Dennis and John had arrived yesterday, on the ten o’clock United flight from San Francisco. She’d debated hiring a car and driver to take the three of them from the airport to her home. But unless the car was a limo, the driver would have been party to their bereavement. And a limo would have been too ostentatious. So she’d picked them up in her bright red Toyota Celica, the best car she’d ever owned.
From the very first, as she and Dennis exchanged their ritual phrases of hushed condolence that instantly lost all meaning, she’d been aware of the underlying tension that inexplicably centered on John. Whenever she sought to draw John aside, even for a moment, Dennis intervened. At first she’d thought her brother-in-law was being overly protective, compensating, belatedly playing the role of father. But when she’d drawn Dennis aside, and suggested that perhaps John should stay at home with her rather than attend the funeral, Dennis’s reaction had been almost hostile. “Of course John’ll go to the funeral,” he’d said, loud enough for John to hear. “That’s why he’s here.” And last night, after the funeral, while John was preparing for bed, Dennis had been careful not to give her a chance to talk with John alone, even for a moment.
Why?
Was Dennis afraid?
Of what?
What could John tell her that Dennis was so determined she should not hear?
As she watched the 737 begin to move, gathering momentum as it hurtled down the runway, she was aware that, whatever the cost, these were questions that must be answered.
MONDAY
August 14
5:15 P.M.
AWARE THAT FATE COULD hang on the moment, yet wryly amused by the melodramatic thought, Janice lifted the phone and punched out the number. After four rings, Paula’s recorded voice came on the line: “You’ve reached the residence of Paula Brett. I’m not able to answer the phone now, but if you’ll leave your name and number at the beep, I’ll get back to you. Thanks. And remember, wait for the beep.”
“Paula,” she said, “this is Janice. I’m sorry I haven’t called you since—”
“Janice.” It was Paula’s voice, live.
“Ah—so you monitor your calls, one of those.”
“I was in the kitchen.” A moment’s hesitation, a drop in the timbre of the other woman’s voice, registering compassion: “How are you, Janice? I’ve thought about you every day since the funeral. But somehow—” Another moment of hesitation, as Paula searched for the phrase. “Somehow it—it’s hard to know when to call and when not to call. If that makes sense.”
“It makes perfect sense, Paula.”
“So—” Another hesitant beat. “So how are you?”
She drew a long, ragged breath. “I miss her. I miss her a lot. But—” She was aware that in the empty room, in the empty house, she was shrugging. There was no one to see, but she was shrugging. Why? “But I’m taking it one day at a time. So far, it’s working.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“As a matter of fact,” she said, “there is. That’s why I called.”
The other woman’s response was prompt and fulsome: “Whatever it is, you’ve got it.”
“Are—” Her voice caught. She’d known Paula Brett since childhood. In all her life, she’d never had a better, more generous friend. Irrationally, the thought threatened to bring tears.
“Are you still seeing the man you told me about—the private detective who’s also an actor?”
“And a director, too. And a playwright.”
“I don’t have to ask whether you’re still seeing him. I can hear it in your voice.”
“No …” It was a half-shy response. “No, you don’t have to ask.” Janice could visualize Paula as she said it: the perceptive warmth of the dark eyes, the pensive mouth up-curved in a very private smile. It would be a smile that, to a friend’s eye, revealed a latent vulnerability. For ten years, at least, Paula had been trapped in a bad marriage to a cruel, narcissistic screenwriter, a sadistic predator who had systematically preyed on her sense of self-worth.
“I’m envious. God knows, you’re entitled. But I’m still envious.”
“Nothing’s—settled. We’re just—” She was uncertain how to finish it.
Janice let a beat pass, to change the mood. Then: “Listen, Paula, is he—what’s his name?”
“Alan. It’s Alan Bernhardt.”
“Is he a good private detective?”
As if she’d divined the reason for the question, and was carefully considering, the other woman paused thoughtfully before she said, “I think he is. If I had a problem, I’d hire him.” Another pause. Then: “Have you got a problem, Janice?”
“It’s about Connie—about the way she died. I’ve got to talk to someone about it.”
“Alan?”
“Yes, Alan. I’m sure. Almost sure, anyhow.”
“Shall I tell him? Or would you rather—?”
“I think I’m going to come up there, and stay for a few days.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow, probably. Or the day after. Will you be in town?”
“Of course. I’ll pick you up at the airport. Have you got a flight? I can put you up on the couch, that’s the best I can do.”
“No. I’ll find a hotel. And I think I’ll drive up. I’ll call you back, when I’ve figured it out. Can you call Alan, in the meantime?”
“No need. He’s coming over for dinner.”
“I’m glad, Paula. I’m very glad.”
“Thank you, Janice. I’m glad, too.”
WEDNESDAY
August 16
1 P.M.
“I’LL HAVE THE KUNG Pao Chicken,” Janice said. “And rice. And we’ll start with the shark fin soup.”
The waitress nodded, wrote the order in Chinese characters on her order pad, and turned to Paula Brett. Sipping tea from a porcelain cup, Janice watched Paula frown at the enormous red menu with its two golden tassels. Even when they were little girls, and had ridden their bikes to McDonald’s during the long vacation days of summer, Paula had always been slow deciding what to order.
How reassuring it was to be with someone whose presence brought back those youthful memories. Their fathers had been classmates at Yale, lifetime friends. Paula’s father had taken a Ph.D. and gone on to teach at UCLA, a professor of sociology. Her own father had gone into banking, then into finance, finally founding his own venture capital business, based in Los Angeles. He’d specialized in electronics, and had prospered: a millionaire at thirty, a multimillionaire ten years later. The family had moved to Santa Barbara soon after Connie was born, when Janice was six, and just beginning first grade. The Bretts always spent a week or two each summer with them, either in Santa Barbara, sailing and swimming, or at the Hales’ ranch in the San Ysidro Mountains behind Santa Barbara, riding and hiking. The three girls had always been required to do regular chores. Chester, the ranch foreman, had been a stern taskmaster. Her father and mother had never failed to back up Chester’s work schedules—and the penalties he imposed, for work done badly. At the funeral service for her parents, she had insisted that Chester sit in the same pew with her and Connie and their Aunt Florence, the first pew, ordinarily reserved for family. At first Florence had objected, but only briefly.
At Connie’s funeral, in the family pew, there had only been her and John—and Dennis. Chester had died, and Florence was infirm.
Having finally ordered, Paula handed the menu to the waitress, who bowed ceremoniously and withdrew.
“This is a beautiful restaurant,” Paula said. She pointed to a nearby four-panel screen, carved teak, and jade. “Look at that screen. It’s a museum piece. And the food’s famous. Really famous.”
“Santa Barbara has one decent Chinese restaurant. San Francisco has a hundred. More than a hundred, probably.”
“It’s a wonderful city, really,” Paula said. “I like Los Angeles. Malibu will always be home. But San Francisco’s something special.”
“You didn’t talk like that
when you first came here.”
Paula shrugged. She was a small woman, slim and full-breasted, almost perfectly proportioned, still—at age thirty-four. But Paula was a woman who chose not to put her body on public display. Even as a teenager, when the world revolved around the appreciative appraisal of the male, Paula had dressed as she was dressed now: in clothing calculated to suggest the body beneath, but not to flaunt it. Some women dressed for men. Some dressed first for themselves, then for men.
“It was hard, when I first came here,” Paula was saying. “I guess I felt pretty sorry for myself.”
“Most people do, after a divorce.”
The other woman nodded, but made no reply. In her eyes Janice could see the shadow of a sadness that, during the last years of Paula’s marriage, had revealed a wound to the spirit that her family and friends had feared might never heal. Her husband had been a screenwriter: talented, successful—and utterly amoral. Would Alan Bernhardt, the playwright, fit the same description? Had one mistake compounded into two? Such things happened, Janice knew.
The waitress arrived, and served their soup. The waitress’s smile was delicate as the porcelain she handled with such gentle deftness. They sampled the soup, and judiciously approved. Then they exchanged a smile, signifying that the time had come to discuss the matters at hand.
Janice spoke first: “So tell me about Alan Bernhardt.” She pitched the question casually, lightly matter-of-fact. The other woman’s reaction was a small, subtly playful smile.
“Bernhardt the detective?” The smile widened. “Or Bernhardt the love object?”
“Do I have to choose?”
Appreciatively sipping the soup Paula shrugged, a burlesque of maidenly coyness. “Actually,” she said, “he’s got an interesting history. His parents were Jewish, both of them from New York, that hard-core Jewish middle-class intellectual stock. His father was a bombardier in the war. He got killed before Alan was born.”
“So Alan’s—what—forty-five?”
“Forty-three, I think. Maybe forty-four. Anyhow, his mother raised him. His mother and his mother’s parents. It was one of those real—” Even though it was Paula’s nature to keep her enthusiasms private, treasures unto herself, she nevertheless allowed her enthusiasm to show through as she said, “It was one of those real vintage New York Jewish families, apparently. His mother was an only child—a much-loved only child, the way only the Jews can love their children. Alan was the only grandson. His grandfather was a small clothing manufacturer. He wasn’t very successful. He was always more interested in playing chamber music and fly tying than in making a fortune, I gather. There was always enough money, though. The grandparents took care of Alan’s education. A good education, private schools in New York and Ohio.”
“The grandfather sounds wonderful.”
“I know …”
“What about Alan’s mother. What’d she do?”
“She was a modern dancer and an activist. You know—women’s lib, ban the bomb, human rights. Marching and meetings and dance recitals, that’s what Alan remembers most about his childhood.”
“His mother never remarried.”
Paula shook her head. “No. She danced and she marched and that was it, apparently. They lived in a loft, in the Village. Alan could fly model airplanes in it.”
“A happy childhood, then.” Approvingly, Janice nodded. “Like us.”
“Yes …” As if the thought was new to her, Paula spoke thoughtfully, reflectively. Then she nodded. “Yes. Like us.”
“So why’d he come to San Francisco?”
“The truth is, he was running away. That’s why a lot of people come to San Francisco, I’ve decided. San Francisco—California—it’s the promised land. Or so people think.”
Ruefully, Janice smiled. “Sometimes I think about running away to Manhattan. Or Taos. Or San Miguel.”
“I know …” Paula finished her soup, and nodded appreciatively. “Excellent. I’ve never had shark fin soup before. Now I know what the shouting is all about.”
“Are you going to tell me what Alan is running away from?”
“When he was in college,” Paula answered, her voice measured, her manner grave, “he got hooked on acting—on the theater. He married a girl who also wanted to act. After they graduated, they went to New York and started making the rounds—trying out. They lived in the Village, not far from Alan’s mother. It was an idyllic life, really perfect. After a year or two, both Alan and his wife started to connect, to get small parts. Then Alan had a play produced off Broadway.”
“A play he’d written?”
Paula nodded. “He wrote it while he was in college. He wrote three, actually.”
“I’m impressed.” She nodded to the waitress, who cleared away the soup dishes. “Very impressed.”
“He directed, too, off Broadway. He was a comer, no question. A rising star. And his wife was starting to do well, too.”
“So what happened? Divorce?”
“No,” Paula answered, her dark eyes solemn, her voice subdued. “No, not divorce.” She drew a long, deep breath. “In the space of a year and a half, his wife and his mother and his grandparents all died.”
“Jesus Christ. How?”
“His grandfather had a heart attack, they think, while he was driving. His wife was with him. In any case, their car crossed over the center divider of an expressway, and hit a tanker truck head-on. Alan’s mother already knew she had cancer, when her parents died. She died less than a year later. And then—” As if she could still hardly believe the story she was telling, the other woman incredulously shook her head. “And then, Jesus, his wife was killed. She was mugged. She hit the back of her head on a curb.” As she told the story, Paula’s voice had dropped to a low, leaden monotone, as if she sought to distance herself from her own words.
“My God, no wonder he had to leave New York. There wasn’t anything left for him.” As she spoke, their entrees arrived. After they’d been served, Janice asked, “So how does his being a private detective fit into all this? He sure doesn’t sound very hard-boiled.”
Paula’s smile was indulgent. “That’s mostly a myth, you know. Two of Alan’s good friends are private detectives. One of them was a tenured professor at Berkeley. The other, a lady, used to do film reviews for the Los Angeles Herald.”
“You’re kidding.”
Instead of replying, Paula smiled, using ivory chopsticks to sample a vegetable dish. “This is excellent. Really excellent.”
“So what about the theater—Alan’s plays, his acting?”
“He still acts, and still writes. He’s with the Howell Theater, which is probably the best little theater in San Francisco—and that’s saying a lot. But it isn’t a living. He’s one of the owners of the theater, but it still isn’t a living. For years, he worked part time for Dancer and Associates. They’re the biggest firm of private investigators in town. They specialize in high-ticket divorces, plus a little child-stealing. About the time I met Alan, he had a big argument with Herbert Dancer, and Alan quit. He’s been freelancing ever since.”
“How do I get in touch with him?”
“I thought you’d never ask.” Paula took a business card from her purse, and slid it across the table.
Janice looked at the card, slipped it into her own purse. “I’ll call him when I get back to the hotel.”
“Good.” Another smile: Paula’s pixy smile. “You can use my name. You can also come to dinner. Name the day.”
“Thanks. I will. Let me talk to Alan, though, first.”
As they appreciatively ate, they allowed a companionable silence to fall. Then Paula asked, “What’s it all about, Janice? You said something on the phone about the way Connie died. What’d you mean?”
Having expected the question, she was ready with a response: “You’ve been in San Francisco—what—six months?”
“More. Eight or nine months, now.”
“How many times did you see Connie, in that time?”<
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“Four times, I think. Three times for lunch, in the city. And once for a day at the winery—swimming, and a barbecue.”
“Have you spent much time with Dennis?”
“No. Except for their wedding, I only saw him once. That was at the barbecue. It was a big party, though. I hardly talked to him.”
“What’d you think of him?”
“The truth?”
Decisively, Janice nodded. “Definitely, the truth.”
“I thought he was a—” A short, animated pause, searching for the phrase. “I thought he was a phony. A stuffed shirt at best, a gigolo at worst. Handsome, but that’s all. I was always afraid Connie would marry someone like him.”
“Really? How come?”
“The truth?”
“The truth.”
“Well,” Paula answered, her voice heavy with regret, “we all pick our own ways to make ourselves suffer. And, let’s face it, Connie always picked the wrong men, even when she was a teenager. She was—what—six years younger than me, so I didn’t really know her all that well. But—” Paula shrugged. “But let’s just say I wasn’t surprised, when she married someone like Dennis.”
“When you saw her here—those lunches, you had—did she say anything about him, about her marriage?”
“No, nothing,” came the prompt response. “But I wouldn’t’ve expected her to say anything, not really. We just weren’t that close.” A pause. Then, earnestly: “Why, Janice? What’s it all about?”
Her lunch forgotten, she instinctively lowered her voice, leaned closer to the other woman. “You know what happened—how she died.”
“I know there was a prowler, a burglar.”
“Dennis said there was a burglar.”
“Janice …” Awed, Paula’s voice, too, was lowered. “Christ, what’re you saying?”
“I’m saying that I think Dennis knows more than he’s telling.” Her voice was firm, her eyes steady. “A lot more, maybe.”
“My God …” As if she suddenly needed a stimulant, Paula drained her teacup. “Are you serious?”
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