“He told me the collection was worth over four million dollars,” I said.
Patricia sat forward, uncrossing her legs. Then she threw her head back and laughed. “Poor Sutton! Poor Judith! Poor Eleanor! Now it’s your turn to be disinherited. If you need to borrow money, don’t hesitate to ask!” She stopped laughing. When she finally spoke again, her voice was serious. “God, he hated us.” There were tears in her eyes. I couldn’t tell if they were from laughter or sadness.
“He hated you!” Judith challenged.
Sutton put his hand on hers. “Please. We’re all in an emotional state.”
“Who is this Claire Conrad? Friend? Lover?” The green eyes turned seductive.
“He didn’t know her,” I said.
“Really, Maggie.” Sutton smiled warmly. “You can’t seriously ask us to believe that Ellis would just give away his collection to a woman he didn’t know?”
“The name is familiar,” Patricia said. “I think I read about her in Time or People or some other magazine. They referred to her as ‘the Great Woman…Something’—you know, one of those genderless names like ‘doctor’ or ‘writer.’ I can’t remember. I’m so preoccupied with my own life, how can I remember what other people do?”
“Ellis said that Claire Conrad might help with the truth or something like that,” I said.
“What truth?” Patricia’s perfect white teeth bit at her lower lip.
“I don’t know. But he was willing to pay a lot of money for it.” I turned on Sutton and Judith. “What are you willing to pay Valcovich?”
Judith’s strict eyes took me in. “As far as I’m concerned, I met a man in Ellis’s office who was introduced to me by you as your lawyer. A codicil was never mentioned. Now, unless you can produce it, I don’t think we have anything to talk about.” She stood, clutching at her sweater.
“She does have a point, Maggie,” Sutton said.
“So he is blackmailing you.”
Patricia stood. “Blackmail. A family tradition. If you will excuse me, I came here to pay my condolences to Eleanor.” She moved toward the doors.
“I’ll go with you,” Sutton said quickly.
“Don’t you trust me alone with her?”
“Sutton,” Judith said. “Let her go see Mother.”
“She’s very upset. Don’t stay too long,” he warned.
“I’m sure she’s very upset. Mothers always bear the guilt.” She left the room. I could hear the tippity-tap sounds of her high heels crossing the marble floor.
“I’d like to see if Ellis wrote Valcovich’s name and number in his appointment book,” I said.
“What would that prove?” Judith asked.
“Ellis would never write one of my personal appointments in his book. It would prove that Valcovich came to see him, not me.”
“I’m not exactly sure where he keeps his calendar. Probably his desk,” Sutton said.
“I know where it is,” I said.
“Shall we?” He offered his hand. I took it. Our eyes weren’t flirting.
Judith folded her arms protectively against her bony breast. We followed her to the office. She opened the door.
“Brian!” she gasped. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
Her arms unfolded. She reached out for his hand. He waved it just out of her reach. His other hand held the telephone. He leaned back in Ellis’s chair, feet on Ellis’s desk. Putting a manicured finger to his lips, he warned us to be quiet.
Judith obediently fell silent. A look of possessiveness filled her eyes. I knew that look. There was no other person in that room for Judith. She was gazing on the man she loved.
“At least he could get his feet off the desk,” Sutton said under his breath.
I was a little shocked at Judith’s taste. This guy’s eyes were the color of onyx and hard to read. Each strand of dark hair was arranged carefully over his scalp and sprayed into its proper place. I’m suspicious of men who try to hide their baldness; I always wonder what else they’re hiding. His lips were thin, unyielding. I tried to imagine pressing my lips against his; I didn’t get very far. I tried to imagine Judith pressing her lips against his; I got a little further—after all, they had the same kind of lips. His nose curved down, then suddenly tilted up at the end, giving him the strangely superior look of someone doomed to smell out the rottenness of life. I decided I didn’t like him. I didn’t like the way he was usurping Kenilworth’s desk. His left foot, shod in a highly polished shoe, rested on Ellis’s appointment book. I jerked the book out from under it. His foot slammed back down on the desk. Judith gasped again. He never missed a beat. And he never looked at me. He just continued to say “Yes…yes” importantly into the phone.
I took the book and sat down at my desk.
“Yes, yes. Good news. See you tomorrow night.” He put the phone down. “We’ve had so many registrations that the hotel’s moving the symposium to the International Ballroom—the biggest room they’ve got.” His nose twitched.
“Oh, Brian, that’s wonderful!” She blew him a kiss.
Intimacy made Judith look awkward. But then, maybe she looked awkward because he ignored her kiss.
“This is Maggie Hill, Ellis’s secretary,” Sutton said to Brian.
“The secretary? Here to clean out your desk?” Brian asked.
A lot of people wanted me to clean out my desk. He stood, hands in the pockets of his expensive navy pinstriped suit. Sutton began a rambling explanation to Brian about the entire situation.
I opened the appointment book. But I knew there wasn’t going to be anything about Valcovich in it. Kenilworth always kept his book in his bottom right-hand drawer. It was never left out on his desk. Sure enough, the page containing the date April 22 was neatly cut out of the book.
“Yesterday’s date is missing,” I said. My statement was greeted with silence. I crossed my legs and hit my knee under the desk, snagging my $5.95 panty hose.
“I’m Brian Waingrove.” He sauntered over and offered me his card instead of his hand. The paper-sack-brown card told me, in shiny darker brown lettering, that Brian was an expert at managing money.
“Whose?” I asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Whose money are you so good at managing?”
“I help people who are in debt. I help people who have millions. I make no distinctions.”
“I don’t need any money managing,” I said.
“I do think you need some clarity of thought.” His nose twitched. He was on the scent of something. “If I understand Sutton correctly, you are accusing them of something…well…illegal.”
“She doesn’t mean it that way,” Sutton said. “If Maggie says there was a codicil, then I’m sure there’s…an explanation.”
“Since you were given custody of the codicil, the explanation is Maggie’s burden,” Brian sniffed. “It must be a heavy one.” He peered down his nose at me. “So heavy you want to draw in two innocent people. If you would only think, Maggie, you would see that my two dear friends could not have taken the codicil. First of all, they would have to know there was one. Then they would have to know that Ellis put it in your purse—an unlikely place, you have to admit. And lastly, they would have to know that Ellis was going to kill himself yesterday afternoon, putting the codicil into effect.”
“I wasn’t accusing them of stealing it. I’m accusing them of letting Valcovich blackmail them so they can keep a four-million-dollar coin collection.”
“But how could he have possibly known it was in your purse? Why don’t we call this so-called lawyer?”
“Fine.” I picked up the phone and dialed his number.
“You know his telephone number by heart,” Waingrove observed.
“I’m very good with numbers, too,” I said.
The Smoker answered. “Law offices.”
“This is Maggie Hill.”
“He’s not in.”
“Tell him I’m with the Kenilworths and they would like to talk to h
im.”
“Just a minute.” Suppressed cough.
“Here.” I handed the phone to Waingrove, picked up my purse, and went and stood by the window. What had Valcovich seen? I saw only Kenilworth’s beautiful garden. I headed for the door.
“Don’t you want to hear what he has to say to us, Maggie?” Sutton asked.
“Why should I sit here and listen to you and that jerk lie to each other for my benefit?”
I was out of the Kenilworth house and was heading to my car when I heard my name. Patricia stood by the Jaguar. Parked behind it was a silver Mercedes, the color of small change. It had to be Waingrove’s.
“Maggie.” She came toward me, her hand shading her eyes.
In the white glare I could see her fleshy neck. You can tell the age of a tree by counting the rings inside the trunk. You can tell a turtle’s age by counting the dots on its belly. If you want to know a woman’s age, just look at her neck.
“I wanted to talk to you alone. Do you mind?”
“Why should I?” She followed me to my car. Her skin was translucent. In the relentless sun Patricia looked more ghost than woman.
“I loved Ellis. When I was young, I gave up everything for him. So you see, it’s only natural that I would want to know his last words.”
“I’ve already told you. I don’t know what his last words were. I didn’t read the note.”
“What is it you want?” she asked.
“Nothing. I want nothing.”
“You mean like Christmas when we all say we don’t want anything. Yet we all want to open a gift…receive a present…on Christmas day. We all eventually think of something we want.” In the heat her mauve lipstick was bleeding into the lines around her mouth, lines even the plastic surgeons couldn’t remove.
“I’ve never been bribed before,” I said.
“You shouldn’t think of it that way. I’m a generous woman. I love to give gifts. It makes me happy.”
“It wouldn’t make me happy.”
Her velvety hand was around my wrist again. Nails sharp in my flesh.
“Eleanor said you came out of the bathroom with his pen. That means you went through his things. You saw the photograph, didn’t you? You took it. I swear to God, if you have information that will hurt my family…I…will—”
“Patricia!” Sutton yelled from the veranda. She slowly loosened her grip on my wrist.
“I’ve written down my phone number. No questions asked. I’ll give you a nice big present.” She pressed a piece of paper into my hand and hurried across the lawn to the house.
I got into my car. I stared at the perfect imprint of her nails on the inside of my wrist.
I put on my sunglasses.
4
I HEADED FOR A gas station that I knew had a working pay phone. Turning east on Colorado Boulevard, I passed the Norton Simon Museum, a big, brown, manly-looking building, shaped like a giant humidor. It always amazed me that one man collected all that art and stored it at just the right temperature, like cigars. I thought of Ellis Kenilworth. If he didn’t want his family to have his coin collection, why didn’t he leave it to a public place like a library or university? Collectors have egos. They like to have their names on wings of buildings and museums. They want public recognition for all their years of spending money. Why did he leave his collection to a woman named Claire Conrad? It was time to find out.
I pulled into the self-service gas station and parked in front of the pay phones. An American flag about the size of my hometown flapped and snapped in the wind over my head. I slipped into a phone booth. A pimply-faced kid leered lasciviously at me from his security-tight cashier stall. We stared at one another from our little boxes. I decided to take his leer as a compliment; there are so few compliments in this world. I smiled back. I punched up Information and asked for the number of the San Marino Hotel. A computerized female voice, sounding like a teacher with a speech impediment, clicked on. It patiently told me the number. I thanked it and dialed.
A voice husky with chic announced, “San Marino Hotel.”
“Claire Conrad, Conrad Cottage.” I said. The voice connected me.
A woman with a very thick accent answered, “Conrad Cottage.”
“I’d like to speak to Ms. Claire Conrad, please.”
“May I ask what it is regarding?” Maybe the accent was Hungarian.
“I’m Maggie Hill. She doesn’t know me. It’s a personal matter. Confidential.”
“A personal matter! Excellent. You come now?”
“Well…I…yes…I’m near you…”
“Good. You come. Work will do her good. Goodbye.”
“Wait! I need directions.”
She gave me confusing directions to the San Marino Hotel and the cottage and hung up. I wondered what kind of work this woman was talking about.
Always looking for something a little extra, I stuck my finger into the coin return. I felt something cold, slimy wet. Some ass had spit into the slot. I stepped outside the booth, frantically wiping my finger with a Kleenex. I saw the pimply-faced kid leaning out of his box giving change to somebody in a Datsun. He looked at me over the roof of the car. His head bounced with laughter on his scrawny red neck. So much for compliments. Oh, hell.
San Marino is just like Beverly Hills except it’s not as desperate for attention. I drove my Honda through streets dappled with shade and sun. Lacy trees effetely extended their branches over expensive homes. The area was populated with men in polo shirts and plaid pants, children in private-school uniforms, and women who have settled for short hair, cotton skirts, espadrilles, and one big solitary diamond.
Doing as I was told, I turned left on Marino Road. In the distance loomed the San Marino Hotel. Six stories of Gothic orangy-brown plaster reached upward toward the heavens and curved outward ready to embrace all who entered her. Windows of various shapes and sizes looked out like black possessive eyes over the vast grounds. I approached a long narrow road. An elegant sign declared that this was the entrance to the hotel. Black paint shredded from the base of the sign. Turning down the road, I was uneasily aware of weeds bullying up through cracked asphalt. On each side of the road were islands of brown grass. The road merged into the grand sweep of a circular drive—a drive designed for Bugattis, Bentleys, and Rolls-Royces. But there was only the wind twisting a pile of dusty gray leaves around and around the tarmac. Golden arches shimmered on a rolling plastic container which had once held a large Coke. The wind scuttled it against the hotel steps. Its companion, the paper bag, had been blown flat against the glass doors of the hotel, doors that were chained and padlocked.
I got out of the car and stared up at the hotel. It rose above me, struggling for grandeur, trying to defy its darkness. Tattered white drapes, sucked from open windows by the wind, quivered against their casements. Some windows were shattered, others just empty like dead eyes. I was alone with this corpse of a hotel. Not only humans die.
Walking up the unswept steps, I peered through the smeared glass doors into the lobby. I could make out a high vaulted ceiling, a gold leaf balcony, a long, dark wood reception desk like a giant coffin. Leaves, in place of Oriental rugs, scattered on a vast pink-and-gold marble floor. There were no chandeliers and no furniture. This grande dame had been stripped of all her possessions. I whirled around. Footsteps! No. The only movement came from a shaggy sunflower, flourishing in the burnt grass, nodding its heavy yellow head in the breeze.
I looked out over the grounds. The hotel had been built on a plateau. On the west side the land dropped off into what looked like a ravine. I went down the steps and across the grass. It was stiff beneath my feet. Trying to keep the heels of my shoes from sinking into the powdered earth, I stood on the edge of the ravine. Below me was a tangle of brush, a mass of wildflowers, and weeds. On the other side a whole new world shone brightly. Sparkling white bungalows and cottages gleamed in their nests of dark green ivy. Geraniums frothed red, pink, fuchsia. Pathways and narrow streets connected these dwelli
ngs in a maze-like network that went on for acres. Conrad Cottage had to be down there somewhere. I could see an Olympic-size swimming pool and hear the faint laughter of pale, wet bodies. In the far distance, beyond San Marino and Pasadena, the L.A. Basin spread out toward the shimmering curve of the Pacific. I noticed that a covered wooden bridge connected this shiny new world to the side of the hotel. From where I stood, there seemed to be no way to get to the bridge except from inside the hotel.
I made my way back to the car. Studying the directions, I tried to make out where I had gone wrong. I felt as if somebody were watching me. I looked around. Nobody. Only the hotel and its empty windows. I put the car in gear and sped away.
I turned back onto Marino Road and saw the sign. It was much smaller than the original. Newly planted flowers surrounded freshly painted white wood. Written in black script were the words TEMPORARY LOBBY. A black arrow pointed the direction. I followed the arrow back the way I had come. Another sign pointed me onto a side street. Following arrows, I made my way through the maze of narrow streets and into a parking lot. A low white building glistened in the sun. I parked where it said GUEST.
Poking my head in the doorway of the building, I asked, “Is this the lobby?”
A man standing behind a small fake-wood reception desk flicked a piece of lint off his freshly pressed green jacket and snapped “Yes” at me. Gold braid decorated his shoulders. Brass buttons flashed with polished perfection. He looked like a general who had lost his command. Busy brown eyes looked everywhere around the room but at me. This was a difficult feat, since the room was small and he and I were the only ones in it.
An antique Oriental rug intricately patterned with yellow, greens, and pinks filled the floor. Opposite the reception desk sat two high-backed chairs covered in threadbare pale-green velvet. There was something shabbily beautiful about the chairs. Between them was a round Victorian table displaying a large arrangement of garden roses. Photographs and hotel awards filled the walls.
Stepping up to the desk, I said, “Ms. Claire Conrad, please.”
“Do you have an appointment?” Impatient fingers tapped.
Mother Shadow Page 4