“Call?” She’d turned her face into the shadows, making it difficult to see her expression.
“To Pat Humphrey. I was in her house. I played her answering machine back.”
“What right did you have to do that?”
“The door was open. I walked in.”
“You just go around doing things like that?”
“When it’s justified. Yes.”
“Does Mrs. Taylor know you did that?”
“She hired me to investigate her disappearance.”
Shana’s eyes widened. She pointed a finger at herself. “And based on that message, you think that I had something to do with that. Is that why you’re here?”
“Did you?”
“Don’t be absurd,” Shana scoffed.
I dropped my cigarette on the concrete and stubbed it out with the heel of my sandal. I must have had too many today, because this one was making my throat sore. “I thought you didn’t know her well.”
“Of course I know her. Whatever gave you the idea I didn’t?”
“Probably because you referred to her as Mrs. Taylor’s friend.”
“What’s the harm in doin’ that?” Shana demanded, her brogue kicking in again. “She is.”
“Nothing. It just gives a certain impression.” I changed subjects. “So what did you want to talk to her about?”
“Maurice. What else?” Shana idly ran a finger up and down one of her bathing suit straps. A high-cut maillot, it contrived to be even more revealing than the bikini she’d been wearing earlier in the day. “Patricia really does know things, you know. Sometimes even vets ask her to help them out.”
“I know. I spoke to two of them.”
“Then you’re aware of what I’m talking about.”
“I still think there’s another explanation.”
“Like what?”
“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “Yet.”
“Well, for your information, Patricia told me things about my dog, things none of the vets, not even the ones down at Cornell, picked up. The poor dear was sick—dying—until she came along.”
“And he told Patricia”—I emphasized the name—“what he needed, and she told you?”
“Yes,” Shana said, squaring her shoulders. “That’s exactly what happened.”
“It’s nice your dog is so smart that he can diagnose himself.” I pointed to Zsa Zsa, who was chasing another moth. “I must have gotten the dummy of the litter.”
“Have you any other questions for me, then?”
“Not at the moment.”
She looked me up and down. “You’re doing well for yourself, aren’t you? Being hired by Mrs. Taylor.”
“I think you may be doing better.”
She smiled.
“How did you get this job, anyway?”
“Through an agency. You can check if you want.” And she gave me the name.
“Are you really from Ireland?”
“Indeed I am. A little town up in the north.”
“Because your brogue comes and goes.”
“People here seem to like it, so I put it on a bit. That’s not a crime, is it?”
“Not at all.”
“Good. And now I really have to leave. My dog is waiting for me.”
“Fine.” I put out my hand. “But if you’re hurrying on Geoff’s account, don’t bother. It’s going to be a while before he shows up at your cottage. He has his hands full right now at the house.”
“You leave him out of this.”
“You know, I saw him at the country club today with a rather attractive older lady. He seems to have a thing for them, don’t you think?”
“You don’t understand.”
Now it was my turn to shrug. “What’s there not to understand? It’s an old story. Not the oldest but old enough. The old lady and the handsome young man she keeps around for entertainment. What do you think Mrs. Taylor would say if she knew you were screwing her husband?”
“Who’s to say she doesn’t?” Shana spat back.
“Shall I go back up to the house and ask her?”
Shana folded her arms across her chest. “You do whatever it is you like. It’s a matter of little difference to me.”
“A matter of little difference,” I repeated. “Very poetic. Is that how you see your relation with Geoff?”
“Geoff and I are none of your business.” Shana took a deep breath. “And I’ll tell you something else. It’s not me you should be looking at if you want to find Patricia Humphrey,” she told me, her brogue having made a miraculous recovery. “It’s Mrs. Taylor’s darlin’ boy you should be talking to.”
“Are you referring to Louis?”
“Does she have another one?”
“Boy is hardly the way I’d describe him.”
“Ask him what he and Patricia were yellin’ about out on the driveway.”
“When was this?”
“Ask him yourself. I’m not earning your money for you.” Shana turned to go, reconsidered, and turned back. “And another thing. Bother me anymore and I’ll call the police and have you arrested for harassment.” Then she left.
I whistled to Zsa Zsa and walked back to the house. I was mulling over my conversation with Shana, as I opened the door of my car, when I heard the rattle of tires on churning gravel. I looked around and saw headlights coming toward me. A few seconds later, a car screeched to a halt in back of me, and Hillary got out. She was dressed all in black. Black short skirt. Black rayon boat-neck shirt. Black heels. Silver jewelry. Performance clothes. I wondered what had happened to her gig downtown. Why she wasn’t there singing.
“I should have known,” she said, putting her hands on her hips and jutting her chin out when she spied me.
“About what?” I asked, even though I knew what she was going to say.
“You’re working for my mother.”
“Because I’m here?”
“Am I wrong?”
“No,” I admitted.
“Exactly. You told me—”
“She asked me to come by after I’d spoken to you.”
“You didn’t have to, though.” Hillary took a step closer to me. She looked like a wraith—it was the black clothes, I decided—and sounded like a disappointed child. “See. I knew you’d end up working for her.”
I made a lame joke about coming out for a cocktail, but the hurt expression on Hillary’s face embarrassed me. She shook her head from side to side. Now that she had come closer, I could see that she had smears of mascara below her eyes. I wondered if she’d been crying or if it was the heat or she was using cheap makeup.
“Sooner or later everyone does,” Hillary said to me. “No one says no to her. Ever. What did she say to you? I have a right to know.”
But before I could answer, the front door swung open, revealing a rectangle of white light, and Geoff walked out onto the upper step. “Hillary,” he said. “Do us all a favor and go home.”
“Fuck you,” she flung back at him, her hands now balling up into fists.
“She’s in no state to see you.”
“I have to see her,” Hillary insisted, her voice rising.
“Well, you can’t.” Geoff rendered the verdict in a lofty voice, the kind a judge might use. “We’re waiting for the doctor to come now.”
“Why won’t you let me speak to her?” There were tears in Hillary’s voice. “She’s my mother, for God’s sake.”
“And she’s my wife, and her well-being is my responsibility. Now get out of here. And don’t try to phone tonight, either. I won’t have her disturbed by you or anyone else.”
Hillary took another step forward. “Let me in. I need to talk to her.”
“How much money do you need this time?”
“It’s not about money, you fuckhead.”
Geoff moistened his lips with his tongue. “Don’t make me call the police.”
“You’re going to pay for this,” Hillary yelled. “You really are.”
She
flashed me a look that said, What do you think now, traitor? Then she whirled around, jumped back into her car, and gunned the motor.
“Sweet Jesus,” Geoff said as he watched her turn right and ride straight over the lawn until she got on the road. “I don’t believe her.” He ran over and surveyed the damage the tires of Hillary’s car had inflicted on the grass. “We’re going to have to get the whole thing resodded,” he told me when he came back. “I don’t even want to think of the money that’s going to cost.” He pointed at the path Hillary had taken. “She really is crazy, you know. Absolutely nuts. I’m talking clinical here. For a while she was on some drug. Obviously it didn’t help.”
“How do you know she wanted money?”
Geoff snorted and kicked a piece of gravel out of the way. “Because that’s all she ever wants. The only time she ever comes here is when she needs something. Every time she speaks to Rose, Rose gets upset. And that’s not good for her. Especially now. After the stroke. In fact...” Geoff paused and straightened the collar of his polo shirt.
“In fact what?” I prompted.
“If it wasn’t for her, Rose wouldn’t have had a stroke.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I didn’t say it.”
“Who did?”
“The doctor. She and Hillary had an enormous fight. Hillary ran out, and I came in. Rose was crying hysterically. I tried to calm her down, but I couldn’t. Finally, I went into the other room to call her doctor. I was dialing when I heard a crash and ran back inside. There was Rose on the floor.”
“What had they been fighting about?”
“I didn’t ask. At that point, I had other things to do. Like save my wife’s life.” And he turned and slammed the door behind him, leaving me standing alone in the dark, wondering why Hillary had come.
Chapter Eleven
Zsa Zsa and I finished the last of the French fries I’d bought at Burger King earlier that evening as I pulled into Cedar Estates. The place was a trailer park, something Rose had neglected to mention when she’d told me where I could find her son, a telling omission in my view. Located a good twenty- to thirty-minute ride away from her estate, off the main road, it was hidden by a large scrim of trees. Driving by, you’d never know the place existed, which I suppose was the general idea, the poor being present but by general agreement invisible in Cazenovia.
Someone had scrawled “Cedar Estates welcomes you—yeah, right,” in red spray paint over the large sign that directed all visitors to report to the manager’s office. Another person had scrawled “Bienviendos a pequena España.” (Welcome to little Spain.) Arthur Peterson’s words when he’d seen Raul in the back of my car flashed through my mind.
He’d said, “He lives ... in the trailer park. All the Mexicans around here do.”
He’d been referring to this place. He had to be. How many other trailer parks could there be in the area? Damn. I should have brought that picture with me. Now I’d have to come back later. I brushed a moth off my arm as I read the rest of the sign. Loud music, skateboards, unleashed dogs, and unsupervised children were forbidden. Speed limits would be strictly enforced. Underneath someone had written, “Chinga tu madre.” Translation: Go fuck your mother. An iconic phrase in any language. A big plastic pot of parched, weed-infested geraniums sat off to one side, someone’s idea of decoration.
The trailers, aluminum-sided rectangles, were lined up in a grid pattern, eight to a row. The streets were dirt. Signs marked out the corners. Groups of men in undershirts were sitting outside in folding chairs, drinking beer and playing dominoes and cards. The smell of chorizo wafted through the air. Packs of children were running around as their mothers gossiped with each other. The faint sounds of ranchero music punctuated their conversations. Even with the trees, the scene reminded me of Spanish Harlem on a hot summer night.
I halted at the first group of men and asked if they knew a woman called Dorita. Not that I really expected an answer. They’d gotten that we’re just-poor-humble-peasants-who-don’ t-know-shit expression on their faces as soon as I’d stopped the car.
“Dorita?” one repeated in broken English. “We’re sorry. Lo sentio. No la conocemos.” They studied their cards.
“I’m not INS.”
Their faces remained blank. I described Raul to them and explained the situation. Their expressions didn’t change. I didn’t blame them. In the places they’d come from you never answered questions by people you weren’t acquainted with. I handed out my card and moved on to the next group, and the one after that. But I might as well have saved myself the trouble. I got the same reaction from each one I talked to. The sudden silence as I approached, the wary eyes, the head shaking. Finally, after about half an hour of canvassing the park, I gave it up as a bad job and did what I was being paid to do: find Mrs. Taylor’s baby boy and have a chat with him about Pat Humphrey.
I would have loved to have heard what Mrs. Taylor had said when Louis had told her he was living here among the kind of people that she hired to work on her estate. Somehow she didn’t strike me as someone who endorsed the concept of social equality, I thought as I bumped along the road to Louis’s trailer.
It was set on a cul de sac at the end of the street, surrounded by woods; hence, the name Tree Lane, I assumed. The locale afforded Louis a little more privacy than some of the other people that lived here. His trailer was one of those double-wide jobs that are never meant to ride the roads but go straight from the factory to their allotted plots of ground. Someone, maybe Louis, had put up a foot-high white picket fence around it. Inside the fence there were enough garden ornaments stuck in the earth to stock a nursery. Two deer. An elk. A family of elves. A couple of rabbits. A woman bending over. A fountain with a frog on top. And if that wasn’t enough, two rubber tires with flowers growing out of their centers flanked the doorway.
A spider hopped onto my arm when I opened the door of my car. I brushed it off. Watching it ride into the night on an undulating strand of silk, I thought that unless Louis started living in an ashram in India, he couldn’t get much farther away from the environment in which he’d grown up. I wondered if he’d picked this place for that reason. As a defiant gesture. Especially since it was so close to his mother’s estate. Had he ever invited her out here? Had she come in her fancy car? Been shocked? Had he said to her, Look at how I’m living? Or, This is what I like. Accept me for what I am.
Only Rose Taylor wouldn’t do that, I thought as Zsa Zsa jumped onto the grass. She nosed around, then followed me through the fence. I rang the bell.
A moment later, a voice trilled, “Debbie, thank God you’re here. I’m having the worst trouble zipping up this dress.” Then the screen door banged open, and a big-haired, big-breasted woman in a beaded dress filled the door. “You’re not Debbie,” she exclaimed.
No kidding.
I handed her my card. “I’m Robin Light, and I’m looking for Louis. I’ve been told he lives here.”
The woman blinked. “Sorry. You’ve got the wrong information.”
I kept looking at her as I apologized. There was something about her. Something about her nose. The way it curved down. I’d seen it before. And that lanternlike jaw. Then it hit me. I did a double take.
“Louis?” I said, my voice going squeaky.
The woman lifted her chin up and turned her head away from me and into the shadows. She’d done it to conceal her face, but the movement was a mistake, because it tightened her neck muscles and displayed the faint outline of an Adam’s apple. “My name is Lila.”
I took another step forward. Now that I was closer, I could see that her hair was one of those bad wigs that you see gathering dust in cheap hair-salon windows, and even though she was wearing enough pancake makeup on her face to outfit a production of Macbeth, it didn’t quite cover the faint shadow above her upper lip.
“Not the last time I saw you, it wasn’t.” I remembered Louis at Hillary’s in his polo shirt and shorts. He’d been big and ungainly then.
He still was. Only now he was big and ungainly in a long-sleeved, scooped-neck, beaded red gown. He wasn’t a good-looking guy, but he made one hell of an ugly woman.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she insisted.
“Yes, you do. You’re Louis, Rose Taylor’s bouncing baby boy.”
“Get out of here.” He started to close the door, but I was quicker and pushed my way inside before he could. His nostrils flared. “You can’t come in.”
“I already have,” I told him as I closed the door. The smell, a combination of depilatory, Chanel No. 5, and talcum powder, slapped me in the face.
“I’m going to call the police.”
“And have them charge you with a fashion crime?”
“I hope you’re not going to make stand-up comedy a career choice. I could have you arrested for invasion of private property.”
“Yes, you could.” But I didn’t believe him. His voice lacked conviction. “Be my guest.” I’d be gone before they arrived.
“I’m going for the phone,” he snarled, and headed deeper inside the trailer. I followed on his heels.
“Are you sure you want the authorities out here?” I said to his back.
He didn’t reply.
“I mean, your mother is pretty well known about these parts. Aren’t you afraid someone would tell her about your ... predilections?”
He whirled around. “You’re right. I should take care of you myself.”
I put up my hands. “Hey, calm down. I’m not going to say anything.”
“You’d better not.” Louis moved closer to me. I could smell the Lavoris on his breath. “I used to box professionally.” He feinted a right to my jaw. “I bet no one told you that.”
“You’re right. They didn’t,” I replied, wondering how much a whole new set of teeth would cost me if he punched me in the mouth.
“I was good.”
“What name did you fight under? The petticoat kid?” His eyes widened slightly. For a moment, I thought I’d gone too far. “That was a joke,” I said.
“A bad one.” He moved his head around, stretching his neck one way and then the other, the way professional athletes do. “You think I’m a fag?”
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