Bones and Roses (20 page)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“If Trousdale's having you tailed,” rasps McGee, with his customary cheer, on the drive to the Fontana the following evening, “you can add a bullet in the head to the menu of spa treatments.”

I suppress a groan. “Trust you to always look at the bright side.”

“He knows you're on to him,” Ivy weighs in from the passenger seat. “Mr. Trousdale, I mean. If that was him shooting at you before.” We're headed south on Highway 1 in my Explorer, passing through a wooded area. I'm careful to observe the speed limit, mindful of the deer that make this stretch hazardous at night. Though it seems I'm in greater danger of a certain two-legged beast, rather than the four-legged variety, springing out at me.

“He
suspects
. He can't know for a fact,” I remind her. “He won't until I bust this thing wide open.” Assuming I get lucky tonight. “But if there's a remote chance I'm being tailed, that's what you guys are here for.” McGee had insisted he come along as bodyguard and Ivy was not about to miss out on all the “fun.” At least this time she hadn't had to cancel a date with Mr. Bollywood, Rajeev, with whom she'd been out twice since and who, from her description, was smitten.

“Don't worry, I got you covered,” McGee says in his cop's voice. I catch a glimpse of his Glock 9 mm revolver in the rearview mirror as he pulls it from under the desert camo jacket he's wearing.

“Is that thing loaded?” I ask nervously.

“Can I hold it?” Ivy wants to know. She's like a kid on Christmas wanting to play with another kid's toy.

“No.” He tucks it back under his jacket. I don't know if he was responding to my question or Ivy's.

“Look, you guys, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't nervous. But I don't expect any trouble tonight, so let's keep the paranoid talk to a minimum, okay? I get enough of that from my brother.”

My thoughts wander to Arthur. Patients at the “puff” aren't allowed visitors or phone calls, so I've had to rely on the staff for status reports. They've been nice about it, all except one. I flash back on my run-in earlier in the day with the day supervisor at the “puff,” Myrna Hargrave, a demon disguised as an RN who I'm convinced is the reincarnation of Madame Chiang Kai-shek. Last time, she had Arthur so terrorized he couldn't move his bowels for a week. When she wasn't sticking needles in him or cramming meds down his throat, she was shoving suppositories up his ass. Just my luck, I happened to arrive when she was manning the front desk.

I was greeted with the usual, impatient air reserved for family members. She consulted his chart while I stared at her hair, which she wore in the 'do made popular by Farrah Fawcett in the seventies, dyed-blond and so heavily sprayed it could withstand gale-force winds. I wondered what she saw when she looked in the mirror. It couldn't be what I was looking at, or she wouldn't be seen in public. “Ah yes, there've been some changes in his meds,” she said without elaborating.

I felt a dart of anxiety. A change in meds could mean any one of a variety of things: the dosages had been upped or decreased; he was suffering from side effects that required additional drugs; they had him on Thorazine. He could be getting better or worse. I had no way of knowing.

“That's it? There's nothing else you can tell me?” I said after she'd tucked the chart away, in a brisk move clearly meant to be a dismissal. I spoke in an even voice, struggling to keep my anxiety at bay.

“You'll have to speak with Dr. Kennedy.” She named the chief psychiatrist on staff.

“I will. As soon as he calls me back. I've left a couple messages on his voicemail.”

“He's a very busy man.” She sniffed.

“Okay, but in the meantime, how does he seem to you? Arthur, I mean. In general.”

She stared down from the few extra inches of height she had on me. Myrna Hargrave was a large woman in every respect, which made her small mouth look disproportionately tiny, especially when pursed. “I'm not authorized to give out information on patients. As you well know, Miss Ballard.” The glint in her eye told me she was enjoying this. It was payback for the complaint I registered against her the last time. Why else get me riled up by hinting at trouble in Arthur land?

“I'm not asking for a medical opinion. A simple observation will do.” My brother's mind is like a banana republic, ruled by a mercurial dictator who could be overthrown at any time. When he's at the “puff” where I can't keep an eye on him, I require daily reassurance that his tenuous hold hasn't crumbled. Myrna Hargrave was using my one weak spot against me.

“You will have to speak with Dr. Kennedy,” she repeated, this time enunciating each word as if I were hard of hearing or had cognitive impairment.

“If there's something the matter with my brother, I want to know. Please, just tell me that much. Because I'm his person. You know, to contact in case of an emergency.” I heard the pleading note in my voice, which made me even madder. I hated that she was making me beg.

She remained unmoved. “I'm sorry. I can't help you. It's against the rules.”

“Fuck the rules!” I lost it, finally.

She eyed me, narrowly, as if I were an out-of-control patient for whom she was contemplating a course of action—strait-jacket or heavy sedation? Perhaps a round of electro-shock therapy, and if that didn't do the trick, a lobotomy? “There's no need for foul language, Miss Ballard.”

“You'd rather I called you a name?” I snapped. “I'll give you a hint. It rhymes with ‘witch.'”

“If you keep that up, I'm going to have to ask you to leave.”

I didn't wait to be asked. I spun on my heel and stalked out. Only because I didn't want my brother to pay the consequences if I were to slug her, which I was sorely tempted to do.

I glance in my rearview mirror, after I've taken the exit for the Fontana, to make sure we're not being followed, but I see only the red glow of my taillights. This land is owned by the Trousdales and remains undeveloped in keeping with Fontana's image as a true getaway. Normally I enjoy the remote and unspoiled location, but right now all I see are trees forming a dark mass on either side of the road, no glowing windows to indicate the presence of other warm bodies.

Minutes later, I'm winding my way up the hill to the Fontana. At the top I make a right turn into the parking lot where the road ends. The only other vehicles parked there are a white panel truck, presumably the night watchman's, and Joan's midnight-blue Lexus. There's no sign of life. Nothing stirring in the shadows of the surrounding trees or along the path to the buildings below.

“Looks like the coast is clear,” I say.

A hand falls heavily on my shoulder as I'm reaching for the door handle and McGee's voice rasps in my ear, “Wait right here.” He leaps out, gun drawn, and is swallowed by the darkness.

“Pleasant fellow,” Ivy observes mildly.

“He takes some getting used to,” I agree. “But I owe him a lot
.
Don't forget, I never would've connected all the dots if it hadn't been for him.” There's no such thing as a functioning alcoholic—it's a myth propagated by drunks looking for an excuse not to get sober—but McGee is as close to one as I've ever seen. I just hope coffee is the only thing in the thermos he's brought with him.

He returns a few minutes later, giving me the all-clear signal.

I climb out, and Ivy springs from the passenger side. “You're sure you don't want me to come with?” She looks like a ninja in her dark clothing with her hair tucked under a black knit cap. She's been hovering over me—as much as a woman who stands five foot two can over someone my size—like a mother hen ever since the night of my arrest. Knowing her, I am fully aware she's also loath to miss the action.

“I wish. I could use the extra pair of hands. But the night watchman might get suspicious.” Joan's cover story is that the Internet is down at her house and she needs to use the computers in the office. I'm playing the part of her assistant. Two assistants might look funny, and we don't want the night watchman putting in a call to the boss. “Don't worry. I'm sure everything will be fine.”

“Last time you said that, you almost got your head blown off,” she reminds me.

“Stan was only bluffing. He's the good guy, remember?” I just didn't know it then.

“Which makes Mr. Trousdale the bad guy. Be sure your phone stays on so I can call if he shows up.” Her worried eyes search my face.

“Anyone comes after you, they'll find out what this is for.” McGee pats the bulge under his desert camo jacket.

I set off down the path. The grounds are well-lit, due to a network of belowground electrical cables, so I have no trouble seeing where I'm going. At the same time, I'm uncomfortably aware I'd make an easy target for a sniper should one be lurking in the bushes. I tell myself I'm jumpy only because Ivy and McGee spooked me with all their talk. How would Douglas Trousdale know I was here unless he'd followed me? The only other person, besides Ivy and McGee, who knows about tonight's venture—or treasure hunt, as I prefer to think of it—is Joan, and why would she blab to her soon-to-be-ex when the whole purpose is to bring him down?

I'm nearing the main building, steps from the outer courtyard with its decorative clay wine casks and pergola festooned in crimson bougainvillea, when I freeze in my tracks at the sound of something—or someone—rustling in the bushes. A moment later, a small dark shape scuttles from the shadows, a rabbit most likely. Then there's only the sound of distant waves breaking against the shore. That, and the pounding of my hair-trigger heart. Silly me. I'm conjuring up assassins where there are none when I should be concentrating on what's in front of me.

I cut across the courtyard, headed for the side entrance Joan had left unlocked. I step through a gate into a passageway that leads to the inner courtyard, where I pause to get my bearings. The courtyard is paved in Saltillo tiles and enclosed by eight-foot brick walls covered in grapevines. At the center stands the majestic fountain that gives the Fontana its name. (“Fontana” is Spanish for fountain.) I gaze upon it, thinking the photo on the website doesn't do it justice. Water trickles from tiered basins lined with mosaic tiles depicting various aquatic creatures, its gurgling reminiscent of the CDs of soothing nature sounds and Pan flute music sold in the gift shop. Lit from within, it glows, jewel-like, in the darkness. From the shadows along the perimeter of the courtyard peer the pale faces of the orchids that bloom in clay pots. Overhead stars shimmer through a thin cloud cover and the moon is swaddled in a gossamer blanket.

A columned arcade along one side leads to a corridor lined with various treatment rooms, the gift shop, men's and women's locker rooms, saunas, and Japanese communal bath. As I pass the gift shop I catch a heady whiff of the aromatic oils sold there—a mixture of citrus, lavender, and bergamot—scents I associate with my mom, from when she worked there. I experience the familiar ache of loss. What's different is that I feel her presence, stronger than ever.
I won't let you down, Mom.

The last door on the left stands open partway. I peek into what appears to be a guard station. Not much more than a closet, it holds a built-in desk and chair. On the desk is a computer monitor showing live feeds from various parts of the complex. No sign of the night watchman; he must be taking a bathroom break. It might have seemed overkill—the CC-TV cameras and night watchman—if Joan hadn't explained why it was needed. It seems the Fontana's remote location makes it a magnet for thieves and vandals, and with a response time of twenty minutes or more before the cops can get here, the alarm system is useless. I duck inside to take a closer look at the monitor feeds, where I'm reassured at seeing nothing stirring, before I continue on.

At the end of the corridor a glass door opens onto a covered walkway. I can see the smaller building that houses the offices, where I've arranged to meet Joan. Beyond lies the wellness center, an impressive stone-and-cedar structure built to resemble a Buddhist temple. You can practice the downward dog while looking out over the ocean where it's walled in glass at one end. I've been told there's nothing quite like it. But gazing on it now I feel a deep chill that isn't from the cool night air. The visitors who flock here from all corners of the globe, to cleanse their bodies of toxins and clear their minds, would be horrified to know how it came about.

I hear a mechanical whirring noise as I'm pushing open the door to the office—it sounds like an electric pencil sharpener, only louder. I enter to find cardboard cartons full of files stacked on the floor and files strewn about. Shredded paper spills from an open plastic garbage bag. A tall figure who looks to be male, dressed in navy sweatpants and a gray sweatshirt with the hood pulled over his head, stands with his back to me by the bank of office equipment that stretches along one wall. The source of the whirring noise is the papers he's feeding into an electric shredder. Douglas? A jolt of alarm goes through me. Then the whirring stops and the figure turns around.

“Joan!” I cry in relief. “Oh my God, you scared me. I didn't recognize you at first.” Maybe it's because I'm used to seeing her dressed as if for a magazine photo shoot—in designer duds and pearls. The only other time I saw her in sweats, they were Loro Piana cashmere.

She smiles at me, except there's something odd about her smile—it doesn't reach her eyes. They glitter coldly. “Hello, Tish. Right on time as usual,” she notes with a glance at her watch. “You're nothing if not reliable. A rare quality in a property manager, I've found. Unsupervised help tends to be lazy help. Which is why it'll be such a shame to lose you.” She doesn't even sound like herself. Instead of her normal honeyed tones, she speaks in a sickly sweet voice.