For more than an hour Laurel explained to her daughters the things she’d told me on the previous Tuesday, but her demeanor was radically different. She spoke softly and with regret; occasionally she cried, and Terry looked distressed, but Jennifer had become silent, aloof. Occasionally she glanced at the picture wall, a puzzled expression on her face.
I understood the change in Terry’s attitude; the display of photographs had affected her deeply. But I couldn’t understand the change in Jennifer.
Laurel refilled our coffee cups, and Jennifer studied the carafe as she poured.
“We had one like that when I was little,” she said.
“Yes, it’s exactly the same. I found it in a thrift shop. It made me think of you.”
“Not of our father?” Jennifer’s tone was sharp, her expression unreadable.
Laurel said, “It’s hard for me to think of your father, after what he did to me. But you girls were always on my mind.”
“Really.”
“Yes—every day. Especially on your birthdays. Christmases. The Fourth of July. Halloween. Thanksgiving. I missed all those occasions, and I deeply regret it. I missed your high school and college graduations. Terry’s wedding day. Your wedding to Mark Aldin.”
Red flag. I’d told Laurel Jennifer’s married name, but not that of her husband.
Terry got up and went back to the picture wall. “This is so nice,” she said.
“What else did you miss, Mother?” Jennifer asked. Her tone was even sharper now. “The big house in Paso Robles? I mean, this”—she gestured around us—“is quite a comedown.”
Laurel compressed her lips before she spoke. “I suppose, given your two lovely homes and rich husband, you would consider it so. I admit, since I left you my life hasn’t been much.”
“And do you think it might improve, now that you’ve reconnected with Terry and me?”
“Of course it would. I’d have my girls back.”
“No, I mean in a material way.”
“I’m not asking anything of you—”
“Of course you’re not. Not directly.”
Terry turned, frowning.
Jennifer stood, went to stand beside her sister. She took down the photograph of the three of them from the wall and examined it, turned it over. “How long has this been hanging here?” she asked.
Laurel ran her tongue over her lips. “Since I moved into the house, ten years ago.”
“Really.” Jennifer continued examining it. “Odd that it’s not sun-faded like the spines of the books on the shelves. That east-facing window lets a lot of light in here, even with the blinds closed.”
She stepped back, surveying the wall. “It’s also odd that there’s a big rectangle on the wallpaper where it’s not faded—as if something much larger had hung there until recently. And there’s no smaller, unfaded place where this one was—such as there would be if it had been there for ten years.”
So that’s what made her skeptical. Trust an artist’s eye. She’s a better detective in that department than I am.
“I had the walls repapered—”
“No way, Mother. You forget, I inherited your artistic talent. My eyes don’t lie.” She held up the the frame, its back toward us, where a sticker with a bar code was affixed. “In your haste to curry favor with Terry and me, you left the price tag on. It’s from SaveMart, a store that didn’t exist ten years ago. Besides, anything that old wouldn’t peel off”—she pulled it loose, stuck it on the glass over Laurel’s face—“this easily.”
Laurel closed her eyes, sighed. “All right, I was trying to impress you. The frames I had the pictures in were from a thrift shop and very shabby—”
“You’re good at covering up, aren’t you? But I guess you would be; you’ve been living a lie all these years.”
Laurel was silent. I watched Terry’s face undergo a slow transformation from bewilderment to anger, as the harsh recognition of how their mother had attempted to manipulate them sank in.
I couldn’t keep out of the family discussion any longer. “Laurel, how did you know Jennifer was married to Mark Aldin? And that he’s rich? And that they have two lovely homes?”
“Why, you told me.”
“I only told you her last name, and that they lived in Atherton.”
“No, I’m sure you mentioned—”
“A little Internet research was all it took to find out your older daughter—separated or not—is well-off. And I imagine you also found out Terry isn’t doing badly, either.”
“That’s preposterous! Why would I care?”
“Money to buy you a good lawyer. To make the rest of your life easier.”
“No!”
“The real question is, did you ever care? Did you ever think about your daughters’ feelings at all?”
For a moment I thought Laurel would protest again, but then she lifted her head defiantly, and arrogance flashed in her eyes.
“You want the truth?” she said. “All right. The truth is, I never much cared about anyone but myself.”
And that’s what isolates you from the rest of humanity.
Jennifer reached out to Terry, who was backed up against the picture wall, eyes hard with anger. At first she pulled away, but then she took her sister’s hand. Together they walked out of the shabby house and out of Laurel Greenwood’s wrecked life, leaving her to face the consquences alone.
After again warning Laurel not to run, I did the same.
Friday
SEPTEMBER 16
Six in the evening, and Rae and I were drinking beer on the patio at Gordon Biersch Brewery across the Embarcadero from Pier 24 1/2. Fall—or what we city residents prefer to call “summer in San Francisco”—had arrived, and with it mellow sunlight and warm, balmy days. I wore a short-sleeved shirt, and she had on a tank top, a sweater tied around her waist by its arms.
“So,” I said, “you didn’t answer my question. Are you on staff or not?”
“Sorry. I was just thinking how pretty Treasure Island looks tonight. No, I’m going back to writing my book on Monday. Getting out of the house and working on the Greenwood case broke my block. Gave me a couple of good ideas, in fact.”
“Don’t tell me the book’s turning into a detective novel.”
“No. More of a psychological character study.”
“Let me guess—a mother who cold-bloodedly abandons her children.”
“Among other things.”
“And what’s this one called?”
“A Wasteland of Strangers.”
“Good title. But I’ll miss you; it’s been nice, though I think Patrick’ll be relieved by your departure.”
“Why?”
“All along he’s been afraid you’d take his job away—in spite of my reassurances to the contrary.”
“Well, he shouldn’t be, after how he helped you break the case. Besides, your guaranteeing his car loan should’ve convinced him he’s there to stay.”
Patrick’s old clunker had proved not to be repairable, and he’d eventually been forced to take the bus back from Crescent City. Last weekend I’d dragged him down to the auto dealerships in South City, where he’d found a five-year-old Chevy Cavalier with very low mileage and an attractive price tag.
I said, “I made him buy a cell phone, too—the same kind I replaced my old one with.”
Rae rolled her eyes. “My, you have moved into the twenty-first century! Next thing I know, you’ll be lusting after a Blackberry.”
“Don’t laugh, but I’ve already started to.”
“So when’re you replacing your decrepit MG?”
“What? That car’s the love of my life, next to Hy! Speaking of whom . . .” I checked my watch. “Nope, plenty of time. He won’t be up from San Diego till at least eight.”
“He’s spending a lot of time down there.”
I shaded my eyes against the sun, studied her to see if her statement contained some hidden implication. Thought of Gage Renshaw’s words: We’ve got a
situation coming up that’s gonna require all our resources.
I said, “RKI’s business is expanding, and they’re undergoing a reorganization, that’s why.” It was all the explanation Hy had given me.
She nodded noncommittally.
I changed the subject. “How’s Jennifer doing?”
“Coping pretty well. She’s almost got her new condo in SoMa furnished to her liking. And she’s getting her design business up to speed again. She filed for divorce last Tuesday. A lot of Mark’s clients got wind of Ricky’s pulling his accounts and started taking good hard looks at Mark’s business practices themselves. Some of them filed complaints with the SEC, and they’re reopening their investigation of what went on in St. Louis.”
“How does it look for him?”
“Not good. The partner’s still missing, and if the SEC brings in the FBI—well, the feds’re damned good at finding out where the bodies’re buried.”
“How’s Terry?”
“Not doing so well. She always thought of herself as the hardheaded sister, and then she let herself be taken in by her mother, only to be disillusioned with equal speed. But she’ll get through it, with her husband’s and Jen’s help.”
“I’m sure she will.”
Last Monday, the district attorney in Crescent City had launched an investigation into the death of Bruce Collingsworth, and the California Board of Nursing had initiated proceedings against Laurel. If she didn’t do prison time, she’d certainly be under scrutiny for years to come. In addition, she’d been fired from her job at the Klamath Falls nursing home where she’d worked and banned from the hospice where she’d volunteered.
“I wonder what she’ll do?” I said, more to myself than to Rae.
“Who? Jen?”
“No, I was thinking of Laurel.”
“Don’t know. She’s tried to call both Jen and Terry several times, but they won’t have anything to do with her.”
I envisioned Laurel, shut away in her shabby little house in the slipping-down tract, alone with her books and videos. Wondered if she’d dismantled the picture wall that had been her undoing with her daughters. Wondered also if she’d abandoned Josie Smith’s name, or if she would keep up the pretense of being the woman she had killed until even that was stripped from her. Not that I really cared what she did or what happened to her. I’d seen firsthand the looks of betrayal on the faces of the daughters she’d claimed to love. And I’d seen too many other victims of cold, calculating people like her.
Rae said, “So Hy’s finally coming up. He going to press you about your living-space problems?”
“Probably.”
“Whatever his ideas are, I don’t think you should worry. If you don’t like what he suggests, you two will work something out to your mutual satisfaction. You always have.”
I frowned at her. “I thought you were the one who said marriage changes things.”
“That’s right.”
“But you didn’t mean for the better.”
“Of course I did. As far as I’m concerned, it only gets better.”
“Oh.”
“Why would you think I meant for the worse?”
“I . . . I don’t know. I guess I was just looking for trouble. And in the course of this investigation I’ve come up against two truly dysfunctional marriages.”
“Laurel’s and Jennifer’s. But yours could never be like that. It’s not the institution, but the people who come into it that make or break a marriage.”
She was right, of course. “Oh,” I said, waving my hand helplessly, “I’m so damn new at this stuff!”
Rae’s freckled nose crinkled, and she tried not to laugh, but as soon as she did, I joined her. People at nearby tables were casting curious glances at us when her cellular rang.
She answered, and I watched as her face sobered. She said, “Okay. It’ll be okay. I’m on my way.”
“What?” I asked, thinking of Ricky, the kids, even Charlene or Vic.
She snapped the unit shut, looking dazed. “That was Jen. Mark’s sailboat capsized outside the Golden Gate this afternoon. Another boater spotted it, notified the Coast Guard, and an immediate search was launched, but they didn’t find him. Looks like he was swept out to sea.”
“Accident? Or suicide?”
“Could be either, but I’d say suicide. Mark’s a good sailor; he knows the currents there.”
I shut my eyes, pressed the heels of my hands against them. Pictured the strong, vital man who had assured me he would do anything to bring his wife peace of mind. A falsity, like everything else about the case. And Rae and I had been instrumental in bringing him down—
Rae said, “Not our fault, Shar. Goes with the territory.”
“Maybe I’m getting sick of the territory.”
“No you’re not. The good you do far outbalances crap like this. I’ve got to go now, be with Jen. You go home. Listen to what Hy has to say about the house with an open mind.”
He was already there when I arrived, his classic Mustang in the garage, so I could have the driveway for the MG. I parked, ran up the front steps, and called to him from the hallway.
No reply, but his flight jacket was on the coatrack. He wasn’t in the sitting room or kitchen, but his travel bag lay on the bed.
I went to the door to the deck. He wasn’t out there either.
“Ripinsky?”
A thump from below.
“Ripinsky?”
“Down here. Hit my goddamn head.”
I went across the deck and took the stairs to the backyard. Still didn’t see him. “Where are you?”
His dirt-smudged face peered around from the far corner of the house. “Hey, I was right. I’ve found our living-space solution.”
I angled under the deck toward him, cobwebs catching at my hair and face. He wore rumpled jeans and a filthy T-shirt, had a tape measure in one hand, a flashlight in the other. When he encircled my shoulders for a hug, the light banged into my spine.
I disentangled myself and tried to look disapproving, but his expression was so like that of a kid whose Halloween goodie sack is overflowing that I had to smile.
“Okay,” I said, “show me.”
He led me down the narrow walkway between my house and the Curleys’ fence, to a door that led into a tiny storage space behind the garage, where I kept a lawn mower that I seldom used on the small back lawn that seldom grew. After squeezing inside he rapped on the wall that separated it from the space that extended to the rear wall under the deck.
“What’s beyond this, McCone?”
“Dirt. When one—God knows which—of the former owners decided to raise up the house for the garage, they shoveled all the dirt back here and walled it off. It’s pretty much solidly packed, nearly to the joists of the kitchen and bedroom floors.”
“Yeah, dirt. I know, because I ripped out a piece of the wall in the garage.” He beamed at me. “Dirt that, should we have it dug out, would create a hell of a lot of space.”
“For?”
“One big room. Call it a playroom.”
“Oh.” Now it was beginning to compute. “A playroom containing a big bed.”
“Right. And an adjoining bath with a big shower and tub like we have at Touchstone.”
“Closet space. Your own sock drawer.”
“Your stuff not getting shoved to the side and wrinkled by mine.”
A drawback had occurred to me. “How do we get to this room? I mean, in the winter rains, do we have to run across the deck and down the stairs and enter through this door?”
“Hardly. Interior stairway.”
I tried to picture where it would go. Couldn’t.
Hy smiled and hugged me again. This time the tape measure rapped against my spine.
He said, “Leave it to me, McCone. I’ll get it done.”
“It’s in your hands.”
I won’t have to give up this house that I love. He won’t have to give up his ranch that he loves. And this house will be
come ours.
Rae said it only gets better—and she’s right.
Damn, I’m so new at this!
Vanishing Point (v5) (epub) Page 24