"There's something else going on. Lucas may or may not be involved in it. Did you see the look Dessau gave Marta, when Ma mentioned the will?"
"No. Should I be suspicious of my own sister?"
"She grilled me, yesterday. She seemed to want Lucas gone as much as you, and for the same reasons. But you two don't act like allies."
Phil's head drooped. "We've never been close. She's the first born, athletic, and very competitive. Cold. She makes no pretensions to being an artist, like Ma and I."
"Sibling rivalry, huh? Okay. How long has your mother been acting nutty?"
"Since she started that painting she never finishes, six weeks ago."
"About the time Dessau showed up?"
"Maybe a little later. But I'd always thought the change in her behavior had something to do with Lucas. A woman her age, carrying on with a ne'er-do-well in his forties …"
"You just saw how she handled his betrayal. If he had such a grip on her mind, I doubt she would've shrugged him off so easy."
"Perhaps not." Phil fussed with the lapels of his robe, thinking. "I should've studied psychiatry at Austin instead of classics."
"Dessau mentioned something along those lines. He told me your mother had seen an analyst before. That means a headshrinker, doesn't it?"
"A colloquial term, but yes."
"You remember who he was?"
"A 'she.' Dr. Traynor. Very talented, with a practice on the mainland. I, ah, may have talked to her myself, a few times."
"She in the phone book?"
"Why?"
"I'd like to do a little digging. With your approval, of course. If I don't find anything, then I'll be on my merry way."
"What will I tell Ma when she sees you're still here?"
"Tell her I'm a guest or something. Hell, I don't know. She has so many people over, what's one more?"
Phil tugged at his lapels again. "You did handle that business with Lucas awfully fast. And if he should come back …"
"I don't particularly want to run into him, after what I pulled. But if it happens, it happens."
"How about I pay you for three more days?"
"I wouldn't buck at that."
"A deal, then." Phil slid a roll from his robe pocket and peeled off several bills. They all bore the likeness of Ulysses S. Grant. Jack made the money disappear, feeling a twinge for taking so much up front. But only a twinge.
Something told him he'd be earning it.
PART III
Visions in the Water
The glass-encased directory for the Corpus Christi Medical Plaza listed two dentists, a D.O., a podiatrist, a back-breaker, and near the bottom: DR. TRAYNOR, PSYCHOTHERAPIST. Suite thirteen. It didn't strike Jack as an auspicious number for nervous patients.
Corpus's usual windiness had died down that morning, and heat lay thick over the plaza's parking lot. He lit up on his way into the courtyard. Dwarf palms ringed a splashing fountain. The door to suite thirteen lay braced open with a piece of cinder block, revealing an empty waiting room. He stuck his head inside.
"Hello?"
There was a little reception area, behind a sliding glass window. But no receptionist.
"Back here, please," came a woman's voice. It echoed from another open doorway, at the rear of the room.
He followed the voice into a drably-appointed office. Every wall had identical prints of interlocking black and gray rectangles. A woman sat behind a steel-cased desk, within contemplating distance of an antique fainting couch.
"Extinguish that, please." She slid an ashtray across the desk. Deep-set eyes behind glasses regarded him as he stubbed his Lucky. She was a little older, maybe late thirties, with dark hair going prematurely gray, and a severe nose. No makeup. She'd been reading a thick volume entitled "Sexual Behavior in the Human Female," by someone named Kinsey.
"Dr. Traynor?"
"Do you have an appointment, Mr. …?"
"Laramie. No ma'am, I'm afraid I don't."
She extended a hand, palm upward. "My analysis fee is fifty dollars an hour. Payable now."
"Fifty? That's a little steep, isn't it?"
"Not for my clientele, Mr. Laramie. If you call back when the receptionist is in, he can provide you with alternative referrals. Someone more within your budget, perhaps."
"Ah, well, I'm not here as a customer, ma'am."
An eyebrow went up.
"I'm a private detective, working for Phil Cisneros. He's got some worries about his mother's mental state, and I understand you used to treat her, a couple years back."
The hand extended again. "Your credentials?"
Jack presented his business card. She frowned a little at the ratty edges. "Something's wrong with Leticia Cisneros, you say?"
"She's not been herself, according to Phil."
"I see. Please continue."
Jack described the incident on the staircase and the changes Phil had noticed. Dr. Traynor listened with her hands folded, impassive. When he'd finished, she said: "And you're asking me my professional opinion, Mr. Laramie?"
"If you don't mind giving it."
"My opinion is that you should bring Leticia Cisneros in for therapy as soon as possible. I could get at the root of what's causing these symptoms. Anything else would be speculation."
"But I'm not sure she wants therapy, ma'am."
"In that case, I think Phil should commit to at least a few sessions. It's clear from your description he's agitated about what's been happening with his family."
"I suppose I could ask him … but that doesn't answer the question about his mother. Don't you think you could speculate? Just a little?"
"That would be highly unprofessional."
"What if I kept it between you and me?"
Traynor rose from her desk and walked over to the office door. She closed it. "In essence, you're asking me for a favor."
"I'm asking you to help a former patient."
"A favor, Mr. Laramie. Let's not mince words."
"Alright, it's a favor."
"Are you familiar with the concept of quid pro quo? 'Something for something'?"
"Quid pro what?"
"Let me put it another way. Do you find me sufficiently attractive? In the most basic, physical sense, I mean."
"Ma'am, I just—"
"Genital union. Sexual congress. That's what I'm proposing."
Jack felt himself color.
"We've already established you don't have much money," she said. "Also, I would point out that this 1958 America, and though society still clings to repressive, sexist mores, a woman is within her rights to propose intimate contact with a potentially consenting partner. This couch here—" she fluffed the cushion "—should be adequate for our needs."
Jack reached for his wallet. "Look, I've got some money."
"Not necessary. I've made up my mind. Your sudden presence and careworn demeanor are hallmarks of the 'stranger' archetype, which excites the prospect of a chance encounter, devoid of emotional attachments."
She took off her glasses. It didn't magically transform her from bookworm to vamp. If anything, her eyes looked even more deep set. Penetrating. Jack found himself edging backward. He bumped into the desk.
"Don't be skittish, Mr. Laramie. Remove your clothing."
"Sweet Jesus." He slid out of his blazer.
"That's better. Much better. The gun is appealingly phallic, I might add. Now come over here."
* * *
When they'd finished, Dr. Traynor apparently changed her attitude toward cigarettes. She lit a pair of Luckies for both of them and blew smoke at the ceiling.
"Overall, I'd say the experience was satisfactory." Her eyes were half-lidded. "I did note a certain lack of initiative on your part, however."
"I'm not used to being instructed."
"You should become more accustomed. In the social revolution soon to be sweeping this country, women will be taking an increasingly active stance toward the sexual act versus their more traditional, pa
ssive role."
"If you say so."
She puffed a white geyser. "And what was your opinion of the coitus?"
Jack reached down from the couch and fished through his pile of clothes. He found his watch, squinted at it. "I've got some places I need to be, ma'am."
"Oh ho. Back to honorifics already. I was hoping, what with the typical male orientation toward sexual prowess, you would solicit another encounter."
"Seconds? Lady, I don't got all day. And what about you? Don't you have patients you're supposed to be seeing?"
"In truth, business has been quite slow."
Jack grabbed his skivvies. "What can you tell me about Ma Cisneros?"
"As I said before, this would be pure speculation on my part. But the behaviors you described are not consistent with her presentation two years ago. She was neurotic, certainly. The whole family is, to some degree. Not surprising, considering the tragedy."
"What tragedy?"
"Phil didn't tell you about his father?"
Jack pulled on his pants. "I remember seeing a portrait of him."
"It's become a local legend. Manuel Cisneros was prone to bouts of melancholia. About fifteen years ago, after losing a number of oil wells to a wager, he leapt from the old stone tower on his estate. Broke his neck and died."
"Ouch."
"The family splintered after that, becoming withdrawn from each other. Phil retreated into poetry. He's the classic emasculated male, bound between a domineering mother and an aggressive older sister—"
"Phil I've got figured out. It's Ma that concerns me."
"Your experience with her on the staircase suggests psychosis. As far as I know, Leticia has no history of mania or dementia praecox. The sudden onset of her symptoms, followed by a complete recovery the next morning would best be explained by a substance-induced state."
"Slow it down for me, doc."
"Drugs."
Jack remembered the beatniks camping out in the manor's front room. "Like marijuana?"
"Or something stronger."
"Alright." He fumbled on his shirt, still wet from the morning's humidity. "That's an angle I hadn't thought of. One other thing. When she was seeing you, did Ma ever mention consulting a psychic? A woman named Pantoja?"
Traynor's prim lips frowned. "Never. It's disappointing to think she would abandon modern psychiatry for the comfort of charlatans."
"Yeah. What a switch."
"You will talk to Phil and Leticia about resuming therapy? The rent in this complex isn't cheap."
"I'll do that. I've got to say, doctor, you're up front with what you want."
She blew a credible smoke ring. "It's a good definition of sanity."
* * *
When he got back to the manor, Jack found the servants huddled in the kitchen. They had lit candles around a small statue of the Virgin Mary, and several bowed their heads in fervent prayer. The butler shooed him to the front hall without any explanation.
"Did someone die?" Jack asked aloud.
"Not recently."
The unfamiliar voice startled him. It seemed to echo from every direction. He turned in a circle, his boot-heels squeaking against marble. A shadow fell from a doorway near the stair.
Speak of the devil.
The psychic, Pantoja, came gliding forward. She wore a flowing black dress, her hair up in a kind of turban, clasped tight with silver pins, feathers, and animal bones. Jack couldn't avoid her amber eyes this time; they transfixed him, rooted him to the spot.
"Ma Cisneros has arranged for a séance tonight," she said, in the sing-song accent of the West Indies. "She wishes to speak with her departed husband."
"And the servants …?"
"Are afraid. They're good people, but superstitious. They've been taught contacting the spirit world is a sin."
"That's not something I've had much experience with, ma'am."
"Oh, but you have." She reached out and touched the Colt beneath his jacket. She might have spotted the gun's telltale bulge, but the effect was unnerving. "This is an heirloom, yes?"
He swallowed. "My grandfather's."
"It has killed many men. Death corrupts its metal like rust. Not wise, to wear something with this kind of weight so close to your heart." Her eyes had gone unfocused, white showing around dilated pupils, and she was staring at some point beyond his shoulder.
Gently as he could, Jack brushed her hand aside. "This gun's served me well."
"It will fail you in the end. Get rid of it. Throw it into the sea."
Her features sharpened again. She shook her head, as if clearing away a bad thought. Without further comment, she patted Jack's shoulder and glided on past, out the front door. It slammed shut without her appearing to touch it. Jack blinked, wondering what the hell had just happened. Was that what gullible old ladies called a 'reading'? The hairs on his nape and the back of his arms stood straight. The way she had reached out like that, knowing what was there …
Get a hold of yourself. All that psychological mumbo-jumbo from Dr. Traynor must've gotten to him. He'd have a drink, later, and put this in some rational perspective. For now, the main thing was to stay focused on the case.
He went up two flights to look for Phil. The door to Ma's room stood open a crack, and Dessau's voice came floating out.
"… das ist gut, you must let the inspiration flow … a genius never censors herself. The light, always remember how the light strikes the subject … gut …"
Jack tip-toed past, not eager to run into either teacher or pupil. He knocked on Phil's door and found him at his desk, pounding away on an old Underwood.
"There you are. How was Dr. Traynor?"
Jack closed the door behind him. "Very accommodating."
"Why the smirk?"
"Long story. Your mother's pet psychic just told me there's going to be a séance tonight."
"In the old tower. I could ask Ma to invite you, if you'd like. It's always entertaining, watching her try to expiate her guilt."
"What's she feel guilty for?"
"She doesn't think father would approve, the way she spends his money. He was a practical man, and stingy." Phil struck a single key on the typewriter. "Anyway, he's dead. I don't see why she goes to all the fuss."
"Who else is going to the séance?"
"Myself, Marta, Dessau, and for some reason, Emmett. That's Ma's attorney. He's working on her new will, the one that doesn't have Lucas in it."
Jack couldn't hide his grin. "And all the servants will be in the kitchen, praying … it's a perfect opportunity."
"For what?"
"For more searching. I'll need that skeleton key again."
* * *
He waited in his room until eight o'clock sharp and crept out. The entire house was dark; candlelight flickered from the kitchen, and voices muttered. The servants keeping their vigil, he figured. With moonlight spilling in through the big plate glass windows, the manor's shadowed rooms looked like something from a Vincent Price movie. He felt more than a little grateful he hadn't been roped into the séance now taking place. The thought of sitting in a circle, linking hands with rich folks while they tried to talk to the padre de familia made him quivery.
He stole up the stairs, then across the landing to crouch at Ma's door. His old Coleman flashlight flickered to life; he trained it on the lock and fit the skeleton key. It turned easy, pushing back well-oiled levers with a click. Superstitious fear kept him from shining the light on Manuel's portrait as he slunk through the foyer.
Ma's bedroom reeked of turpentine. One of the casement windows had been thrown open, but even a stiff Gulf breeze couldn't wash out the smell. He slid a circle of yellow light over to where the easel stood. Ma's seascape—if that's what the splotches of gray and blue were meant to represent—had been blotted out and painted over several times. Evidently, the dam holding back her creative flood hadn't burst yet.
Experience told him the best place to look for questionable items was the dresser. Ma had a big
rosewood monster next to her armoire. The top drawers yielded only frilly underthings and sachets of lavender. But before moving on, he noticed a paint-soaked rag atop the dresser, partially hiding a small plate. He lifted the rag. Underneath lay two sugar cubes.
A vague memory stirred. He picked up one of the cubes and tasted it. Beneath the sweetness was a metallic flavor that went down bitter. Strange. He thrust both cubes into his pocket.
The next thirty minutes he rifled clothes, poked around inside the armoire, shined the light under the bed, and checked old hidey-holes like the top of the doorframe and between the mattress and box springs. Nothing but dust. On the nightstand he found a thick book by Jung, with a velvet marker shoved inside. Ma had gotten no farther than page two. Either she'd just started the book or she didn't read much.
He checked his watch: 8:41. How long did your typical séance last? He might have time enough to search Dessau's room, too. According to Phil, it was just down the hall. But when he swung his light into the foyer, a bizarre thing happened. The Coleman's yellow beam turned a sickly orange, and looked solid, somehow. Light splashed off the walls like water from a hose.
He rubbed his eyes. When he opened them again, the shadows in Ma's room pulsed and crawled. An oily feeling flooded his stomach. He needed to get out, find fresh air.
That bitter taste. Something on the sugar cube …
He staggered through the foyer, out into the hall. Though it was dark, he sensed the walls near him rippling with hidden movement. It seemed to take forever to get turned around and oriented toward the stairs. When he did, he saw a section of wallpaper bulge outward and burst, spilling centipedes and roaches. He let out a shriek as they scuttled toward him. His boots did a frantic tap-dance, crunching, carrying him over the mass of segmented bodies. He reached the stairs. The marble steps undulated like keys on a player piano. But to stay still meant being overrun, so down he went.
At the landing, he made the mistake of looking behind him. A carpet of lustrous red centipedes followed close. He ran, tripped, and managed to get his hands out before rolling down the next set of stairs. He crawled instead. Reaching the ground floor brought a moment's comfort. He couldn't hear any scuttling and resolved not to check.
Dinero Del Mar (The Drifter Detective Book 5) Page 6