by Jill Shure
&ldquoAre you sure he didn&rsquot sleep with her? Everyone else did.&rdquo
&ldquoYou&rsquod have to meet this guy. He&rsquos the last guy in the world ... anyway, I felt responsible because I&rsquod sent her to him.&rdquo
&ldquoYou make him sound so helpless. You weren&rsquot responsible.&rdquo
&ldquoThat&rsquos what he says. Look, now that she&rsquos dead he might be willing to talk.&rdquo
So the following morning Tabitha and I went to meet Davy Spunkhoffer.
Davy Spunkhoffer was small enough to need a booster seat in restaurants. And pale. I was tempted to hold a mirror up to his nose and mouth to make sure he was breathing when I first saw him seated behind his desk in an enormous brown leather chair with his head back and his eyes shut. Tabitha had to clear her throat several times before his small brown eyes flashed open. Awake, he looked puzzled. At last, he recognized Tabitha and his expression registered relief.
Spunkhoffer&rsquos Del Mar office was small and damp smelling, thanks to its proximity to the beach. Del Mar is on the coast just north of La Jolla. The office had been furnished in earth tones. Soft New Age music added to the atmosphere. After politely shaking my hand the doctor encouraged Tabitha and me to relax against large floor pillows set up in a circle on the carpeted floor. Spunkhoffer sat opposite us.
When we were arranged across from him, I said, &ldquoI&rsquod like to hear about Courtney.&rdquo
Behind his thick glasses, Spunkhoffer blinked rapidly. Then, scrambling off the floor, he grabbed a pitcher off his desk and poured something clear into a tall glass. It looked like water. But based on his expression after he&rsquod swallowed the contents, it might&rsquove been vodka or gin.
&ldquoI&rsquom sorry, but I can&rsquot talk about her case,&rdquo he said, in a soft voice. &ldquoIt&rsquos confidential. Doctor&ndashpatient privilege. Also my lawyer suggested&mdash &rdquo
&ldquoShe&rsquos dead. She won&rsquot care,&rdquo I cut in.
His eyes widened. &ldquoYes, but ... there could be legal issues down the road.&rdquo
&ldquoTrust me, she&rsquos not coming back to sue you.&rdquo
Blood flowed back into his face. He seemed to be breathing better. &ldquoMay I ask why you&rsquore so interested? Are you her estate attorney or&mdash&rdquo
&ldquoInsurance agent.&rdquo Which was true, though there was more to it. &ldquoTabitha told me what Courtney did to you.&rdquo
&ldquoSorry, but unless you have a court order&mdash&rdquo
&ldquoLook, I know she had you in a spot. That she planned to make your life miserable unless you played ball. But what I don&rsquot know is, why?&rdquo
&ldquoYou&rsquore wasting your time. I can&rsquot enlighten you as to what her office visits were about. It would be unethical.&rdquo
&ldquoAnd ethics were her middle name, right?&rdquo I glanced around the rustic office and realized he might be uptight here among his files and patients. He might feel less inhibited in other surroundings. I knew all about this stuff from selling insurance. People can be quirky.
A bell rang. We heard footsteps climbing the outside stairway.
&ldquoPlease excuse me. My next appointment&rsquos here,&rdquo he said, glancing anxiously at the door where a huge macramé artwork with bells hung.
&ldquoWe&rsquod be happy to come back later,&rdquo I said.
&ldquoAs I told Tabitha, I&rsquom unable to discuss&mdash&rdquo
&ldquoHow about lunch tomorrow at noon? Or would Friday at one be better?&rdquo I asked, using an alternate close, which gives the prospect a choice between plan A or plan B and avoids a flat answer of no.
&ldquoFriday might be better but&mdash &rdquo
&ldquoPerfect.&rdquo Maybe I&rsquod sell him a disability policy or annuities if he wasn&rsquot already set. But on the way out, Tabitha and I ran into none other than Arlene. She&rsquod reached the top of the stairs and her hand rested on Dr. Spunkhoffer&rsquos doorknob.
&ldquoDon&rsquot tell me you both see Davy, too?&rdquo Arlene said.
&ldquoI just started with him,&rdquo I lied.
&ldquoGuess I better go in or I&rsquoll be late.&rdquo With a wave, she disappeared inside the office.
&ldquoWow!&rdquo Tabitha said, shaking her head. &ldquoDoesn&rsquot this prove how little we know about each other?&rdquo
&ldquoJust what I was thinking.&rdquo
&infin&infin&infin
Two weeks later, I got an email from Courtney&rsquos Aunt Perdith inviting me and my friends to go through Courtney&rsquos things. Saturday morning, Lisa picked me up at nine in her new Lexus sedan. I&rsquod invited Arlene, too, but she sounded very depressed and reluctantly agreed to meet everyone in La Jolla.
According to Tabitha, the police had already searched Courtney&rsquos condo thoroughly and had finally granted Aunt Perdith permission to dispose of Courtney&rsquos things.
Thirty minutes later, Aunt Perdith opened Courtney&rsquos door wearing the same sour expression she&rsquod donned at the memorial service.
&ldquoSome place,&rdquo she sneered, as if inviting us into a Marine outhouse and not Courtney&rsquos fabulous condo with its stellar view of the Pacific.
Today, with rain pummeling the county and Courtney&rsquos plants clinging to life by their stringy roots, the condo felt depressing. Maybe because its occupant no longer filled it with life. Or maybe it was the combination of marble floors, granite counters, and glass tables that gave off the warmth of a meat locker.
&ldquoHelp yourselves to her stuff,&rdquo Aunt Perdith abruptly said, digging beneath the kitchen sink. &ldquoHas to be cleaned out by Monday. Real estate lady wants to sell it.&rdquo
Aunt Perdith&rsquos lack of sentiment shocked my friends and me. At first Lisa, Arlene, and Tabitha made feeble noises about feeling ghoulish for digging through a dead friend&rsquos stuff. But a few seconds later, they dove in with gusto. Nothing was sacred, from Courtney&rsquos furs to her lingerie. I had other ideas. Forget clothes and designer purses. I was on the trail of whatever Courtney had threatened to show me.
Once again I dug through her night table. Today the photo collection of Courtney and her slimy admirers seemed smaller. Maybe the police had borrowed a few shots for their investigation. This time, however, I did recognize one guy. Apparently, Del Mar&rsquos leading shrink, Dr. Davy Spunkhoffer, hadn&rsquot been such a good boy after all. This time I recognized him as the guy in the black tuxedo and bow tie. Courtney stood beside him wearing long earrings, stiletto heels, nipple rings, and a totally waxed crotch.
Before I had time to call Tabitha over to share my discovery, Aunt Perdith, who&rsquod been piling linens on the bed, suddenly pointed and said, &ldquoMy stars. Will you look at that?&rdquo
10
Spinning around, I expected to see Courtney&rsquos ghost in a leopard print shroud. Instead, Aunt Perdith&rsquos veiny hand reached out for a large, leather-bound book crammed in a small bookcase. &ldquoIt&rsquos her Sacred Heart yearbook.&rdquo
&ldquoSo she went to a Catholic girls&rsquo school, too,&rdquo Arlene said, easing in beside Aunt Perdith and me, the mink she&rsquod admired on our previous visit draped over her back. &ldquoI got into more trouble there.&rdquo
&ldquoSo did she,&rdquo Aunt Perdith said, bitter resignation in her voice. &ldquoIt was always boys, boys, boys.&rdquo
Tabitha joined us, pushing the linens aside, as Aunt Perdith flipped through the heavy bound volume, and we peered over her shoulder. &ldquoGertie must&rsquove been about sixteen here,&rdquo Aunt Perdith said, tapping her finger on a total stranger&rsquos image.
&ldquoGertie?&rdquo I asked.
&ldquoGertie Perdith. She had her name changed to Courtney Farrow when she moved to Hollywood. It was another one of her big ideas. And now look where she is.&rdquo
&ldquoLisa, get over here!&rdquo I barked.
&ldquoYou should see her collection of Judith Leiber bags,&rdquo Lisa called back. &ldquoThey&rsquore astounding.&rdquo
&ldquoYou can shop later,&rdquo I yelled.
Hanging onto several purses,
Lisa reluctantly joined us on Courtney&rsquos bed&mdasha place which had probably seen more action than Qualcomm stadium.
&ldquoThis can&rsquot be her,&rdquo Lisa stated aloud, voicing what we all felt at the sight of Courtney&rsquos senior picture. And it wasn&rsquot just the big hair styles of the early 1990s either. Gertie, aka Courtney, had either taken a lousy picture that day, or she&rsquod kept a slew of dentists, plastic surgeons, and hairdressers working around the clock ever since.
First, Courtney was no natural redhead. Her nose, chin, and cheeks had been altered, too. She&rsquod also been a lot less endowed. In fact, she&rsquod been pleasantly pear-shaped. Of course with Courtney&rsquos money, reflected here in jewelry, furs, and furnishings, what were a few doctor bills? She could&rsquove reconstructed post&ndashCivil War Atlanta. And I suddenly wondered who would inherit her new Beamer sports car, considering the pink slip Arlene and I&rsquod uncovered on our first trip here was in another person&rsquos name.
&ldquoMiss Perdith, what&rsquos gonna happen to Courtney&rsquos car?&rdquo I asked.
Everyone waited expectantly.
&ldquoKeeping that for myself,&rdquo Aunt Perdith said, sticking out her double chin defensively and returning to her growing pile of linens. &ldquoYou and your friends can have the rest of her junk. Couldn&rsquot use that garish stuff myself anyway. Looks like Satan&rsquos warehouse. No. I&rsquom gonna sell this house of sin, buy myself some nice conservative dresses, then take a cruise around the world. Been meaning to for some time. Now&rsquos my chance.&rdquo
&ldquoBut her purses and shoes are worth&mdash&rdquo I started to say.
&ldquoTainted. Tainted with a life of greed, larceny, and carnal lust.&rdquo
&ldquoAre you sure?&rdquo Lisa asked, clutching a sparkling red purse shaped like an apple to her breast while a woven one with the price tag of sixteen hundred dollars hung on her other arm.
&ldquoBlood money went into those. Just need the car myself. Tired of taking buses.&rdquo
Buses? We&rsquod all heard Courtney&rsquos story about her rich old family with a lineage going back to the Mayflower. In fact, I was pretty sure Courtney had claimed that her family built the Mayflower. &ldquoNot to be nosy or anything but what did Courtney&rsquos parents do? I mean, what were they like?&rdquo I asked.
Aunt Perdith sighed. &ldquoMy brother Tom, Courtney&rsquos dad, worked as a TV repairman in Iowa City. And Bee was a practical nurse. Before the house fire.&rdquo
&ldquoIowa City?&rdquo I repeated.
&ldquoHouse fire?&rdquo Lisa said, sending me a look.
Aunt Perdith&rsquos dull brown eyes turned misty as she stared into space. &ldquoHappened about twenty years ago. They said it started in the basement in the middle of the night. Tom was always tinkering down there, inventing something. Some rags must&rsquove caught fire&mdashthat&rsquos what the firemen and insurance examiner claimed. Killed everyone&mdasheven the poor dog. A little terrier named Sullivan.&rdquo
Tabitha, a fanatical animal lover, gasped and put down a cashmere sweater. &ldquoWhat about Courtney? Was she hurt?&rdquo
Aunt Perdith made a sound of disgust. &ldquoYoung lady, that&rsquos a mighty good question. Because that little vixen got out with time to spare. And not a scratch on her. Even took the cat with her. And she never acted one bit sad. Her mom and pop had been burned alive, and she couldn&rsquot have cared less. Wanted to know about the life insurance. Makes you wonder, doesn&rsquot it?&rdquo
My friends and I nodded.
&ldquoI almost thought ...&rdquo Aunt Perdith crossed herself and shook her head.
&ldquoWhat?&rdquo Tabitha cut in, suddenly more interested in the story than the pile of loot she was amassing.
&ldquoTell us,&rdquo Arlene pleaded. &ldquoPlease. It would help us understand her.&rdquo
&ldquoVery well. She got out of that burning house without a scratch. Fire marshal claimed it was a miracle&mdashespecially since she slept on the third floor and had to get down all of those stairs. But there was no proof. Especially since Gertie was just a child.&rdquo She made a sound of disgust. &ldquoSome child. The devil&rsquos child. Thirteen years old and already headstrong and greedy. Even before the fire she was a handful. ‘Get me this, buy me that.&rsquo Like Tom and Bee were made of money. When they barely made ends meet. They were hardworking, decent people.&rdquo
&ldquoBut the private schools, the exotic trips, these expensive things ...&rdquo I said, recalling all the stories, no doubt, all the lies Courtney had fed us about her parents dying in their private plane on their way to their second house in Palm Springs. Or had she said Lake Tahoe?
Aunt Perdith shook her head. &ldquoCan&rsquot say I blame you for thinking we were rich, looking around this place. But after Tom and Bee died, there was just enough to send her to boarding school. Not college or medical school. Just barely enough. And even then, I had to pay for her summers out of my salary as the town librarian.&rdquo
&ldquoBut the family home, the insurance? Surely there must have been some compensation for the structure and valuables,&rdquo I said.
&ldquoShe went through that meager amount the first year. Always crying or threatening to kill herself if I didn&rsquot give in. When it was all gone, she needed more. She always needed more. ‘Buy me this. Get me that&rsquo,&rdquo she mimicked. &ldquoI had no kids myself and didn&rsquot know what I had on my hands. That&rsquos one reason I sent her away to school. I had to work. And because of her wild ideas about boys. She was always getting into trouble with boys.&rdquo
&ldquoTrouble?&rdquo Tabitha asked. &ldquoWhat kind of trouble?&rdquo
&ldquoThe usual kind. Messing around in cars with boys already in the military or college. Drinking. Then she got accused of stealing clothes from local stores. She even took a friend&rsquos coat. The parents came over and screamed at me. Of course they were rich. She only went with the rich kids in school. And I had to show my face in that town. I had to work at that library every day. So one day I made up my mind. Gertie had to go away.&rdquo Aunt Perdith glared at a magnificent photo of Courtney that sat on the bureau. &ldquoI never understood what made her tick. Maybe it was being orphaned.&rdquo She shrugged. &ldquoThat&rsquos why I sent her away to school. Of course she threw a fit when I told her about it. Cursing, screaming, threatening me. Gave me nightmares the way she went on. Anyway, she agreed to go away to school, as long as I sent her to California near Hollywood. Land of sin and make-believe, far as I&rsquom concerned. But it was a way to get her some discipline. I figured those nuns would straighten her out, give her a conscience. Beat some sense into her.&rdquo
&ldquoAnd plenty of guilt,&rdquo Tabitha added. &ldquoI went to Catholic school, too.&rdquo
&ldquoSo, her parents definitely weren&rsquot rich?&rdquo I confirmed.
Aunt Perdith laughed bitterly. &ldquoThey left twenty thousand dollars. Barely enough. And she would&rsquove sold her soul for fifty cents.&rdquo
Maybe more than her soul, I thought, studying the expensive things around us. What had Courtney done to get this stuff? To live like a millionaire? I could still hear her teasing Lisa, Tabitha, and me for working, because she didn&rsquot have to. Another lie. Because her parents hadn&rsquot died in a private plane accident on their way to Palm Springs or Palm Beach. And Courtney hadn&rsquot inherited money, hadn&rsquot married into it, and wasn&rsquot the head of her own corporation. Plus, she couldn&rsquot have made enough stripping to live this well. Not from what Andy and Samba claimed about her missing work all the time. This was a multimillion dollar apartment filled with astonishingly expensive things.
At last, we closed the yearbook. Staring at that red leather-bound cover and her graduation year, I realized Courtney had graduated from high school five years before Tabitha, Lisa, Arlene, and me. Meaning, she&rsquod lied about her age, too. I&rsquod have to check my files to see what she&rsquod written on her insurance application on the night I met her. Just how many times had she lied to get coverage? Lies which could hurt her beneficiaries now. Poor Aunt Perdith, I thought.
&nb
sp; My friends soon drifted back to dividing up Courtney&rsquos stuff. And I went back to hunting for dirt on Ken. I was sure that was the reason Courtney had called me.
After I&rsquod exhausted the contents in Courtney&rsquos bedroom, I crossed the living room to her guest room. Alone, I hunted through a shelf of Courtney&rsquos books with titles such as How to Beat the Market, How to Be a Bull When There Are Bears About, and How to Hang Onto His Blue Chips Following a Divorce. I pulled out the last one to see if it might be interesting. But when I opened the cover, a slew of envelopes hidden inside the book jacket fell out, scattering across the floor. None of the envelopes had return addresses or the same writing style. I extracted a folded letter from a pale green envelope and skimmed the contents.
&ldquo... I can&rsquot sleep at night. I long to be inside you knowing that your needs match my own. I can&rsquot go on without you. So I have decided to leave my wife and children if you will agree to marry me.&rdquo
Apparently Courtney didn&rsquot have trouble getting her boyfriends to propose, even if they were already married. On the last page, I found the letter &ldquoM&rdquo for a signature.
&ldquoM?&rdquo Was it a first name, a last name, or part of a nickname?
&ldquoBetsy?&rdquo
I froze. Arlene stood in the doorway and gazed down at me, an odd expression on her face.
&ldquoJeez, you startled me,&rdquo I said, clutching my heart.
&ldquoSorry. What&rsquove you got there?&rdquo She stared down at several envelopes in my lap.
&ldquoLetters to Courtney from a high school friend,&rdquo I lied. &ldquoI thought there might be something from Ken but there isn&rsquot anything. The letters are amusing but not too enlightening.&rdquo Not as enlightening as the fear on Arlene&rsquos face.
&ldquoThey might be a laugh to look through,&rdquo Arlene said, dropping down beside me.
&ldquoNot really. Courtney was the same brat at sixteen that Aunt Perdith described,&rdquo I said, shoving the pile back in the book and returning the book to the shelf.