by Wim Coleman
She then went on to ask about more commonplace matters. Nolan guessed that she was fully aware of her husband’s infidelities. If that was the case, why had she pressed him about the woman at the hotel? She hadn’t seemed to be motivated by morbid curiosity.
She doesn’t like loose ends. She likes life to be tidy. That’s just her way. Apparently it was his way, too. It would probably be my way if I had their money.
As a cold blast of Chicago winter wind howled past the room’s enormous plate glass windows, Nolan realized that he didn’t envy the extremely wealthy as much as he had imagined.
*
At about four o’clock L.A. time, Clayton was sitting at his desk in the detective bay area writing a report of today’s activities. There was painfully little to put into the computer. Clayton had talked to everybody he could locally about the Judson killing, and the rest of his time had been devoted to going over the lame and insignificant findings of the forensics team.
Clayton was in the middle of a yawn when his desk phone rang. It was Nolan.
“Hey,” Clayton said. “How d’you like Chicago?”
“How do you think?”
“So, you talked to a lot of distraught friends and loved ones?”
“Ha! Most of the people here are tickled to death that he got croaked. His son and daughter—spoiled brats, both of them—were only interested in how the estate would be divided up. And his wife doesn’t seem to have any feelings whatsoever. I got introduced to one of his stockholders—a rival, apparently. When I asked him if anybody wanted Judson dead, the guy actually laughed. ‘You can start with me,’ he said. ‘I’d be honored to be considered a suspect.’ He seemed really bummed out to have a solid alibi. I could tell you more. I talked to lots of people. But it’s all pretty much the same story.”
“Must’ve been a pretty sparse funeral,” Clayton remarked.
“No, it was grand. Hundreds of black-clad mourners crying the most pearly crocodile tears you ever saw. Real swank and majestic. I figure Judson made arrangements in his will to pay lots of people to grieve.”
“Sounds like that murder mystery—which one was it?—where everybody did it.”
“Except I’ve never worked a homicide everybody wanted to take credit for,” Nolan replied. “Hell, I met folks who would’ve cheerfully been convicted and executed just so everybody’d believe they’d done it.”
“But you don’t think any of them did.”
“Nope. Not any of the ones I talked to.”
“So we still ain’t got a laugh.”
“Not here. Not unless you’ve got something there.”
Clayton groaned. “Not a chance,” he said. “Things’re going to hell in a hand basket on this end. It might be smart of you to just hang around there.”
“Hey, where do you think I am, the Bahamas? I’ll see you Monday.”
“Yeah, Monday.”
Clayton hung up the phone and looked around. As always, the detective bay area was a blur of activity, rather like a stock exchange. Even on a Saturday, detectives were coming and going and jabbering at one another. Clayton turned and stared at his computer screen, trying to concentrate on the three or four more sentences he had left to write. The noises around him blended into a uniform background sound. He rubbed his eyes and yawned deeply. He was dog-tired. He’d barely gotten any sleep since the case started.
His eyes closed. He couldn’t help it. He felt his consciousness cut its moorings. He felt himself drifting off to sleep.
Then a sharp exclamation punched through his drowsiness ...
“Snap out of it!”
Clayton’s head jerked up. He opened his eyes. The voice had been spoken in a forceful, aggressive, nearby whisper. He spun around in his chair to see who was standing there. But the next cop was over at the next desk—and Clayton was sure the words had been spoken directly in his ear.
Damn it, you’re just hearing things.
It wasn’t the first time this had happened. It was weird—but natural in times of stress and exhaustion.
He remembered his Aunt Patty back in South Carolina—a mental patient who spent much of her adult life in institutions. Aunt Patty heard voices calling her names like bitch, slut, whore, and still viler things she couldn’t even bring herself to repeat to others. These ghastly names were always spoken behind her back in the voices of her friends and family, so poor Aunt Patty came to believe that all her loved ones hated her.
After a number of years, Aunt Patty seemed perfectly well and was able to live at home. Clayton once asked her how it felt to be finally free of her awful voices.
“Oh, but I still hear them,” Aunt Patty said with a smile. “I hear them all the time.”
“But you seem just fine,” Clayton said with surprise.
Aunt Patty laughed proudly. “I am just fine. I’m as fine as you. Better, maybe. You see, those voices always talk behind my back. They ain’t nothin’ but a bunch of cowards. The way I come to see it, I don’t have to listen to nobody who can’t insult me to my face. It don’t matter if they’re real or not.”
Pretty good thinking for a crazy woman.
Clayton shrugged off his exhaustion and laboriously typed the rest of his report.
*
Early Sunday afternoon, Nolan was sitting in a vinyl upholstered booth of a dark, chintzy bar at O’Hare International Airport with Detective Spiroff. Nolan was waiting for his flight back to L.A. Spiroff had driven him to the airport and waited to see him off. They had worked closely together during the last couple of days on the Judson murder. Even though they had turned up nothing helpful to the case, Nolan was surprised at how amiable their working relationship had been.
“Sorry I couldn’t have been more help,” Nolan said.
“Sorry we dragged you out here for no reason,” Spiroff replied with a shrug.
“We’ll keep hammering away at it back in L.A. Maybe we’ll turn up something.”
Spiroff shook his head. “You won’t,” he said with a smile.
Nolan sighed. “Yeah, I reckon you’re right,” he said. “Wish you’d explain that to my captain—to say nothing of the L.A. newspapers and TV stations.”
“Anyway, it’s been nice having you around,” Spiroff said. “Hey, if going back to L.A. is gonna be a hassle, stick around here and we’ll put you to work on some of our local stuff.”
“For example?”
“Well, you could give us a hand with the Miles Braxton case.”
Nolan looked at Spiroff with surprise. Miles Braxton had been a Chicago-based magazine publisher who took a nasty, thirty-three-story nosedive from his penthouse apartment two or three weeks back. That one had been widely publicized, too.
“I thought the Braxton thing was open and shut,” Nolan said. “Everybody figured suicide.”
“The media thought so. We never saw fit to contradict them. It’s always gratifying when those vultures get things wrong. The truth is, we found signs of a break-in and a few indications of violence that we just didn’t get around to mentioning. And the coroner never called it a murder or a suicide.”
“Didn’t he have some problem with drugs and alcohol?”
“So they say. But he was clean and sober the night he fell.”
“No suicide note?”
“Nothing of the kind. His computer was on, too—logged into one of those top-of-the-line networks with lots of hip and sexy fun. He’d been playing canasta in some kind of online casino.”
“Was he losing a lot of money?”
“This game wasn’t for cash, just fun. As near as we can figure, he was just having a nice, quiet evening at home playing computer games when suddenly—splat!—he got himself abruptly transfigured into a resplendent masterpiece of sidewalk art.”
“You don’t figure the
killing had anything to do with the computer game?” Nolan asked.
Spiroff laughed. “Come on, Grobowski,” he said. “Do you guess he accused somebody of cheating at canasta, making the bozo angry enough to crawl out of the computer screen and toss Braxton off the building?”
Nolan felt slightly embarrassed. He knew next to nothing about computer networks, but he had to admit it did sound like a stupid question.
“So two of your wealthiest citizens get offed in less than a month,” Nolan mused. “Interesting, huh?”
“Interesting but coincidental,” Spiroff said resignedly. “It would be nice to think there was some connection. Smacks just a little of class warfare, doesn’t it? Maybe the downtrodden proletariat have stopped killing their own and are now taking their anger to the penthouses and luxury hotels.”
Nolan chuckled. “Kind of makes you want to turn in your badge and join the revolution.”
Spiroff grinned and raised his beer in a toast. “I’ll drink to that,” he said.
*
Renee had nearly finished building a fragile pastry structure in the cookie pan, and her fingers were pleasantly tired and tacky. The heroic struggle with the crushed walnuts and the wet, tissue-thin sheaths of phyllo dough was coming to an end. Now she was ready to carve precise, inch-wide diamond shapes in the upper layers of phyllo and put the pan in the oven. Then would come the making of the gooey syrup—an almost unbearably rich blend of sugar, water, and honey, with cinnamon sticks and slices of orange and lemon thrown in for good measure.
Not for the faint of heart.
Renee had been baking since yesterday. During that time, she had made a mess of herself and her kitchen—and was having a wonderful time.
All six units in the new condominium would be open later that night, and the owners had agreed that they would each contribute one course of an elaborate feast. They had drawn lots, and Renee was assigned dessert.
She was sure that all the other neighbors would do their own cooking, so hiring a caterer would be inappropriate. Renee had resigned herself to making every dish on her table. And now she was glad of it. A lot of dough and sugar and diverse sticky substances were just the medicine she needed.
Nothing like getting all messy and icky to drive away those cybernetic blues!
Little by little, her table was being laden with homemade pies, cheesecakes, and pastries. She would serve espresso and liqueurs and magnums of a fairly expensive champagne.
It had been a long time since she’d experienced such a feeling of satisfaction and gusto. Why had it been so long? And why had she been so fearful lately?
Maybe I have been addicted. Maybe it’s like being hooked on coke or meth—sooner or later you get crazy and fearful and paranoid.
She shuddered a little at the thought of her experiences in Insomnimania—particularly those half-asleep, only partially remembered outings in the Pleasure Dome.
Blackouts, no less! Hope I don’t go through some kind of withdrawal.
Maybe she would—maybe just a little. For instance, she still felt a glimmer of curiosity about Auggie and that hidden Basement of his. What did he keep down there? What did he do down there? And where … ?
Get out of my brain, you little monster!
She slammed a piece of dough down on the table. Then she stared at the splat, surprised at her own vehemence. She was shaking again. She took several deep breaths and began to wipe up the puddle with her fingers, concentrating on the grittiness of the mixture, trying to picture what her home would look like later tonight, full of happy, chattering guests.
She even had a date—that schlock novelist Larry Bricker she had interviewed Friday night for Sunday Stew. The interview had proven to be a pleasant surprise. Renee had hit him with tough, even hostile questions, and Larry had fielded them with wit and self-effacement.
“Don’t you have anything better to do with your life than to gross out the American reader?” she had asked.
“Not really,” Larry had replied pleasantly.
At least it was better than some pompous lecture on catharsis, pity and terror, and the therapeutic value of trash fiction.
Besides, in his diminutive, balding, middle-aged sort of way, the writer was really quite good-looking. Renee looked forward to seeing him at the party.
And Marianne. It will be good to see Marianne. We’ve only seen each other once since she’s been in town. How could we let that happen?
The phone rang. Renee padded out of the kitchen, her hands dripping with flour and melted butter. By the time she reached her answering machine it had already delivered its outgoing message. Lucifer prowled softly around the machine, studying it intently.
Holding her messy hands awkwardly in front of her, Renee wondered what to do. If she picked up the phone and shut off the machine, she’d make a mess. She decided to screen the call rather than pick up the phone.
Message left by Marianne Hedison on Renee Gauld’s home answering machine, Sunday, January 23, 3:15 p.m.:
Hi, Renee, it’s Marianne. Listen, I’m heading back to Santa Barbara. I’ve done about all the business I can do here in town, and it’s really time for me to get home and to work. I’m sorry to miss your party tonight, but I’m sure it will go splendidly.
Let’s not let another year go by. Is there any chance of you getting up there sometime? Well, listen. I promise to come back soon. What do you say to another month or so? Then we could actually spend some time together.
When are you going to tell me what happened with Auggie? Give me a call and let’s make plans.
Renee turned, more sad than angry, and started back to the now sickeningly sweet lumps of dough on her kitchen table.
*
Marianne got back to Santa Barbara early Sunday evening. Before leaving Los Angeles, she had made a couple of phone calls to let people know she was headed home. As she walked through the door, she saw her answering machine blinking vigorously. This hefty batch of messages must have accrued in the short time since word got out that she was on her way back.
Marianne played the tape.
Dwayne had called: Needed to know what to do next to coordinate the Abernathy landscaping.
Stephen had called: Would call back later.
Lenora James had called: Wanted to tell her about an upcoming meeting.
Lenora James? Now who is that? Oh sure, that community activist group.
Baxter had called: Wanted to know if she’d found any interesting fabrics at Sherwood Galleries.
Stephen had called again: Wanted to know if Friday was okay for dinner.
Four calls to answer. And all this on a Sunday.
Marianne was definitely home again.
She took off her jacket and listened to the gentle whir of the tape rewinding. It seemed an oddly warm and inviting noise after the glacially cheerful tone of the voices on machine. Why did everybody in Santa Barbara suddenly sound so remote—and so languid?
Easy does it. Just a wave of culture shock. Remember, you just got in from L.A.
Marianne hung up her jacket. She breathed deeply and looked around her living room. She waited for her jangled nerves to begin smoothing out. It didn’t happen. She didn’t quite understand why. Shouldn’t it feel good to be home?
It was no mansion, but her little hillside house was beautifully proportioned and impressively furnished, the walls and woodwork done in three shades of white, the furniture pale, the wall hangings and watercolors understated. The only truly flamboyant touch was an Erté sculpture—a dancer with swirling veils frozen in motion—carefully positioned on a chest.
Marianne picked up her bags and carried them into her bedroom, opened them, and stuffed most of their contents into a laundry bag. She took off her shoes and stockings, putting the shoes in her closet and the stockings into a fabri
c-lined basket to rinse out later. She took off her suit and blouse and hung them up carefully, removed her underwear and dropped it into the basket, then put on a long white kimono and walked into the adjoining bathroom. She stepped into the shower.
She lathered a rich shampoo into her hair. Warm water droplets bombarded her body, trying vainly to massage her into relaxation. What was wrong?
Marianne reluctantly shut off the water, stepped out of the shower, dried off with a thick towel, and plucked a fresh kimono out of a cabinet. She turned a blow dryer on her hair for a few minutes. With her hair hanging long and damp, Marianne stared in the mirror. Her face looked tired and strained.
“Home,” she whispered searchingly. “Home again.”
But the words offered no comfort.
01000
OPEN HOUSE
The valets outside were parking the earliest guest’s cars, and a security guard was at the front door—acting more as a doorman, really, but handy in case of trouble. The few people who had arrived had not yet reached Renee’s unit. They would thread through five other units first.
Juan and Mette would offer all arrivals cocktails and then introduce them to Joel, who would treat them to hors d’oeuvres and send them along to the third floor for their main courses. There they would meet Betty and Gilbert with their fine London broil and Sam with his celebrated Cornish game hens. The revelers would then be directed down one floor where they would find Tony and Roland with their Zen vegetarian dishes. Renee was to wrap up the festivities with her elaborate desserts. After sweeping through every apartment once to discover all the goodies, the guests would distribute themselves according to their tastes.
Renee looked in the dining room mirror at the reflection of her wildly coiffed hair, her new silk hostess outfit, the lighted candles, the dessert-laden table. She could hear a low, conversational rumble throughout the condo as the guests came nearer and nearer. She had expected to feel good tonight—glad she’d bought the unit and pleased that her home would soon be filled with lively people having a good time. Instead, she felt empty and sad.