I’d guess so,” Richard nodded.
Laurie craned through her side window at the carriage circle. “No cars in the drive. No vehicles at all. You’re sure Maser’s mother is home?”
“Maser said she was. Besides, she’s an invalid, Laurie, where would she be?”
Laurie hitched her shoulders. “Staying with relatives maybe?”
“No. She needs continual care according to Maser. He’s practically at her bidding day and night.”
“Then somebody, a private nurse or someone, must be in there with her too. He wouldn’t just leave her alone at night, even for an emergency call at the hospital.” She sat back with a sigh, frustration just visible on her brow under the moonlight.
Richard sighed too, thinking about it. “If there’s a nurse in there then why isn’t her car in the driveway?”
“Maybe somebody drops her off and picks her up when Maser comes back home.”
Richard conceded that. Then brightened. “Or it could be that he has a sheriff’s car or a security guard making the rounds every hour or so!”
Laurie chewed her lip. “Maybe, but when? A cop sees our car parked here he’s sure to investigate.”
“So, we’re friends of Bobby Maser, just dropped by to check on his mother.”
Laurie looked at him. “By breaking in?”
“The cop wouldn’t know that.”
“He would if he snooped around first before ringing the bell.”
Richard grimaced. “Shit.”
Laurie had a sudden inspiration. “I know! One of us stays here and watches for cops and security guards! The other goes in and finds that syringe. Me. Cops don’t suspect women of housebreaking. If one shows, you toot the horn.”
Richard shook his head. “And wake up the whole neighborhood, to say nothing of Mrs. Maser? No good. Besides, I don’t like the idea of you going into that place alone. Old woman or not, she was crazy enough when we were kids, probably crazier now.”
Laurie made an impatient sound. “Quit sounding like a writer! She isn’t Norman Bates’ mother, Richard! I’ll be fine. And in and out before you know it!”
She reached for the door handle but Richard caught at her arm. “No. We go together or not at all. We’ll just have to peek out the windows and watch for cops. Anyone keeping watch on the house will use the carriage circle.”
Laurie considered it. “Okay. But park down the street then. We’ll walk around and come up through the back way.”
Richard started the engine.
Ten minutes later they were treading dew-flecked backyard and gardens near the pool on the way to the Florida room of Maser’s place.
“So what’s your plan, Sherlock?” Richard whispered, eyes darting into every dark shadow, “heave a rock through a window or what?”
Laurie held up her purse. “Got me. Any ideas?
“There’s a screen door to the Florida room in back, I remember it from a party earlier this summer. If that’s locked, we’re dead. But if it isn’t and we can get inside the porch—those are old style latch locks on the main house, easy to get through.”
The screen door wasn’t locked.
The couple stepped quietly through and Richard pulled it closed behind them with only the slightest rusty squeak. They moved silently across the screen-in porch to the outside kitchen door. Laurie produced a credit card from her purse, slid it into the crack between door and jamb, began wiggling it.
Richard heard no metallic click but Laurie smiled, said. “There!” and turned the knob. They pushed inside the house.
“Could have used a flashlight,” Laurie whispered in the big kitchen.
“No. Flashlights can be seen from outside. Listen!”
Laurie froze in her tracks. Listened. And after a moment: “What?”
“Thought I heard something from upstairs.”
They waited silently beside a big stainless counter. Richard could see Laurie’s eyes glowing wide as an owl’s in the dark. He smiled and kissed her cheek.
She jumped a little. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing. I love you is all.”
He could see the glow of her smile now. “Kind of fun, isn’t it?”
He snorted softly. “In a totally illegal kind of way, yeah.”
He pressed her arm and they continued on into the hallway, where Laurie instantly tripped into an end table. Something fell to the hall rug, but didn’t break; they heard a hollow thump.
“Bobby? Is that you?”
It came from the upstairs hallway, maybe one of the rooms. Laurie grabbed Richard’s arm tightly.
Richard cupped his hand to his mouth and called a muffled, “Be right there, mom!”
Laurie looked horrified. “What in the world are you doing?”
Richard pressed a finger to her lips. “Going up to see her, keep her busy. You go find that syringe. The study’s just down there.” He pointed.
“But she’ll know you’re not her son!”
“I’ll ad lib. Get going now!”
And they parted, Richard heading for the big staircase, slowly, hands out before him to ward off other accidents in the gloom.
* * *
“Bobby, is that you?”
“It’s me,” Richard said gently from the big oak frame of the bedroom doorway, “Richard Denning.”
“Who?”
“Richard Denning. Remember? From the barbecue last month?”
“No.” She lay in bed. A huge bed, far too large for her frail wisp of a body. She seemed, to Richard, to float in a sea of sheets and down comforters, tiny head of black-dyed hair just visible under the wide silk canopy’s shadow. Still long hair but neatly combed to trail the bank of pillows. Skin the color of straw. “Where’s Bobby? Where’s my son?”
“At the hospital. He asked me to drop by and see you. May I come in?”
“It’s late. Why’s he on call at this hour?”
“It’s John Scruge, Mrs. Maser. He’s ill, didn’t Bobby tell you?”
“No.”
“May I come in and sit a while?”
“You aren’t from the home--?”
Richard came in without being asked. “From the Home? No.”
“It takes verbal consent. I know the law. What are you doing?”
Richard paused beside the old fashioned skirted chair before the vanity mirror. “Just sitting with you a moment. Okay?”
“I know the letter of the law, that’s one thing I know. You can’t take me away without written or oral permission from the patient unless proven insane. I am not insane, buddy.”
“You certainly are not. May I sit with you?” He dragged the vanity chair to her bedside.
“You aren’t from the Home?”
“No. It’s Richard Denning, Mrs. Maser, Bobby’s friend from childhood, don’t you remember?”
“Have I seen you before?”
Closer now, sitting here beside her, the eyes were hollow, the skin doughy. Still, traces of a once handsome woman remained; the high cheekbones, thinner but still generous lips. “Lots when we were kids. Bobby and me. Pete Chevalier and Johnnie Scruge. The Deadenders, we called ourselves, remember? Ran around everywhere together in grade school, middle school.”
“I don’t recall.”
“I’m sorry.” And he meant it.
“Why isn’t Bobby here?”
“Can I get you anything? Some tea or something?”
“Put something in my tea, is that it?”
“Of course not.”
“‘Of course not’. That’s what they all say.”
“The people from the Home.”
“I won’t go. I know t
he law.”
“Does Bobby want you to go to the Home, Mrs. Maser.”
“You’re not my friend.”
“I am, though.”
“My friends know my first name.”
“Zelda.”
She stared at him with wan orbs of filmed blue. Cataracts. Easy to remove these days, even with old people. Why hadn’t Maser done that? So she couldn’t see? Couldn’t identify? “Richard Denning.”
“Yes.”
“The writer kid.”
“You do remember.”
“A person lives forever through their writing.”
“Did I say that?”
“Always pacing about. Restless. The others sat and listened. Not you. Always pacing about. I was afraid.”
“Afraid of me?”
“That you’d knock over my books. I had piles of them, you know. Towers of them in the carriage house.”
“I remember.”
“All gone now.”
“I’m sorry. Was there an accident, a fire?”
“Bobby. He sold them.”
“Ah.”
“Always the practical one. Always thinking ahead. Sold them. Worth a lot of money, some of those books.” She made a raspy sound Richard took for a scoff. “As if he needed the money on what a doctor makes. Always the practical one. Not a dreamer, like you.”
“No.”
“Not a schemer, a risk-taker like that other one.”
“Scroogie.”
She snorted again. “Funny name for a boy who was anything but a miser.”
Richard smiled. “It was just a play on his name. And because he was always reading those Uncle Scrooge comics by Carl Barks.”
“Carl who?”
“It isn’t important. Are you all right? Can I do anything for you?”
“Make me walk again?”
Richard smiled. “I wish I could, Mrs. Maser.”
And that brought the vaguest little smile from her as well. “I remember you now. Denning. The nice one.”
“Thank you.”
“But a dreamer.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve been away.”
“Yes. Hollywood.”
“Hollywood.”
“Yes.”
“No place for a writer.”
“You may be right. But I’m glad you remember me now.”