“You can’t go in there without paying,” the blond Profit whined.
“We won’t stay long,” Claire said.
We went in and stood against the back wall.
The chanting, shirt-sleeved crowd’s attention was focused on a bald-headed man, who I assumed was Oscar. He paced back and forth on the stage, waving his short, hairy arms in the air like a berserk accountant. Every now and then he’d stop and shake his fat ass. The crowd roared its approval. The lights dimmed. Oscar held one arm in the air. The crowd fell silent. A red spotlight darted around the room.
“Here’s who we’ve been waiting for, folks. Are you ready?” Oscar asked.
The crowd screamed, “Yes!”
“I didn’t hear that,” Oscar chided.
“Yes!” the crowd roared louder.
Oscar held his hand up for silence. The crowd obeyed.
“Brian Waingrove!” Oscar screamed.
The red light swooped around the room. The audience turned in their chairs trying to follow it. The door next to me opened. Waingrove slipped in, holding a cordless mike in his hand. Makeup gathered in the creases of his eyes. Breathing hard, he contrived a winning smile. The red light found him. The crowd screamed and applauded wildly. He ran down the aisle, holding the mike in the air as if it were the Olympic torch. He leaped onto the stage, pinstriped jacket flaring to reveal a bright red lining. He held up his arm, quieting the crowd. He raised the mike to his lips.
“Money. Money is not the root of all evil.” His voice was low and filled with sexy reverence. “Money is not an entity unto itself like the devil. A little pile of money sitting all by its lonesome doesn’t have any power to cause evil. But the devil sitting all by his lonesome can get into a hell of a lot of mischief.”
He cocked an eyebrow and twitched his nose. The audience clapped and hooted. Brian Waingrove could get real folksy.
“Money doesn’t have to lead you to evil. Money, if manipulated honestly, can lead you to a state of grace. There are people here tonight who are in a state of grace. Would the rest of you like to join them?”
“Yes! Yes!” the crowd confessed and then applauded itself.
The red light darted around the room, momentarily capturing Judith Kenilworth. She didn’t applaud. I guess she didn’t have to. She was already graced.
“Judith Kenilworth is here,” I informed Claire.
“I see her.”
“Now, I know some of you are thinking that the people who have made money started with money,” Waingrove cooed. “That’s not true! They did what you are going to do. You are going to reach that state of grace by making money with other people’s money. Legally. A state of grace must be a legal state.”
Waingrove’s lips brushed the mike, almost caressing it. For a moment I thought he was going to commit fellatio with it. Judith got up and left. I didn’t blame her.
“Let’s go,” Claire said, sweeping past me.
The coughers and laughers were gone. The bartender yawned. Oscar chatted with two bored Profits while he groped the ass of the third. She squealed and smiled for him, then turned and rolled her eyes at her co-Profits. Judith was halfway up the escalator. We got on, and the escalator dumped us into the main lobby. Judith marched through the lobby toward the gold-leaf door of the Regency Room and went in. We gave her a few moments, then entered the restaurant.
The decorator had captured the purple-blue of twilight and dyed the velvet walls and chairs to match. I hate twilight almost as much as I hate dawn. They’re times of transition, and I hate transition. The room brought my chill back.
Judith sat alone on a banquette against the far wall. Even candlelight couldn’t soften her strict face.
A tuxedoed maitre d’ swooped up next to us like a giant crow. “May I help you?”
“We’re guests of Judith Kenilworth. I see her. Thank you.” Claire imperiously dismissed him.
He tilted forward as if he were going to peck a worm from the purple-blue carpet, then backed away from us.
“Hi, Judith,” I said.
Judith had her head down, secretively checking her reflection in a small round mirror. The table was set for two. A bottle of red breathed. She looked up.
“Maggie? What are you doing here?”
“You remember Claire Conrad.”
“If you’ll excuse me, I’m expecting someone.”
She slipped the mirror into a little velvet bag and carefully put it in her purse, as if it still contained her reflection. Without being invited Claire sat in the little spindly chair across from her. A bus boy rushed another spindly chair to the table for me.
“I told you this is a private dinner. You’ve talked to our lawyer. I don’t know what else I can do for you.”
“Roger Valcovich is dead. Shot in the throat.” Claire stared into Judith’s eyes.
“It took him about ten, fifteen minutes to bleed to death,” I said. It felt good to say that out loud. I bit into a bread stick to show how tough I was. Judith wasn’t so tough. She blanched. I poured her some of the red.
“Brian always tastes it first,” she snapped.
“Good for him. But you look as if you need it. Valcovich’s death seems to have bothered you more than when you heard about your brother’s,” I observed, pouring myself some wine.
“It’s the way you described it, that’s all. I’ve only met the man once. When he was in the office doing some work for you because you’d been in a—”
“Come off it, Judith. You and I both know that’s not true.”
I downed the wine and started to pour some more. The waiter took the bottle out of my hand and poured it for me. “Would you like to order?” he asked.
“No!” Judith hissed at him.
The waiter retreated.
“Please leave. I have nothing to say to either one of you.”
“Judith,” I said. “You don’t seem to understand. Valcovich has been murdered. This is no longer a game of who’s got the codicil.”
“I was under the impression that Erwin and Waingrove just met for the first time this afternoon,” Claire said.
“Erwin?” The severe lips barely moved.
“We saw Waingrove talking to him before he went on stage.” I poured myself more wine.
“He’s probably taking the lecture series. A person could do that without personally knowing Brian.” Her strict eyes looked away from us as she talked.
“You’re a terrible liar, Judith.” I took a long swallow.
“My family and I just want to be left alone. We haven’t done anything.”
“It really hurts you to lie.” I was feeling perceptive. “I can see it in your face.”
Her severe eyes softened. She wasn’t looking at me.
I looked in the gold-leaf mirror above Judith’s head and saw Waingrove standing behind Claire and me. I caught his reflection just before he adjusted his public state-of-grace smile. In that fleeting moment he stared at the three of us with total disregard, and I knew that Waingrove was one of those heterosexual men who don’t like women. They don’t like our femaleness: breasts, thighs, hips, vagina. They don’t like the way we laugh at ourselves or at men. They don’t like our smell. And they especially don’t like us when they think we are in their way. I had the feeling that if we were three small animals in a road, Waingrove would aim his car at us. My chill returned. I downed the last of my wine.
“Brian!” Relief filled Judith’s voice.
He squeezed onto the banquette next to her. Even in that close space he managed to keep his body from touching hers. She smiled at him. Her eyes glowed. Waingrove did for Judith what candlelight couldn’t. Being in love with this jerk made her prettier. Oh, hell.
Ignoring Judith, he asked, “How are you, Maggie?” The clever eyes darted to Claire. “Miss Conrad?”
He took the wine bottle and poured. A few ruby drops and sediment gathered in the bottom of his glass. He looked disdainfully at Judith.
“She drank it!” Judith was red
uced to a tattle-telling child.
“Don’t worry, Judith. We’ll order another.” His voice was rational and authoritative. “And to what do we owe this pleasure, Miss Conrad?”
“Roger Valcovich was murdered.”
His only reaction was to gesture for the waiter.
“He was shot in the throat,” I elaborated.
“Odd place to shoot somebody,” he said as the waiter appeared. He ordered another bottle.
“We found your name in his address book,” Claire said.
“That’s probably because I gave it to him.”
“When?” she asked.
“Yesterday. I was talking to him on the phone. Maggie can verify it. She was standing right there. If she hadn’t walked out in the middle of the conversation, she would have heard me give him my name and number in case he had further information.”
“God, you could sell anything!” I leaned back in my chair.
“This afternoon was the first time you’d met Mr. Erwin?” Claire asked.
“That’s right.”
“Then why did he drive all the way from Pasadena to Century City just to talk to you in the men’s room?” I demanded.
“Sutton was very upset about how you treated Erwin. He was afraid the man might bring legal action. I found out where he lived and gave him a complimentary ticket. Tonight, we happened to run into each other in the parking lot. He was still very agitated. I like to wear a little makeup for my performance—my lecture—so I had him come into the bathroom. We talked while I applied my makeup. He has quite a little business going. I hope he enjoyed the lecture.”
Judith looked like she was going to get down on the floor and kiss the hem of his pinstripes.
“After he talked to you he left the hotel,” Claire said.
“I did all I could for him. He is a strange man.”
“I can’t believe you can sit there and lie like that!” I said.
The waiter arrived with the wine. We fell silent while he went through the ritual of opening the bottle. After sniffing and tasting Brian said, “We’ll let it breathe.” The waiter left. I grabbed the bottle and filled my glass.
Waingrove’s nose twitched.
“The day your brother killed himself, you left to come here to the symposium, didn’t you?” Claire asked Judith.
“Yes. Brian was having afternoon workshops.”
“Did you and Sutton go in the same car?”
“Yes.”
“When you pulled out of the driveway, you had to see Miss Hill’s car, I assume.”
“She parked it there. Every day. Right in front of the house.” Her voice filled with resentment.
“And you would certainly notice if Miss Hill’s car was all smashed in, wouldn’t you?”
“I…don’t…know…” she faltered.
“Just before you left, you were told she was in an accident. I think it would be only natural to take a look at her car. Especially since it was parked where you could see it.”
“That’s right,” I said. “My car doesn’t have any dents. You saw that and you became suspicious of Valcovich—began to wonder what he was really doing in your brother’s office.”
“Judith only knows what Maggie told her. And I only know what Valcovich told me,” Waingrove said.
“It’s convenient that he’s dead,” I said.
“What are you implying?” He rubbed his nose.
My spoon got in the way of my hand and fell on the floor. “I’m implying that Valcovich knew the codicil existed. I’m implying that Judith looks a lot better to you with a four-million-dollar coin collection than without a four-million-dollar—”
“We’re in love!” Judith blurted.
“Did you hear that, Waingrove?” I leered. “Say the word, Waingrove. I want to hear the word ‘love’ fall from your lips. Say it!”
Silence. I had him now.
“This man is not in love with you, Judith. He would turn to salt if he whispered the word ‘love.’ He doesn’t love women. He doesn’t even like women. Let me tell you something—”
Waingrove leaned toward Claire. “Maggie’s obviously had too much to drink. I’ll be glad to help you…”
“You’re a very helpful guy, aren’t you? Why? Have you ever asked yourself that, Judith? He wants something from you—and it isn’t love. He wants that old state of grace. Yours.”
“Keep your voice down. People are looking,” Waingrove commanded.
“You don’t love her. You don’t want passion.”
I had important thoughts and the vision and the guts to say them. If I could just keep them from rushing into my head all at once.
“Vir…gin…ity wouldn’t have to make a comeback if all the men in the world were like you, Waingrove. Because it never would have left.”
“What is she talking about?” Waingrove demanded.
“But you’ve turned it all rotten…rotten virginity…” I still hadn’t quite made my point. It was right on the tip of my—
“Tell her to stop,” Judith cried to Claire.
“Sick…sick…isn’t it, Judith?” I asked.
“What is sick?”
“Sick…virginity…sick…”
It was so clear to me. I had to make them see. I looked at Claire. She leaned back in her chair, hand resting on her walking stick, eyes closed. Closed? I turned on Judith.
“I know what you need.” I leaned over the table to get closer to her. Something spilled. “You need a little more fuck you in you.”
“That does it!” Waingrove slapped his napkin onto the table.
“Then you could tell the bastard to go fuck himself. He doesn’t even want to touch you…don’t you know that? You don’t want that kind of virginity…that kind of…kind of…” The one word that would say it all was floating somewhere…“Death! That’s it. Like Valcovich. Death…”
Death? Blood? Flesh? No, no, the word…the idea…was…just off…the…tip…
12
DARK. HEAD THROB. WANTED heartthrob. Blink. Eyes work. Scratch. Skin sore. Noise. Door open. Light!
“Good morning, Maggie!” Boulton banged the breakfast tray down. My limbs shook. I clutched at the comforter covering me.
“You made Gerta very angry last night.” He went on in an excruciatingly loud voice. “In retaliation all you get this morning is coffee and this.”
He came toward me holding a glass of juice as thick as jellied blood.
“No, no, no.”
“A bit of the hair…”
“No, no, no. Why is Gerta angry?” And why did my lips feel numb?
“You told her last night, while holding on to me as if I were a lamppost, that she was not your mother and that you were tired of her superior but needy glances. I think that was the phrase. You went on to explain that you could not possibly fulfill whatever it was that was lacking in her life.”
“No, no, no…”
“Yes, yes, yes. You then began to surmise just what was lacking in her life. You observed that you were not responsible for the fact that she wasn’t married, that she had never had a child, and that she was a lonely woman who must work for others.”
“No, no, no!”
“Yes, yes, yes.”
I peered out from under the comforter. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Yes. Yes.” He grinned.
“I detest women who get drunk.” Claire’s voice pierced my skull.
All in white, she stalked my bed like an avenging angel and glared down at me with the same look of disgust she had had for my landlady.
“You mean you detest people who get drunk. Otherwise that’s a sexist remark,” I mumbled.
“I mean exactly what I say. The words we select are one of the few forms of independent choice we have left. I do not take that choice lightly.”
She moved in agitation around the room, picking up a few of my remaining possessions, staring at them, then banging them back down. The ivory walking stick tapped.
“Draw her a bath,” she commanded Boulton.
I groaned. “You’ve got to be kidding. I know, I know, you’re not. Every word…”
“There are few pleasures in life, Miss Hill. I like to accumulate as many as I can. One that I particularly enjoy is a good breakfast—served properly! Do you know what I had this morning? Eggs that looked like Gerta had stepped in them. And my toast was the color of my onyx walking stick. I do not consider myself a picky person. I don’t mind the obligatory seed floating in my orange juice to assure me of its freshness. But I will not be choked to death on them!”
“Don’t talk about food…”
“Miss Hill, you have destroyed one of my simple pleasures.”
“I’ll apologize to her.”
“You will do more than that. You will grovel!” She rapped the cane on the floor. My eyes rolled in their sockets.
“I think you could be a little more sympathetic. I’m in a vulnerable state.”
“You are an immature woman with a hangover.”
“Immature?” I raised up but immediately fell back. I glared at her over the folded edge of the blankets. “I’ve had to be the strong, the mature person my whole life!”
“You sound resentful. It is a problem peculiar to the female species that while they are resentful of having to be strong and mature they cry out for more opportunities to display their strength and maturity.”
“Please, please…”
“Your body, your heart, your soul may be female, but your brain is sexless. It is no more female or male than an IBM computer. I wish you would use it accordingly.”
“My brain is shaped by my past.”
“The past. What excuse would we have without it? Is your brain clear enough of that relentless past of yours to take in some facts?”
“Yes…if you just wouldn’t talk so loud.”
“I am talking at my normal level.”
She reclined in one of the chairs, stretching out her long legs. The idea of discussing facts had turned her look of disgust into an excited glow—the glow that most women get when they think they’re in love.
“Boulton followed Erwin to Ellen Renicke’s house last night.”
“Erwin knows The Smoker?”
Mother Shadow Page 13