“Hi, Jane,” Alison greeted the nurse.
“She’s on the patio, dear.”
The nurse turned to a young man sporting a ponytail and an array of fresh pimples. “Roger, take Alison and her guests out to Mrs. Reynolds.”
We followed Roger out of the hall into a glassed-in garden room. The room should have been filled with lush indoor palms, mysterious velvety flowers, and ladies and gentlemen lingering on chaise lounges. But there was only a starved teenaged girl with long blond hair, sitting alone at a cardboard table. She stared at a glass of thick pink liquid. Her body was as flat as an eight-year-old’s. She had managed to stop the curve of breast, of hip, of stomach. She had stopped herself from becoming a woman.
“Drink all of that down,” Roger reminded her cheerfully.
She made a face at him and played with the straw. Nearby a man in a blue blazer with a gold crest on the breast pocket paced back and forth.
“You’re supposed to be in group, Mr. Collins,” Roger scolded warmly.
“What? Oh, yes, yes,” the man said, as if he were too important to be interrupted.
We stepped out onto a flagstone balcony. A woman wrapped in a mink coat sat alone. Graying auburn hair was twisted into a messy knot. The hem of her flannel nightgown was frayed and dirty. With bitter watery eyes she surveyed the people on the grounds below her: attendants hurrying along the footpaths, patients sitting, running, wandering. Alison rushed to her. Roger, his finger feeling for a new pimple, retreated.
Embracing her daughter, Elizabeth Reynolds burst into tears.
“It’s all right, Mother. It’s all right.” Alison stroked her hair, her cheek, her shoulder. “It’s all right. Please don’t cry.”
The tears didn’t stop. She buried her face into the curve of Alison’s neck and sobbed with abandon. Claire watched her intently, then abruptly looked away over the grounds.
“Mother, Claire Conrad is here. You wanted to speak to her, remember?”
Slowly the weeping subsided and Elizabeth separated herself from Alison. Spite had carved deep lines around her mouth. Betrayal glistened in her eyes. “Get some chairs, Alison. There are never any chairs for guests. I pay a lot of money for the privilege of being depressed. You’d think they could at least have chairs.”
As I helped Alison drag over some plastic ones, I had the repellent feeling that there was nothing left of Elizabeth Reynolds except decay. I could almost smell it. Her easy tears were like pouring water on rotting wood. When we sat down, she pointed toward two women who had stopped jogging and were now leaning against a tree talking. They acted as if they were at a spa resort.
“They have children. What is happening to their children while they run and talk about themselves? Where are their children?” she demanded accusingly. “I should’ve divorced Sheridan years ago but I wanted to make him suffer.” Her voice was laced with resentment. A new set of tears formed as she looked at her daughter. “Instead, I made you suffer.” The tears reappeared, but they weren’t for Alison.
“Please, don’t do this to yourself. I’m having the final fitting on my dress tomorrow.” Alison reached for her hand. Her mother’s diamond ring was not quite as big as her own.
“Don’t let them leave the hem too long. Brides always wear their gowns dragging on the ground, as if they don’t want to admit they have feet.”
“You wished to see me, Mrs. Reynolds?” Claire reminded her.
“Yes, I did.” She didn’t bother to dry her tears. Like tiny medals, they were to be displayed proudly. “Alison, be a darling and leave us alone for a moment.”
“I’m not a child, Mother. Why can’t we talk openly?”
“Alison, please, do as I say.”
“Yes, Mother.” Alison obediently left.
“You have a lovely daughter,” Claire said.
“She is, isn’t she?”
“She’s very creative,” I offered.
“That’s because she was left alone so much of her life. If only I had spent more time with her,” Mrs. Reynolds said, as if creativity could be remedied by a mother’s attention. She fixed her watery eyes on Claire.
“I’ll get right to the point. Paul Quentin called me after you left our penthouse and told me the reason you’re looking into Cybella’s death.”
“I was under the impression that Mr. Quentin worked for your husband. Was I mistaken?” Claire asked.
“He does not work for me. But Paul understands what I expect in a son-in-law. There is no way I can prevent your investigation?”
“No.”
“Then you force me to do something I detest.”
“What is that?”
“Tell the truth. And I am only telling it to you because you’ll eventually dig up our dirty little secret. I don’t want Alison hurt. Promise me that she’ll never know.”
“If there’s no professional reason to tell her, then I won’t. That’s all I can promise.” Claire stretched out her long legs. Her finger tapped on the head of her walking stick. Elizabeth Reynolds scrutinized her.
“I’m waiting, Mrs. Reynolds,” Claire said in a bored voice.
“Waiting? You don’t know what waiting is. I do. Waiting for Sheridan day after day, year after year.” She licked her lips as if she could taste her own venom, then blurted, “Sarah Grange is my husband’s daughter. Alison’s half sister. He got Cybella pregnant a year after Alison was born. How could he do such a thing?” she demanded, as if it had all happened yesterday instead of twenty years ago. A new set of tears formed. After they subsided, she said:
“Do you know what my psychiatrist wants me to do? Give up my tears.” Her small hand curled into a fist. “They’re all I have left.”
“I’m not interested in your tears, Mrs. Reynolds.” Claire stood and leaned against the balustrade. “Self-pity bores me.”
“How dare you!”
“Are you the reason Cybella gave up her child?”
For the first time Elizabeth Reynolds smiled, displaying small yellowed teeth. “I threatened to divorce Sheridan if he didn’t make Cybella get rid of her baby.”
“I can’t believe that was the only time you threatened to divorce him,” Claire observed.
“It was the only time I meant it. And he knew it. There is one thing Sheridan loves more than Cybella. My money. It’s a curse to be born into family wealth. I’ve learned that I feel insecure because I’ve done nothing to earn all my money.”
“In other words, you’re so wealthy you’re worthless,” I said.
“That’s not exactly the way my doctor put it.”
“Why was it so important that Cybella give up her child?” Claire asked.
“I wasn’t going to have my Alison living in the shadow of Sarah Grange as I’ve lived in the shadow of Cybella.”
“Don’t you think it would be better if you told Alison?” I asked.
“So she could find out that her father thought so little of her that he had another daughter with his whore? I’m not surprised Sarah is involved in something sordid. Trash is trash.”
“And this is what you wanted to tell me?”
“There is something else. A little over a year ago Cybella and I were here at the same time. Most men put only one woman into a sanitarium, my husband has driven two into seclusion and depression.” Self-pity pulled the corners of her lips down. “One night she came to my cabin wanting absolution. They’re big on forgiveness in this place. Instead, I told her what I knew would destroy her, that it was I who had determined the rules of her love affair. I explained to her that she had not given her daughter up for the love of her man or even her so-called career, but that she had given her up because I had demanded it. That’s why she eventually killed herself.”
“Has Sarah Grange ever contacted you or your husband?” Claire asked.
“No. Don’t you think that’s odd? I mean with all my money. She must want something.” The watery eyes narrowed. Claire stood directly in front of her.
“Why are you
really in here, Mrs. Reynolds?”
“Because all of us in Shadow Hills defy the American dream. We can’t be fixed. There are no solutions for us. That young girl, who can eat whenever and whatever she wants at the most expensive restaurants, is going to die of starvation. Those women and men running around that track as if they were preparing for the Olympics will never be able to run fast enough. And I cannot be depressed enough.” Tears lined her face.
Claire placed one hand on the arm of Elizabeth Reynolds’s chair and leaned in, close to her face. “You avoided answering my question. Why so many tears?”
“I thought my tears bored you.”
“They do. But their source is beginning to intrigue me.”
“I’m through talking with you. Get out! Get out!” Elizabeth Reynolds pulled the collar of her coat up around her face. “I want my daughter. Where is my daughter?”
“Come along, Miss Hill.”
We left her sobbing. A little more wood rotted.
We walked back through the garden room. The starved young girl was gone. The glass, still full of pink liquid, remained on the table. The straw was bent and twisted.
We stepped out onto the porch. Boulton leaned against the Bentley. Alison peered through her camera at an empty rocking chair. Her auburn hair, the color of a brownish red autumn leaf, glistened in the sun. She looked up from the camera and smiled.
“The light is so beautiful here. Are you finished?”
“Yes,” I said. “Your mother wants you.”
Holding her camera in her hands, she rested her arms on the back of the chair. “I think now that Cybella is finally out of her life, Mother doesn’t know what to do, who to hate. All she can do is cry. I thought it would be different.”
“In what way?” Claire asked.
“I don’t know. When I heard about her death, I felt a kind of loss, but I also felt an enormous relief. I thought Mother would finally be free, but she’s not. Well, I better go to her.”
“Would you like us to wait for you? Drive you to your house?” Claire asked.
“I can walk. It’s just through the woods. Thank you.” Alison tilted her head, studying me, then brought the camera up to her eyes. “Don’t move, Maggie.” It buzzed like a mechanical insect. The flash smeared a bright light across my vision. I smiled. Always too late.
Fourteen
“I’M FEELING PECKISH,” CLAIRE announced in the Bentley.
“Did you notice, madam, that there were no walls around the sanitarium?” Boulton guided the car down the winding road. “I wonder what keeps the patients from wandering away?”
“Their need to get better,” I said.
Claire grimaced. “And if they have no need to get better, Miss Hill?”
“You mean like Elizabeth Reynolds?”
“Can the patients wander off and then wander back whenever they wish? You know, Boulton, our Sarah Grange is the daughter of Sheridan Reynolds.”
“Really, madam.”
“I always thought a dead Frenchman was a convenient excuse.”
“I’ve used it many times myself, madam. What was your impression of Alison Reynolds?”
“She’s in secret collaboration with her mother. Like many mothers and daughters, they’re protecting one another.”
“From what?” he asked.
I peered out the window. No, Maggie, your father’s not going to die. Don’t ever use that word. I’ll take care of you, Mother. You’ll never be alone. Never.
“They’re protecting each other from the truth,” I said.
We had lunch in a quaint old inn that was really brand-new but decorated to look old by a New York designer. The menu proudly displayed a spa cuisine. Heart-shaped symbols heralded the entrées that were guaranteed by the chef not to kill you. Our waiter explained that he was not our waiter but our server, and that his name was Gerald. This dining experience left Claire with the belief that there was no hope for humanity. On the trip back to the city she fell into a gloomy silence sporadically broken by sudden exclamations of: “Spa cuisine?! Server? Gerald!”
I called Gerta to see if there were any messages. There was one. Nora Brown and Sarah Grange would be unable to meet with Claire Conrad at five o’clock.
“Still trying to get their story together,” I said to her.
“I believe the expression is stonewalling. Take us to the Horizon Club, Boulton. I think it’s time we visit the grieving Mr. Reynolds.”
We hit the city at about five o’clock and crawled our way toward midtown. Boulton stopped the car in front of an aged nondescript brownstone. A small, highly polished brass sign discreetly stated that this was the residence of the Horizon Club.
“Bring the photographs of Sarah Grange and Jackie with you, Miss Hill.”
Boulton helped Claire out of the car. I managed it on my own.
She and I entered through a heavy oak door into the dried-out dreams of rich old men. An ancient plank floor creaked under our feet. The reception room was dimly lit by brass lanterns. Next to the door a black porter, wearing a gray uniform, sat in a chair designed with all the daring of a Presbyterian pew. He immediately stood when he saw us.
“May I help you?” There was a soft southern flow to his words.
“Claire Conrad to see Mr. Sheridan Reynolds.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. He left instructions that he was not to be disturbed,” he said, moving with us like a sheepdog circling two strays.
“This is an emergency.” She took a card from her pocket and the photographs from me. “Give this to Mr. Reynolds. I’m sure he’ll see me.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but you can’t be in this club unescorted.” His dark eyes were undecipherable. It was a learned look. Nobody could ever question his expression.
“But I do have an escort.” She inclined her head toward me. “Miss Hill.”
I had to restrain myself from making certain adjustments like baseball players do.
“I meant you cannot be here unless you are escorted by a member.”
“I’m not in a very good mood. I was just forced to eat spa cuisine, an oxymoron that consists of fava beans, cilantro, and fried sage leaves. You have a public room, take us there and order me a brandy.”
“Follow me, please,” he said stiffly.
He ushered us down a dark oak-lined hall. The smell and the burnt-brown color of the walls made me feel like I was inside my grandfather’s pipe. The porter left us in a large room with a great stone fireplace. Oriental rugs were carelessly scattered on the oak planks like towels on a locker-room floor. Portraits of men dating from Revolutionary times to the present filled the walls. Men in white powdered wigs, white jackets, and white stockings. Men in long beards and long dark jackets. Men with narrow mustaches in narrow tweed jackets. Gray-haired men in paisley ties and gray business suits.
Men.
A live one sat in a brown leather chair examining us, a look of sad resignation on his aged pink face. I smiled at him. He blinked as if trying to make the vision disappear.
“Fine day, isn’t it?” I said in my most hearty voice.
In response he stared down at his hands.
“Don’t try, Miss Hill, it’s embarrassing.” Claire stood by the fireplace.
“I can’t help myself.” I sat on the sofa. We waited.
The man in the leather chair got up and walked stiff-jointed from the room. He creaked like an old boat tied up to a dock. The smell of cold ashes drifted from the fireplace. A clock on the mantel ticked ploddingly. Claire poked her walking stick at the ashes. She looked like she belonged in this place.
“What do you think Reynolds’s connection is?” I asked.
“So far, only that he was Cybella’s lover and Sarah’s father.”
“And Alison’s father,” I said, thinking of the young woman with the camera in her hands, excitement and creativity shining in her eyes. And a big heavy diamond on her finger.
We fell silent. The clock ticked. The porter came in with her bran
dy and informed us that Mr. Reynolds would be down shortly.
It was a toss-up as to whether Peep Thrills or the Horizon Club depressed me more. Peep Thrills offered only one view of women: the object of the male sexual fantasy. But the Horizon Club was devoid of any image of women. We did not exist within these oak-lined halls.
“We don’t exist,” I said, breaking the silence.
“Is that an existential observation?” she asked.
“In this place. It’s as if women never existed.”
“Refreshing, isn’t it?”
“You are so reactionary.”
“I see nothing wrong with the sexes uncoupling for a few moments and retreating to their prospective camps.”
“But one camp has more power than the other.”
“Which one?”
“You know damn well there is no equality.”
Restraining a smile she sipped her brandy.
“Speaking of no equality, why do you think Alison is marrying Paul Quentin?” I asked.
“Why shouldn’t she? She has to go off the cliff and marry somebody.”
“At her age women mistake great sex for great love. Maybe that’s it.”
She placed her glass on the mantel. “That reminds me, Miss Hill. What does your capacity for sex have to do with my capacity for ratiocination?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Most everyone, Miss Hill, has had sex. Only writers and teenagers find it an astonishing experience. But not everyone has solved a murder.” She jabbed her walking stick at the ashes. “Watson would roll over in his grave if he read what you’ve written.”
“The reason I wrote about going to bed with my ex-husband was to explain my emotional state when I met you. Do you remember when you asked me to write about you?”
“I rue the day.”
“You told me how men write boldly and bravely about one another, but women crawl off by themselves and write these desperate, personal diaries. Well, there are two of us now, and you would help if you told me more about yourself, such as what happened to you when you saw that woman at the Duke Hotel.”
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