Crown Jewel (16 page)

Had Philly and his first wife separated? Did Lee Ann Oliver even know her husband was dead? Did Melanie, Sara, and Emily know their father was dead? Maybe they weren't the kind of people who read the newspaper or the obituaries, preferring to get their news from television.

Then there was the most important question of all. Why didn't Philly leave his estate to Lee Ann Oliver and their daughters? Why did he leave it to him? Well, he was going to have to do something about that immediately.

Puffing furiously on the cigarette, he pulled out the telephone directory. When he found what he was looking for, he slammed it shut and crushed out his cigarette. After draining the Coke bottle, he threw it into the wastebasket. He looked at the last file drawer. He could go through it tomorrow.

He headed for his Porsche, calling over his shoulder that he would bring home more steaks for dinner. It vaguely registered with him that his two sons were sitting at the table with Gracie, carrying on what seemed to be a normal conversation. God did move in mysterious ways.

He knew where Tanglewood was, and he had Lee Ann Oliver's address committed to memory, thanks to the telephone directory. He was on her street in forty minutes, looking for the house number. He crossed his fingers, the way he had when he was a little kid, hoping that she still lived there with her daughters.

It was a pretty little brick house. Well maintained, too. The driveway held four cars. Three daughters plus a mother made for a family of four. Evidently everyone had her own car. The flower borders and shrubs were pruned and well cared for. The beds had recently been mulched. He sniffed. The lawn had been cut, probably earlier that morning. A sprinkling system whirred in the back. He could see water arcing to his left.

Ricky parked in the center of the driveway, behind a Ford Bronco and a Ford Taurus. He yanked his baseball cap lower, adjusted his sunglasses, and hopped out of the car to make his way to the front door. The main door behind the screen door was open. He could hear Bon Jovi wafting down from the second floor. Something was baking in the oven. Whatever it was, it smelled good. He thought about Roxy then and the bread she'd been baking when he talked to her earlier.

He pressed the doorbell. It played a six-note tune, but he couldn't identify it. He took a step backward to wait.

Lee Ann Oliver was pretty in a wholesome way. He bet that in her youth, she'd been thin because Philly had always looked twice at slender blondes. Now she would be considered pleasingly plump. She was a real blonde, too. She smiled a greeting. Like Gracie Lick, she had a beautiful smile. He wondered if the daughters looked like her or Philly.

“Yes.” She said it like yes, not as a question.

Ricky cleared his throat. “I'm Ricky Lam. Philip was my brother. I was wondering if I could talk to you.”

“Of course. I wondered when you would come by. Come in.” She held the door open. He stepped inside and looked around. It was just as nice and comfortable as it looked from the outside.

She was taller than she looked through the screen door. When she'd been young, people had probably referred to her as willowy. “I would have come sooner if I had known. I didn't find out about you until two hours ago. You didn't come to the funeral. Why is that?”

“We weren't invited, Mr. Lam. We did go to the cemetery later in the day when everyone was gone. We all said our good-byes. What can I do for you? I'm sorry. Would you like some coffee or perhaps ice tea. I just made both.”

“Coffee if it isn't too much trouble.” It was easier to talk over some kind of a drink. At least that's what his mother had always said. His father had said it, too.

Ricky blinked in surprise when he entered the large, old-fashioned kitchen. It was an exact replica of his mother's kitchen.
Cozy
was the word that came to mind. Even the little clay pots of herbs on the windowsill were the same. “Did you…did you decorate this kitchen?”

“No. This house was a mess when we bought it. Philip gutted it and basically started from scratch. He did it all. He had some very definite ideas when it came to this kitchen. I didn't argue with him because I don't really have any decorating sense. I liked the result, and that's all that matters. My girls and I spend a lot of time here in the kitchen. Now, tell me, what brings you here?”

Ricky removed the baseball cap before he stuck his sunglasses into his shirt pocket. “I never knew about you. I thought Philly was married to Roxy. He married her. I saw the marriage certificate. I saw yours, too. That makes my brother—your husband—a bigamist. I'm realizing more and more as the days go on that I never knew my brother, who, by the way, isn't really my brother. He's my adopted brother. I just found that out today, too. Can you explain any of this to me?”

The woman sitting across from him stared into his eyes. She seemed to be struggling with herself as to what she should say. “Philip and I didn't have…what you would call a traditional marriage. It was more of a business arrangement. He wanted children. I was willing to give him those children. He wanted a son. The truth was, he was obsessed with having a son. It didn't work out. I was willing to keep trying, but it was such an ordeal for him that…well, it was just an ordeal. He needed…
incentives
. After Emily was born, our third girl, he blamed me for not delivering a boy. He was never mean or ugly to me, but he was clearly disappointed in my inability to produce a son. It didn't matter to me that I had three girls and no son. Yes, Mr. Lam, we only had sex three times in our marriage. I feel terrible telling you things like this about your brother. Obviously, you didn't know about any of it.”

Ricky tried to digest the information. Lee Ann's arrangement with Philly sounded similar to what Roxy had told him about her marriage. “Did Philip live here?”

“No. He made day visits. To check on us. To give me money. That kind of thing. That went on for a few years, then it stopped. A few months after Emily was born, the checks started to arrive in place of Philip. His telephone calls stopped, too. I hadn't seen him in six or seven years before his death. I really can't remember, but I think I only talked to him once in all those years, and that was to tell him the house needed a new roof. A few days later a roofing company arrived, and I had a new roof. I never spoke to him again after that call. The neighbors thought we were separated. I didn't tell them otherwise. It was none of their business anyway. Philip wasn't the least bit interested in the girls. However, he did provide for them. I basically raised them as a single mom.”

“Did you know he passed away?”

“Not right away. I heard about it on the news the day of the funeral. I was stunned. My girls cried all day. It's terrible to lose a parent, even when the parent doesn't love you.”

“Yes, yes, it is a terrible thing,” Ricky said, remembering the death of his own parents. He'd loved them, though, and they had loved him.

“Did Philip provide for you and the girls on his death?”

“The checks stopped after he died. I have a job. We manage. Emily has two more years of college. Things will be better then. I have some savings.”

“Oh, no, that's not right. I'm sorry about all of this. I wish I had known sooner, but Philly was always such a private person there was no way I could have known. He didn't like people prying into his business.”

“I learned that very early on. Would you like some more coffee?”

“No, thank you. This is fine.” He looked into his cup. He couldn't remember if he'd had any of it or not. He grappled for something to say. “Did you love Philip? Did my brother ever talk about me to you? It's important for me to know this. I just don't understand any of this. You knew about his marriage to Roxy. How did you handle that?”

“No, I did not love your brother. As I told you, our marriage was a business arrangement. He did speak of you several times but only in passing. He made comments when he was working on the kitchen. I think he was talking more to hear himself than anything else. He said you were a movie star. He made the term sound obscene. Life is never easy, Mr. Lam. Yes, I knew about Roxy, and, no, it didn't bother me. Please don't judge me. I had three daughters to worry about, and, like I said, it was a business arrangement. In my heart of hearts, I assumed Roxy didn't fare any better than I did. I simply didn't care. Eventually I came to the conclusion that your brother had some mental problems, and I was relieved when he stopped coming by the house. I'm sorry for being so blunt, but it's the truth.

“Would you like to meet my daughters?” she asked.

“Yes, I would.”

Lee Ann walked down the hallway to the living room, where she called out to her daughters.

He could see traces of their mother in them, but, overall, all three looked just like Philly.

“This is your uncle Ricky. Didn't I tell you he would come to see us someday?”

They didn't look impressed, and he couldn't blame them. What kind of uncle was he not to show up until six months after their father's death.

“I've got to be going. It was nice meeting you all. I'd like to come again sometime.”

“The door is always open,” Lee Ann said. Her tone said she knew damn well he would never be back.

“Walk out to the car with me, Lee Ann,” he said, when Philly's daughters went back upstairs.

Ricky slid into the bucket seat and reached into the glove compartment for his checkbook. He scribbled one off and handed it to Lee Ann, who could only gape at the amount. “My attorney will be in touch with you. You and your daughters will never have to worry about money for the rest of your lives. I'm just sorry it's taken me so long to find you.”

“I don't know what to say.”

“I
will
be back,” Ricky said, starting up the engine of the powerful car.

His thoughts scattered every which way on the drive home.
How could Philly have been so callous in regard to his family? A business arrangement that didn't pan out by producing a son. That was reason enough for Philly not to provide into the future. What a cruel thing to do.

The man had left a half million dollars each to Max and Tyler and nothing to his own blood children. Was it as simple as his sons' carrying on the Lam name? Or was it bitter gall that he couldn't produce an heir?
He wondered if he would ever know. “What a son of a bitch you were, Philly,” he muttered.

A thought occurred to him later when he punched in the code to his private gate. Maybe Philly had set him up. Maybe he was giving him a taste of what it was like to trail after someone and clean up his mess. The more he thought about it, the more he liked Roxy's theory that his brother had set him up to fail.
Shit!

The next morning, Gracie stood by the front door, waiting for the dogs to come back in. She saw the limo coming through the gates, and knew that Max and Tyler were getting ready to head for the airport. She let the dogs in and closed the door securely before she walked across the lawn and around the pool. The least she could do was wave good-bye. They walked over to her. Tyler stuck out his hand. She shook it politely. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Ricky standing in the doorway. Her gaze returned to Max, who looked like he was about to stick out his hand. She closed the distance between them, reached for the collar of his shirt, and pulled him forward. She planted her lips on his and all but sucked out his tongue before she released him. Tyler caught his brother, or Max would have fallen.

“There's smoke coming out your ears, Max,” Gracie said.

“She ain't kidding, Bro. I can see it from way over here.” Tyler guffawed. “Put one foot in front of the other, and you'll get to the car. You can do it, Bro.”

Ricky laughed his head off as he prepared to make coffee. Maybe it was just a swirl of early-morning fog circling his son's head. Then again, maybe it was smoke. He knew in his gut that Max was never going to be the same. He remembered the bells and whistles from the night he'd spent with Roxy. He laughed harder, remembering his socks on the balcony.

 

Satisfied that his bags were packed and he hadn't forgotten anything, Ricky headed for the second floor. He marveled at how quiet it was without his sons in residence. He missed them already. He wondered if he should call them. Would it hurt for him to tell them he missed them? Would they consider it an invasion of their space? Or, God forbid, would they think he was acting like a father? He had
felt
like a father these past few days. It was a nice feeling.

His intention, when he climbed the steps to the second floor, was either to watch television or a video. He really didn't feel like doing either. Maybe he should go through the last file drawer, then carry it to the guesthouse and hand it over to Gracie. It was late, though. He debated with himself. He could still go through it and give it to her before he left for the airport the following day.
Yeah, yeah, that's what I'll do.

God, how he hated going through Philly's things. He hated learning about his secrets. He thought about his own life, open book that it was. Now. Philly had done his best to keep it secret, though. Like his own? Was that what he'd wanted? To have his life rival that of his bad-boy brother? If so, it was a sick desire.

Go through this junk already and get it over with. Put it behind you. You can't undo the past. It's gone.

Ricky sat down on the floor, pulling the heavy drawer toward him. He took out the first folder in the stack. What the hell…This was his mother's stuff, things she'd kept from his school years. His kindergarten drawings, his school pictures, dried flowers, a colored macaroni bracelet, handmade holiday cards. Report cards that clearly indicated he was a little short of hopeless when it came to academics. How did he ever manage to get through school? Things his mother kept. He'd wondered, after her death, what had happened to her things. Once, when he was almost sober, he'd asked Philly, and his brother's response had been that he'd taken care of everything. At least that's how Ricky remembered it.

Philly always took care of everything.

He reached for another file. A copy of his birth certificate, copies of his social security card, copies of his first driver's license. His SAT scores, which were in the crapper, his immunization records. Two copies of everything. More pictures. Stacks and stacks of pictures. Of him. Not Philly. “Jesus, Mom, what did you do here?”

His eyes burning, he continued his search. His yearbooks. All of them. Maybe this was just
his
file. Where was Philly's file? People didn't adopt babies unless they wanted them. Did they? There had to be a file on Philly somewhere. Maybe Philly hadn't liked what was in his and had thrown it away. Maybe these things had just been shoved into a box, and neat-freak Philly had created the files. Philly would do something like that. Everything neat and tidy and in its place.

And then the worst thing of all. Yellowed newspaper clippings of some of his Hollywood escapades Philly hadn't been able to squash. His body burned with shame as he read through the articles. Here it was, his own personal hell. In chronological order no less.

“Ah, Mom, I'm so sorry. I got off the track there. The drugs did things to me. So did the alcohol.” His mind wandered backward in time to his first big paycheck. He'd driven to his mother's house, half-drunk, in his brand-new Mercedes convertible, and staggered into the house. He'd written out a check that had a lot of zeros on it, but she wouldn't take it. He'd wanted to buy her a big, grand new house, but she didn't want it. She didn't want the new car either. The truth was, she didn't want anything from him. She never accepted a dime from him. He'd arranged with a local florist to deliver flowers to her every week.

Philly told him years and years later that she threw them in the trash. Ricky had bawled when he'd learned the truth.

Those first years in Hollywood when he'd been drunk or stoned, most of the time, he hadn't gone home for the holidays. Never once. Philly always went home, though. He was the one who got the Christmas tree, decorated it, bought presents. He was the one who decorated the house on the outside with colored lights. Perfect Philly did it all.

Ricky hadn't known any of that until he'd been out of rehab for about a year. Clean and sober, he'd gone home, but his mother was already ill. She'd just stared at him as if he were a stranger. Basically, he had been a stranger at that point in time. The round-the-clock nurses asked him not to return because it upset his mother. His tail between his legs, he'd left and gone back to his own house.

He'd found out at his mother's funeral, from the neighbors, what a good son Philly was. They didn't have to tell him what a degenerate son he was. He could see it in their faces.

He knew in his heart, in his mind, in his gut, that he could never make that right. Maybe that was another reason the rehab had worked.

So much shame.

So much guilt.

So many regrets.

Ricky reached for the last folder. Taped to the manila folder were two keys and two pieces of paper. He pulled the tape loose so he could finger the keys. One looked like the key to his mother's house, and the other looked like a key to a safe-deposit box. One sheet of paper was a copy of the form a person filled out to rent a safe-deposit box. Underneath his mother's signature was his own scrawl. He looked at the date. He'd been nineteen when he signed the form at the bank. The second paper was the actual deed to his mother's house. He'd been seventeen when his name was added to the deed, the year his father had died from Parkinson's disease. He wondered why Philly hadn't found a way to open the safe-deposit box. Why hadn't it been part of the probate process? Maybe no one had known about it. But Philly had known. Maybe he'd been afraid to take a chance to try and pass himself off as Ricky Lam. He'd already been famous at nineteen, when he'd signed the form.

He looked down at the deed. A deed meant a person owned the property. Hadn't Philly sold their mother's house? Ricky thought he had. Then again, maybe Philly hadn't been able to sell it. Philly must have paid the taxes on it all these years.

Ricky looked down at his watch: 9:30. He was on his feet a second later, with the keys from the file cabinet in his pocket. He barreled down the steps and out to his car.

He was going
home.

An hour later he cut the engine of his car and looked around. It was a quiet street, with streetlights and large shade trees lining the sidewalks. Sidewalks where he used to ride his bike with Jimmy Stevens. They hadn't been allowed to ride in the street back then. He'd played stickball and kick the can in the street after supper, when there was no traffic, but the moment the streetlights came on, he had to be either in his own yard or Jimmy's yard. Jimmy had lived three doors away. He wondered where Jimmy was these days. He made a mental note to find out.

He didn't think it was possible for a neighborhood to look the same some twenty-five years later, but this one did. Neighborhoods usually recycled themselves at different points in time. Older people retired and moved away, making way for new people with kids to move in. The baby boomers and the yuppies got transferred or moved east for whatever their reasons were. The area as well as the street reminded Ricky of Lee Ann Oliver's house.

Ricky didn't realize he was holding his breath until he slid the key into the lock. It turned effortlessly, and that's when he let loose and howled his grief. For one brief second, he felt disoriented.
What in God's name am I doing here?
His hand shook as he pressed down on the latch. It gave easily.

And then he was inside his old home. The light switch was on the left. He leaned back against the closed door. He squeezed his eyes shut. If he didn't turn on the light, if he didn't open his eyes, if he didn't look at anything, he could simply turn around, go out the door, and lock it. He could pretend he didn't know about Philly's keeping the house. And just what good would that do him?

His breathing suddenly ragged, vision rose behind his closed eyelids. A memory of another time such as this when he was eight years old. His parents had gone to the church bingo with some neighbors and Philly was baby-sitting him. Philly had been generous that day, allowing him to play outside past the time the streetlights came on. He'd been playing stickball with Jimmy and some of his other friends, when the rock he was kicking around bounced up and ricocheted crazily right into the Donners' front window. The boys scattered like mice with a cat on their tail. Their house had been dark because Philly was upstairs in his room. He'd leaned against the door then, just the way he was leaning against it now, with his eyes closed. When he felt Philly's hand on his shoulder, he'd almost jumped out of his skin. Then he'd started to cry and blubber. Philly's hand had been comforting and gentle, that much he remembered.

Philly hadn't turned on the light but told him to go upstairs and take his bath. That's when the knock sounded on the door. He was at the top of the steps when Philly finally turned on the light and opened the door. He could see Mr. Donner, who was as mad as a man could be. He couldn't believe his ears when he heard his brother say, “Ricky and I were upstairs doing our homework. He's taking his bath right now.”

Philly never came into the bathroom, never said a word, and he hadn't told their parents either. It seemed as if Philly thought the accident had never happened. But it had. For days he'd anguished over what he had done, but he had never owned up to it. Not because he was afraid of punishment but because he was afraid if he told the truth, Philly would hate him forever. To the best of his recollection, he'd repaid about seventy-nine cents of the cost of the broken window. Creeping out of his bed after everyone was asleep, he'd run across the street and put his five or ten cents in the Donners' mailbox. He'd never told anyone about that either.

Memories like this were not for the faint of heart.

Ricky fumbled for the switch. The small foyer and the living room were flooded with light. His jaw dropped, and his eyeballs stood at attention when he looked around.

He didn't walk, he ran through the rooms, one after the other when the realization hit him.
Son of a bitch! This was where Philly lived. This was where Philly spent his time. This was where he hid out.
He whipped around the corner in the upstairs hallway to Philly's old room. He gaped in disbelief. The closet bulged with clothes, casual clothes, dress clothes, a tuxedo. The dresser drawers were full of underwear, socks, tee shirts, pajamas, and shorts.

The most interesting thing of all was the built-in desk with a state-of-the-art computer, printer, fax, copy machine, and a telephone with enough buttons to light up a room. The bunk beds were the same, too. No, no, they weren't. The mate to Philly's bed that had been his was now here in Philly's room next to the other bed.

Ricky ran back down the hall to his old room. He turned on the light switch. His room was empty. There wasn't a single thing in the room to indicate a small boy named Ricky Lam had ever inhabited the room. There wasn't even a carpet on the floor. He was standing on squares of plywood. He could see the thin strips of nail-studded lath for the original carpet.

The shutters that used to cover the windows were gone, replaced with pull-down shades.

Trying to absorb what he was seeing, Ricky walked from room to room. Everything looked the same except for the thick layer of dust everywhere. Obviously no one had been in the house since Philly's death. Who paid the bills on the house—the light bill, the water? Six months was a long time for anyone to carry a bill. Eventually, the house would have been sold for nonpayment of taxes. Then he remembered one of Philly's habits. He paid everything ahead, sometimes by years. He never actually received a bill that said pay by such and such a date. Everything carried a credit balance.

Ricky sat down at his mother's kitchen table. He needed to think about all of this. Philly had thought he had a year to live. During that year, would he have gotten rid of this house, his files, all his records? Probably. He thought he still had time to take care of matters. He hadn't expected to die so suddenly or so tragically.