Pot of gold : a novel

by Michael, Judith

  "Robert Saracen. In Greenwich."

  "I don't know him." There was a silence. "I didn't know Emma went to any other doctors. I don't know why she would. She's a healthy, vigorous young woman; she isn't a hypochondriac, and she wouldn't be spending her time in doctors' offices. It's possible that she's been having terrible problems that I never heard about, but even so, I can't imagine that she'd try to kill herself; it just doesn't fit with anything I know about her. Poor Claire; she must be going through hell. Tell her to call me anytime; if she wants me to come to New York, I will. And tell her I'd bet on an accident before I'd talk about Emma committing suicide."

  Or something else, Alex thought. If it wasn't suicide, and it wasn't an accident—and we don't have any evidence of an accident—then that leaves murder.

  He had begun thinking about it driving into the city from

  Darien. They had gone to look for her because they thought she might be in danger, and the danger they feared would come not from herself but from someone else. He had been swayed by the way they found her: alone, her dress crumpled up as if she had crawled into bed and pulled the quilt over her, and the empty pill bottle on the nightstand near her head. But of course all that could have been arranged. That's the first thing that ought to occur to a novelist.

  And he had wondered about her shoes, set side by side under the chair near the bed. If she was too sick to worry about her dress, would she have worried about her shoes.''

  And where was her purse?

  Alex re-created the room in his mind. Still standing at the pay telephone in the hospital corridor, he saw the chair with black high-heeled shoes under it. The dresser with something on it, a blouse, he thought, folded up. The desk with an empty can of grapefruit juice, the kind Emma would have found in the courtesy bar in her room. One nightstand with a lamp and an issue of Mirabella magazine. The other nightstand with a telephone, lamp, radio, and empty pill bottle. The bed, with a quilt pulled smoothly to Emma's chin.

  He had taken a quick look in the bathroom, to see if there were any other pill bottles. There had been nothing but Emma's makeup, organized in neat rows on the marble vanity.

  He called the hotel. "This is Alex Jarrell; I was with Emma Goddard's mother last night when we took her to the hospital. Did anyone find a purse in Miss Goddard's room.^"

  "Not that I know of, Mr. Jarrell. If you'll wait, I'll call housekeeping." In a moment the clerk was back on the line. "There was no purse. Miss Goddard's suitcase has been packed and we're holding it at the desk."

  Alex stood beside the phone. He took a pencil from his pocket and held it as if he were about to write. I forgot about the bellhop; he took her to her room. He probably took off her shoes. But why? Where was Brix?

  He went to the doorway of the waiting room. "I'm going out for a while. I'll be back in an hour or so."

  Claire looked up. Her eyelids were heavy, her face drawn. "Where are you going.''"

  "To find out where they had dinner. By the way, I could use a picture of Emma."

  "I have one," Gina said, and took out her wallet. "Oh, wait a minute. I'll bet there's a better one, bigger anyway." She shuffled the magazines on the table, pulled out a December Vogue, and leafed through it until she came to the full-page Eiger advertisement. "How's that.'"'

  "Perfect. Thanks, Gina. Do either of you need anything.^ I can get it while I'm out."

  "No," Claire said. "Just come back."

  "I'll always come back." He saw the shadowy smile that touched her lips and then he walked along the corridors they had walked through the night before. He left his car where it was and took a taxi to the hotel. The night clerk had gone home, but the clerk on duty found his home number and dialed it for Alex. "I'm sorry to bother you," Alex said, "but I'm trsing to find out what happened to Miss Goddard last night. When she came in alone, had she come in a taxi.'*"

  "I don't think so," the clerk said. "The doorman told me she fell on the sidewalk in front of the hotel, and he thought she'd run across the street. He wasn't sure, but that's w^hat he thought."

  Alex stood in front of the hotel, looking across the street. There was an Italian trattoria in the block to his right, a Japanese restaurant in the block to his left, a French restaurant across the street, and two others in the next block down. There were three restaurants in the hotel itself, but he eliminated them, since the doorman had found Emma outside.

  He began at the Japanese restaurant. He found an open back door and went in, interrupting the preparations for lunch to show Emma's picture to the host and to the coat check girl. When they shook their heads, he went to the Italian trattoria, and then he walked the block back toward the hotel and went into the French restaurant directly across the street.

  The owner was in his office. "The maitre d' will be here at noon," he told Alex. "He told me something about what happened." He looked at Emma's picture. "Close enough to his description, I suppose." He opened a drawer in his desk and brought out a small, beaded handbag. "The waiter said she left it on the banquette. There was no identification in it or we would have called."

  "She wasn't alone," Alex said.

  "No; the maitre d' said she was with a young man."

  "Whom he did not approve of," Alex said, hearing the note of disapproval in the owner's voice.

  "It is not our job to approve or disapprove of our customers. The young man did allow the young woman to leave alone, and made, I am told, a totally inappropriate remark that she was upset because she wished to marry him and he did not wish to marry her."

  "He said that so others would hear it.^"

  "He did. The maitre d' and the coat check girl."

  "The young lady is in the hospital," Alex said, and saw alarm fill the owner's eyes. "Not from her dinner here, I'm sure; she either took or was given a dangerously high dose of a legal drug. I'm trying to find out what happened during dinner."

  "I have no idea. I was told that the young lady fled in a state of agitation, and when she was reminded of her coat, she evidently said it didn't matter. More than once, I'm told."

  "She left alone.?"

  "Several of my people told me that."

  "Was this at the end of dinner.'"'

  "I think so. Is this important.? I can call the waiter who served their table, if you'd like."

  "It is important. I'd appreciate that."

  The waiter sounded as if he had been awakened. "She was very lovely, the young lady, but very unhappy. Twice she has to leave the table; once I am there to pull it out for her, and she goes to the ladies' room downstairs, but the second time she is gone before I can help her, and this time she leaves the restaurant."

  "Had they finished their dinner.?"

  "He had, monsieur; the young lady barely ate."

  "And what did they drink.?"

  "Ah, that I remember. A Graves, a C6tes-du-Rhone, a Chateau d'Yquem, and then cognac."

  "Full bottles or half.?"

  "Full, monsieur."

  "A great deal for two people."

  "Indeed, monsieur. The young lady seemed to drink moderately. Except for the cognac."

  "What does that mean.?"

  "It was after she came back from the ladies' room. The cognac

  was there and she drank it all at once. Like a . . . what do you say , . . like a bet. It caused her some difficulty."

  "You seem to have kept an eye on them."

  "On the young lady, monsieur. She was so happy, you see, and then suddenly so unhappy."

  "Were they quarreling.^"

  "I think so." There was a pause. "I think the young man wanted to quarrel and so they did."

  "What about.?"

  "Alas, monsieur, I am suddenly very busy and I do not get close enough to hear. That is why the young lady leaves the table without my help."

  "Thank you." Alex turned back to the owner. "May I call the maitre d'.^'"

  The owner contemplated him. "You are conducting this like a police investigation."

  "I'm asking questions
because I don't know what happened and the young lady is very ill. I think I can safely say you and your restaurant are not involved."

  After a moment, the owner nodded and dialed another number. Again, he handed the telephone to Alex. "I'm told the young lady who fled the restaurant last night said her coat didn't matter," Alex said.

  "That is correct, monsieur."

  "Did she say anything else.''"

  "No, monsieur. She pushed through the door before I could help her, and she was gone."

  "And then her companion left. When was that.'"'

  "About ten minutes later, monsieur."

  "And he made a remark about marriage.?"

  "A totally uncalled-for remark, monsieur."

  "And then.?"

  "He got his coat and I gave him the young lady's coat, and he left."

  "Was he cheerful.?"

  "I have no idea."

  "Well, was he upset.? If they'd been quarreling, as the waiter says, he would have been upset."

  "He did not seem upset, monsieur. If I had to give you a word, I would say he seemed satisfied."

  "Satisfied," Alex repeated. "Satisfied," he said again after he left the owner's office and crossed the street once again. He reentered the hotel lobby and went to the pay telephone. He had made a note of the clerk's telephone number when the day clerk dialed it. "I'm sorry to bother you again," he began.

  "Hey, dude, I'm sleeping," the clerk said angrily. "I work at night; I sleep in the day."

  "I'm sorry; I wouldn't have called if it wasn't important. I only have a few more questions. Please."

  "Well, what the hell, you got me awake now. Go ahead."

  "Did Mr. Eiger say anything when he came in last night.'' Did he ask about Miss Goddard.'"'

  "Yeah, he said she was upset because she wanted to get married and he didn't. Something like that."

  "He told you that.'* Something so personal.'"'

  "People do that."

  "But he should have stayed with Miss Goddard," Alex said, probing.

  "Yes, he should!" the clerk burst out. "You don't leave young girls alone in the middle of New York!"

  "Right. Thanks for your help." Alex went to the front desk. "I'll take Miss Goddard's suitcase, if I may."

  "Yes, sir. You'll have to sign for it."

  When he left, holding Emma's suitcase, he hailed a taxi. And he was repeating the word satisfied2^."^ he went back to the hospital.

  Hannah had arrived when he returned to the waiting room; she was holding Claire's hand, and shaking her head, back and forth, back and forth; she could not stop. "Another hospital. Another child. I should have done more, I know what dangers there are, I know what loss is. I was complacent; I thought evervthing was smooth ... so much money ... a home ... a family . . . but I was wrong, nothing is ever completely smooth. I let Emma down; I should have said something more, done something to help her."

  "We all tried; we didn't ignore her," Gina said. "It's not smart to sit here blaming ourselves; it's awful enough without that." She looked up as Alex joined them. "Well.''"

  "They quarreled at dinner and Emma left alone." He sat beside Claire and took her hand. "We hac to consider the possibility that Brix somehow got her to take more Halcion than she

  would alone. Paula Brauer agrees with you; she says the idea of suicide contradicts ever'thing she knows about Emma."

  Hannah stared at him. "You're saying he tried to kill her."

  A long moan escaped from Claire. "I let her go out with him, I didn't try hard enough to stop her."

  "You did as much as you could," Alex said. "Every parent I know says the same kind of thing—'I should have done more,' 'I should have been wiser,' 'I should have been stricter'—but their kids were going to break away and do their own thing whatever happened at home. You know that, Claire; you couldn't keep her under lock and key forever. And you wouldn't want to; how would she find her own way, if you did.^ You're no different from every other parent; after a while, all you can do is be around if your kids need you, and hope for the best."

  "But other kids don't end up in a coma," Claire said. "This wasn't just adolescent rebellion, this was a dangerous relationship and I should have done something about it."

  "You didn't know it was dangerous."

  "I knew what he'd done in college."

  "You heard a story that Quentin contradicted, and you had nothing to help you choose between the two versions. Anyway, it was ru'O years ago and by now he's a responsible person; a vice president of his father's company. Most mothers would have cheered."

  Claire shuddered. Abruptly, she stood up and went to the nurses' station outside the intensive care unit, then in another moment came back. "Nothing. She's just the same. It's more dangerous, the longer it lasts." She stood in place, looking out the window. "She was so happy, just a few months ago. We had all that money and she was so excited; she loved that red car—she couldn't believe it when I told her it was hers—and then we went to Simone's . . . my God, it seems like a lifetime ago. We bought presents for friends and for each other; we bought the house; we bought and bought and bought, like kids in a toy store. We thought the world was wide open to us, and we could have anything in it we wanted, or the whole damn thing, for that matter, and our lives would be perfect from then on."

  They were silent. In the corridor, a doctor was paged, a nurse gave instructions to a hospital volunteer, carts were wheeled past the waiting room, interns came by, trailing a doctor on his rounds,

  a telephone rang at the nurses' station. "What happened to me?" Claire asked, speaking almost to herself. "Why did I forget all those obvious things people always say about money.'' It's so trite. Money cant buy happiness. Everyone says it; I wonder how many people really believe it. I didn't. I thought I did, but I didn't."

  "How could you.^" Gina asked, "when you were barely making it from one paycheck to the next.^"

  "It's hard to think clearly about money," Hannah said. "It wasn't your fault." She looked to Alex, silently asking him to help.

  "Most people have trouble thinking about money rationally," he said. He knew Claire was listening, even though most of her attention was on the corridor and the room at the end of it where Emma lay. "Money and power. I suppose it's because they seem simple, but in fact they're very complicated. And slippery: the more you think about them the more your ideas about them change, until, after a while, you see the world in terms of money or power, or both, instead of people. How many people do you know who think they have exactly enough money.'' I've met men worth hundreds of millions of dollars who go on increasing their wealth even if it means destroying people or companies or open land. They get blinded."

  "I was blinded," Claire said in a low voice.

  "Yes, no one could have that much money fall out of the sky without being blinded by it. There's nothing more cold and brutal than money, but it can sing, like the sirens, luring people on."

  "Like Midas," Gina said. "As soon as he had the power to turn things into gold, he couldn't stop; he transformed everything he saw. At the end he even turned his own daughter into gold, and it killed—oh, God, oh, God." She put her hands over her face. "I'm sorry, Claire; I'm not thinking straight."

  "Mrs. Goddard, will you come with me.''" A nurse stood at the door of the waiting room.

  They all sprang up. "What is it.?" Claire asked. Instinctively, she put her hands over her ears, like a child, so as not to hear bad news.

  "She's not dead," Alex said flatly, as if he could make it true by saying it.

  "No," the nurse replied. "She seems to be coming out of the

  coma, and she may respond to her mother. If you'll come with me, Mrs. Goddard ..."

  Claire took a tottering step and Alex reached out to steady her. "Do you want me to come.^"

  "Just Mrs. Goddard," said the nurse.

  "She'll recover now," Gina said to the nurse, daring her to deny it.

  "We don't know that," the nurse said gently, "but this is a beginning."
<
br />   "Go on, go on," Hannah said to Claire. "We'll be here. We'll wait as long as it takes. You go to your daughter and help her live."

  NINETEEN

  E

  M M A ' S bed was in a corner of a large room, bright with fluorescent Hghts and crowded with equipment: metal boxes, plastic tubing, wires, TV monitors with jagged peaks or waves on the screens. The narrow bed had low, barred sides, like a crib, and Emma was partially screened by a curtain on a U-shaped rod in the ceiling. Her eyes were closed; her hands were folded on her chest; an intravenous tube ran to the back of one hand from two plastic bags hanging on a chrome rack beside the bed, and she breathed oxygen through a small plastic device in her nose. Her skin was as pale as parchment; the only color anywhere was her red-gold hair, spread on the pillow. Everything else was white and chrome, sterile, cold, starkly efficient, smelling of antiseptics.

  Claire sat in a plastic chair beside the bed, her back to the room. She held Emma's free hand in hers, stroking it gently and steadily, the way she always did when Emma was sick. "You're going to be fine," she said softly. "You're going to get well. You'll feel good again, and happy, and we'll have so much fun ..." Her words caught in her throat and she took a shaky breath.

  Her whole world at that moment was centered in Emma; she could not bear to think of a world without her. They had been so close, they had been the boundaries of each other's life for so many years that Claire thought of Emma as her other self, a self Claire had only dreamed of being, a self she willingly gave to her daughter and rejoiced at when she saw the woman Emma became. If Emma died, Claire knew she would only be part of a

  person, never again whole, never again able to see the world as a place of marvelous possibilities. She could not imagine any marvels, with Emma dead; it would be as if an eclipse had wiped out the light, everything in the world diminished.

  She could not stand thinking about it. She wanted to scream with helplessness; she wanted to scream Emma's name, to clutch her shoulders and shake her to force her to respond. Instead, she sat still, watching Emma, her eyes burning with tears she would not allow to fall, because she was determined that when Emma opened her eyes, she would see her mother smiling and confident, absolutely certain in her love and her ability to help Emma get well, to help her forget the past.