“She’s expecting me. I got lost over in the other—”
Pale eyelids lowered with boredom. “Your name?”
“Hill. H-i-l-l.” I spelled it carefully for him.
Checking some sort of list, he said, “I just don’t want Miss Conrad in a snit. It’s not my fault she can’t stay in the hotel. We even named a cottage after her and allowed her her own front door.” He flipped his hand toward the wall in back of him. “Go through the arbor next to the parking lot. Turn left on the street and you’ll see the sign ‘Conrad Cottage.’”
“Thank you.”
He looked away. He was bored again.
“You must miss the old hotel. What happened to it?”
For a moment he looked human—but only for a moment. “I thought the whole world knew. Earthquake standards. The poor old thing wasn’t up to code,” he said, looking out the window toward the hotel as if it were a lost lover.
“Going to tear it down?” I enjoyed watching him blanch.
“I don’t know. The last I heard, the Japanese or the Arabs may buy her and…I’m not sure.” He turned his back on me and began doing busywork.
On my way out the door I stopped and looked at some of the photographs. They appeared to have been taken in the hotel’s heyday. Men and women dressed in white lounged in wicker chairs while others played badminton on islands of lawn in front of a bustling new hotel. In another photo a tall, lean, angular man, dressed in a dark suit and tie with a panama hat shading his eyes, dug a hole in the ground with a ribboned shovel. A typed caption explained that this man was Mr. Elisha Kenilworth breaking ground for the new hotel, 1916. Another photograph showed a group of young women standing in a semicircle in one of the public rooms of the hotel. They all had white corsages pinned to their dresses. One young woman stood triumphantly in the middle of the semicircle, holding a small bouquet. A cloche cap fitted snugly to her head. Blond curls poked out. A strand of pearls graced a long neck. Eleanor Kenilworth confronted the camera with a defiant confidence. The caption read: MRS. ELEANOR KENILWORTH ELECTED JUNIOR LEAGUE PRESIDENT, JUNE 1925.
The general of the lobby was watching me. He said forlornly, “I wish they still owned her.”
“Who?”
“The Kenilworths!” he snapped.
“They owned this hotel?”
“They built her. They never would’ve let this happen to her,” he said, staring out the window, his gold braid catching the sun. He cocked his head to one side. He had a second thought. “Of course, you never can tell. I mean, the son did kill himself.”
“How do you know?”
“My dear, anyone who watched the eleven o’clock news last night knows.” He drew himself up to attention and sneered. “I bet he killed himself over money. In families like that the cause of death is always related to money.”
I stared at the pale-green chairs. They were the same color as Eleanor Kenilworth’s sitting room. “Did Ellis Kenilworth ever come by the hotel to visit Claire Conrad?”
“I never talk about our permanent guests.”
“‘Permanent guest.’ I like that phrase. That’s like always being a temporary secretary.” He failed to see the irony. I moved closer to the desk. “Would you talk about her for twenty?”
“Twenty what?”
“Dollars.” I took out my wallet.
He shrugged, but his eyes were hard on my wallet.
“Well?”
“Honey, if you’re going to bribe me, you’re supposed to show me the money first.”
“Oh.” I opened my wallet. All I had was nine dollars and change. I could’ve sworn I had twenty…The pizza! I paid for the pizza last night! Damn Neil!
Putting my wallet in my purse, I said, “I’m really shocked you’d take a bribe. I mean, in a classy place like this! You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“I never said I was taking your money.” He lowered his voice and hissed, “You bitch!”
“Now don’t get nasty,” I said, moving quickly toward the door.
“I should report you!” he yelled.
“I should report you!” I slammed the door.
Leaving the disgruntled general to dominate his tiny fiefdom, I felt a little sheepish as I made my way up stone steps to the arbor. Oh, hell, it was the first time I ever tried to bribe anybody. I had the feeling Patricia Kenilworth would’ve handled it much better.
The arbor was covered with thick, gnarled vines dripping with purple flowers shaped like miniature bugles. I felt pretty walking under it. I could almost feel what it must’ve been like to be the young Eleanor Kenilworth. For a moment. My life, my background, was so far removed from that kind of power. Money. Quiet money.
I stepped out of the arbor onto a street that curved around near the ravine and the covered wooden bridge. The words CONRAD COTTAGE were painted on the curb in front of a white wood cottage that was set down from the street with its back facing the hotel. It was one of the older, bigger cottages. To me it looked like a nice-sized home.
I made my way down brick steps to a highly varnished front door. A crown sprouting wings and supporting a cross was carved on it. It looked like a family crest. When I was growing up, there was a word that all young middle-class girls feared. The word was “conceited.” One of the most devastating moments of my high-school life was being called conceited by a beautiful cheerleader. She always seemed to be in midair. I always felt I was slogging through mud. Being accused of conceit was a way young girls kept each other down and in their proper place. A way of developing a lack of self-worth. I don’t remember a boy ever calling me conceited. It’s a word I never use. But now that I am thirty-five and a mature woman, I think I’ll give it a try. This was a conceited door.
I rang the bell. The wings moved. The crown slid sideways. I was staring into dark glass. I couldn’t see through it, but I had the feeling someone was seeing me. The crown slid back into place. The door opened.
“Miss Hill?” The man had an English accent.
“Yes.”
He wore a gray jacket over black-and-gray striped trousers. A full head of chestnut-brown hair swept back from a high, intelligent forehead. Watchful brown eyes moved slowly over my body. There was nothing sexual in this action.
His eyes came to rest on my purse. “Do you mind?” He took my purse from me and looked quickly in it. He handed it back. “One can never be too sure nowadays.”
“Too sure of what?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he said, “This way, please.”
I followed him down three tiled steps into a large room with a cathedral ceiling. I couldn’t help noticing that his shoulders were broad, his waist and hips narrow. I wished I had a butler like him. He turned around and caught me staring. I blushed. That’s another thing liberation and the sexual revolution haven’t been able to prevent. His demeanor didn’t shift an inch. Well trained.
“Would you mind waiting here?”
“Not at all.” I sat down in a white high-backed wing chair with legs that looked as if they belonged to an eagle.
“Excuse me, would you mind sitting here?” He gestured toward one of the two sofas. “The Queen Anne is Miss Conrad’s chair.”
I got up and sat on the sofa, crossing my legs. There was the rustle of my skirt, slip, and nylons. Female sounds. The brown eyes flickered quickly over me again. He wasn’t checking for weapons this time. I felt a slight triumph. Female sounds are not always vulnerable.
“May I get you something to drink?” His eyes were on my mouth.
“Coffee.”
He walked crisply from the room.
Since I wasn’t able to take my eyes off the butler, I hadn’t really looked at the room. It was large, airy, filled with books and paintings. White linen slipcovers fit snugly over the sofas. The furniture had been arranged so people could talk. Burgundy-colored pillows were tossed onto the sofas like big drops of wine. Side tables were piled with books, ashtrays, and objets d’art. At the end of the room was a big round table
covered with a green felt cloth. Books, papers, a magnifying glass, a pair of white gloves, and a pair of black gloves were scattered on it. Near the table was a globe as big as a beach ball. Behind the table were doors leading out to a garden. In the distance was the hotel. Staring at it, I became aware of the sounds of a woman sobbing. The sounds seemed to come from behind a closed door next to the tiled stairs.
A heavyset woman carrying coffee slouched through the foyer and down the stairs. Her hair was gray. Her skin looked as if it had never been touched by the sun. The pristine skin contrasted sharply with the stark black dress and sensible black shoes. Putting the coffee on a table by the fireplace, she asked, “You take cream?” She had a thick Hungarian accent.
“Thank you.”
She handed me the coffee. I sipped. “It’s very good,” I said. She studied me with knowing gray eyes.
The sobbing got louder. Unperturbed, the woman clasped her hands prayer-like over her motherly breasts and beamed at me.
The sobs turned into a whiny voice. “But he took all my money.”
A clear, firm female voice replied: “It is not a crime if you willingly gave it to him. Alas, neither is stupidity.”
The woman in front of me looked with disdain toward the closed doors, then back at me. She gently rocked her clasped hands and continued to beam. I was feeling uneasy. This woman was behaving like my mother when I go home to visit: the constant proud staring…the hands in prayer. I sipped my coffee and smiled at her.
“I…” sobbed the voice. “Loved…” Sob. Sob. “Him…” Sigh. “What will I do?”
“Learn the difference between a worthless man and a worthy man before you give him all your money. That will be a hundred and fifty dollars.”
“What?!” Screamed.
“I value my time.”
“I don’t have…He has…”
“Leave!” Disgusted.
A bell tinkled.
“But I loved…him.” The whine was back.
“Love is no excuse.”
The Englishman appeared and opened the door. He went in and quickly returned with a young woman on his arm. I had pictured her thin and mousy. She wore magenta tights. Large rhinestone earrings shone from under hennaed hair. Her face was all eye shadow and lipstick. Silver loafers shimmered on her feet. I thought she would’ve known her men as well as she knew the brand name of her cosmetics. But you can never tell about women. We’re always in disguise, so it’s difficult to pick out the victims from the victors.
The Englishman ushered her out.
The woman who was in the disguise of my mother “tsk-tsked.” “She did not have a good personal matter.” Her eyes scrutinized me; her voice turned confidential. “Make your personal matter…complex. She likes complexities.”
“Thanks for the tip.”
“A personal matter that is complex is just what she needs,” she said, as if she were discussing the medicinal values of chicken soup.
The Englishman returned. He extended his hand toward the closed door. “You may go in now.” The watchful brown eyes looked right through me as he opened the door. The door closed so quickly behind me I felt as if I’d been pushed into the room.
Claire Conrad was all in white, propped up by large white pillows in a large white bed. A white canopy draped down from some sort of Egyptian or Grecian cement molding. On the forefinger of her right hand was a chunk of lapis the size of a small jagged rock. Her eyes were as dark blue as her ring. They were the only color she seemed to allow in the room. She tilted her elegant head toward me. Thick silver hair swept back from her face like the folded wings of a bird. It was hard to tell how old she was—early fifties, I guessed.
Holding a bottle of pills in one hand, she fixed me with disturbing, intelligent eyes. “I am recuperating from the loss of my last ovary. Forced into menopause.” She unfolded a long, graceful hand, revealing a pill. “Now, I must take liver-colored hormones on certain days, yellow hormones on other days. Do you think this is what Time magazine meant when they referred to me as a woman detective?” Refined lips smiled.
“You’re a detective?”
“What’s left of me.” Lake-blue eyes narrowed. “Where is your table…your equipment?”
“What kind of a detective?”
“The kind that knows you are not a masseuse. And that Boulton and Gerta have tried to trick me again. This time it will not work.” She grabbed a sterling silver dinner bell and began ringing it.
I could feel the wayward two on the other side of the door, holding their breath, listening. Unable to get their attention, she slammed the bell down on the bedside table. “Damn them!”
“I’m Maggie Hill,” I said quickly. “I worked for—”
“I don’t care who you are or for whom you have worked. I will not put up with these childish pranks. Do you hear me?!” she screamed at the closed door. Then she turned on me. “First I am sent that poor twit of a girl with her pathetic story of rejection and deception. How could they think her tawdry plight would entice me from my recuperation?! She’ll just be taken advantage of again and again. Earn more money and give it away to the next man who comes along.”
“She was in love,” I said.
“Oh, God.” She collapsed back onto the bed. “Go away. I’m tired. I’m going to sleep.”
She closed her eyes. I watched. Not a finger twitched. I waited. Not an eyelash fluttered. Silence. I no longer existed for her. I stood there thinking about Kenilworth’s shattered head. About a suicide note I saw but wasn’t there. About Patricia Kenilworth’s nails digging into my wrist. About a codicil I’d been given to keep and was now gone. I thought about this woman lying smugly in her bed. I thought about how I had driven all the way out to San Marino to let her know that four million bucks had been taken from her. And unless we did something, she wasn’t going to get what was legally hers. I thought about her conceited front door and how casually she shut people out. I decided I didn’t like this woman. I decided to sit down. I decided to tell her all about it.
“I’m Maggie Hill. And I’ve been dealing with a lot of pompous people lately. And you’re just another one. I was Ellis Kenilworth’s secretary. That is…before he blew his head off with a shotgun.” There was no flicker of movement.
I continued. “Yesterday he had me type a codicil to his will. It stated that after his death you should receive his entire collection of rare and ancient coins, valued at over four million dollars.” Not a twitch, not a tremor crossed that quiet, sculpted face. “I came here to tell you that the codicil has been stolen. But you and your front door are so conceited, so self-centered…so…hell, I’m sure it doesn’t matter to you. But it matters to me.” No reaction.
I doggedly went on telling the entire story, remembering details I had forgotten. I suppose a half-hour had gone by when I finally finished. My throat was dry, my voice slightly hoarse. I couldn’t look at her anymore. I watched the breeze billow white gauze curtains over open windows. Maybe a minute passed. Her eyes remained closed. Only her lips moved when she finally spoke.
“Why didn’t you look in your purse when you got home last night?”
Of all the questions she could’ve asked, that one surprised me. I had remembered a great many details. I had purposely left out the detail of Neil. He wasn’t any of her business.
“That’s a very large purse you carry. I think there would be things in there you would need in order to prepare for bed.” She opened her eyes and stared at the top of her canopy.
“I just went right to sleep. To be honest with you, I forgot about the codicil.”
“You’re not being honest with me.” She sat up. Hard eyes burrowed into me.
I tried to equal her stare. But I was losing. She was right. I wasn’t being honest with her. But I didn’t want to talk to this woman about knocking off a bottle of champagne. I didn’t want to talk to her about going to bed with my ex-husband. I didn’t want to talk to her about a sleepy female voice. I was protecting again. But who
was I protecting? Myself.
5
CLAIRE CONRAD SAT UP. Lines carved deep on the sides of her mouth and across her forehead. These lines, instead of detracting from her beauty, defined and strengthened it. She tapped the bottle of liver-colored hormones against a bedside table bleached the color of dried bones.
“You’ve called me pompous and self-centered. You’ve based these observations on your reaction to my front door. A front door can be opened. It can be closed. It can be wood. It can be glass. It cannot be conceited. You have projected emotion onto an inanimate object—a form of childish behavior which muddles the adult’s perceptive powers.”
She stared at the pills in her hand. “Women, contrary to the opinions of doctors, are individuals. A few of us are unique. I assume there must be an appropriate time in the day to take one of these—a moment when my body and my mind are ready for a shot of the old female juices. You’d think the doctors would know that moment, but they don’t.”
Tossing the hormones down, she threw back the bedclothes and stood. She was tall, about six feet. White-belted pajamas covered a long, graceful body. The pajamas were creaseless. How did she stay in bed and not wrinkle her clothes? She grabbed an ivory walking stick that leaned against the back of a chair and strode across the room, looking perfectly healthy to me.
As if reading my thoughts, she slowed her pace, leaned on the cane, and shot me a defiant glare over her shoulder. “I have a right to malinger. And you have invaded my right.”
She disappeared into a walk-in closet and reappeared wrapped in a long white velvet bathrobe. She looked like an angel of judgment. And I was the one being judged.
She swept across the room, walking stick in hand, and threw open the bedroom door. Gerta and the Englishman began busying themselves. Gerta grabbed a pillow and frantically shook it. He picked up a silver ashtray and held it to the light—checking for fingerprints, no doubt. Claire brushed past them and arranged herself in the Queen Anne chair.
“Stop flapping that pillow, Gerta. You’re spreading dust and goose feathers everywhere. Shouldn’t you be fixing lunch? I’m starved.”
Mother Shadow Page 5