Garden of Evil (7 page)

Unconsciously toying with a red pushpin, I pricked my finger. It drew blood.

 

Eager to clear the decks while I could, I asked the slot to beep me with anything new and drove to Miami Beach. I am no detective or social worker. Why, I wondered, was I wasting so much time on Althea Moran? If what she believed was true, it was an intriguing story. But was there a way to prove it? Was I that hard up for a story? Or curious? There was something about her. Did she remind me of my mother? Or was it just that I always want answers?

Dr. Richard Moran and his second wife lived on swank La Gorce Island, where Cher had recently renovated a home. Moran's landscaping, bright and lavish, appeared well watered, despite the restrictions. Some rules don't apply to all of us. The water view was breathtaking, even with the milky haze that transformed large sailboats into mysterious sulfurous ghost craft, disappearing and vaguely retaking their shapes on the horizon. A racy cloud-colored Jaguar in the driveway looked as if it were doing sixty miles an hour standing still. No pink plastic flamingos here.

A uniformed maid answered. The lady of the house was not far behind, an adorable infant in her arms. My jaw must have dropped. A sweet-faced blonde, the young mother was a dead ringer for 1973's Orange Bowl queen. No wonder Richard didn't miss Althea. He had found himself a younger version of the same woman.

She wore a raw silk turquoise blouse, white linen slacks, and a wide leather belt that flattered her figure and her tan, both flawless. She stared, uncomprehending, as I introduced myself.

“We already subscribe,” she said, narrowing her eyes at the Spanish-speaking maid who let me in.

“No.” I smiled. “I
write
for the newspaper, I don't deliver it.”

“A reporter?” Curiosity crept catlike across her face and then blossomed into a welcoming smile. “You're here about the Heart fashion show and winter gala!”

Before I could deny it, she handed off the baby to the maid, who disappeared with her. “It's a bit early for publicity,” Moira Moran said, leading me into a spacious great room. “We're still nominating committee members, but I am chairman this year.”

“How wonderful,” I said. “But I'm actually here about what's been happening to the first Mrs. Moran.”

“Althea?” She spoke the name as though it were something she had stepped in. “Oh my God! She went to the press!” she blurted out, then spun around, venting her frustration in a small frenzy. “That woman! She goes to the press because her goddamn check is late?”

“That's not it at all. It's the other things.”

“She even had the nerve to annoy our attorney just because of a few days, maybe a week…. What other things?”

“I'm sure you're aware of the intruder at her house, the attack on her.”

“Attack?” Moira sneered. “The woman was mugged. My God, it happens. Happened to me once. A lowlife took the Rolex right off my wrist outside of Neiman's in broad daylight. You get over it.”

“I wondered if you or your husband might know of any reason someone might want to harm her.”

She rolled her eyes impatiently and checked the time on what had to be a gold replacement Rolex. “You'll have to talk to my husband about that.”

“I tried his office. They said he was in surgery all day.”

Moira Moran's response was to steer me toward the door. “The woman is a pain in the butt,” she said, “but I seriously doubt that anybody would waste the time and effort. She's trying to make us look bad. She has the
house. She has the car. I'll see that she has her check. What she really needs is to get a life.”

She had one before you came along, I thought.

“It's not easy being a second wife,” she said pitifully, as I left.

Richard, I thought, not his trophy wife, was the culprit. How often, I wondered, did he call his new wife Althea? They deserved each other.

I could have walked, but I drove half a shaded block and pulled into the old Chicago-brick driveway of a smaller but still impressive house, on the dry side of the street. Flowerbeds flourished; the status symbol in this driveway was a BMW.

Jamie Moran Wagner answered the door herself. Petite, her wavy brown hair frosted with golden streaks, she looked less like her mother than Moira did. Her smile faded fast; I was obviously not the person she expected. A baby cried, comforted by someone in another room.

Jamie sighed in distress at mention of her mother. She took me into the kitchen, where she was fixing a bottle for the baby.

“It must be nice to live so close to your dad,” I said. She smiled again. “It's grand,” she said. “It's why I told Lawrence that, no matter what, we had to have this house. I didn't see much of Dad when I was little, he always worked so hard. Now we have kids the same age, his wife is my best friend, and my husband his colleague. It's a blast. We double-date and go to medical conventions and conferences together. Moira and I keep each other company when the guys are working.”

She flipped the top off a can of premixed formula and paused. “I know it's hard on Mom, especially holidays and stuff, but you can see how awkward it would be to have them all in the same room.”

“Isn't it uncanny how much Moira resembles your mom?” I perched on a kitchen stool and watched her pour
the contents of the can into a disposable plastic baby bottle and screw on the nipple top.

“You noticed.” She laughed. “I keep telling Mom it's a compliment that he was attracted to someone just like her.”

“I'm sure she'd have felt more complimented if he had kept the original.”

She rolled her eyes. “You know how it is with some men. They get to a certain age…” She shrugged. “Dad's really a nice guy. You'd like him.”

We sat across from each other at the little breakfast bar.

“I admit,” she said softly, the plastic bottle in her hands, “I've been so busy with the baby and everything that maybe I've neglected her some. But that's not a news story; there's no mystery stalker. If you wrote something, it would just embarrass everybody. When things slow down a little, I'll spend more time with her, take the baby to see her more often. I mean, she can't come here. Moira could pop in the door at any minute.”

My face must have betrayed my thoughts.

“Look,” she said earnestly. “I'm happy now. My own family has to come first, and when I'm happy, they're happy. When Moira—when this whole divorce thing came up, Mom was bummed. She used to cry a lot. It was such a downer, I couldn't handle it.”

She excused herself to take the bottle in to the baby, then rejoined me.

“It's no crime to want to be happy. Mom had her time. She will again. She has to build a new life for herself. She's overdramatizing, wanting our attention, especially Dad's. She won't—can't—let go. Don't you see? Psychology One-oh-one. She has to snap out of it. Nobody can do it for her. Not me, not you. She's a good woman, a nice woman, I love her, and I'm sure Dad still does in his own way—nobody wants to hurt her.” She consulted her Rolex. Had there been a fire sale? I felt suddenly aware
of my own wristwatch, a Heinz novelty model, the second hand a tiny dill pickle.

“You'll have to excuse me,” Jamie said. “Moira and I are going to Bal Harbour. Saks is having a sale.”

The cloud-colored Jag rolled up the driveway as I left.

Althea needed time, attention, and moral support. That's what family, friends, and shrinks are for. That's not what I am paid to do.

 

Lottie had reappeared in the newsroom, svelte and radiant. Love always made her lose weight. She claimed she hadn't slept.

“It was nothing but sex, sex, sex,” she drawled, drawing instant attention from Ryan, at his desk behind me, and Howie Janowitz, who was passing by. “Coral sex.”

“Coral,” I informed them, speaking succinctly. Both looked disappointed.

Coral sex occurs only a few nights a year, when the moon is full and the tides, temperatures, and other conditions just right. They had gone diving to watch elkhorn and star coral spawn.

“You shoulda come with us, Britt. Underwater blizzards, millions and millions of teeny tiny pinkish balls—sperm and eggs connecting in the moonlight. Eventually they settle down and build a reef.”

“Sounds like you and Tex are a hot item,” I said.

“Nothing but sugar and honey so far,” she said. “Way I figure, it's probably jist about time for the bottom to drop out. Happens every time.” She sighed. “When he's good, he's so-o-o good. Then he gets involved in some wild adventure or decides to save the world and it's time to run for the high timber.”

“Maybe he'll surprise you.”

She shook her head. “When he was twelve he got his picture in the paper for being the youngest student body president ever elected at our school. Same week he got
expelled for flying a glider he built off the roof. That's how it's always been, like he can't stand success.”

Clucking sympathetically, I thought of McDonald, who would never disappoint me.

I bought thick steaks at Epicure on the way home and scrubbed my apartment to a shine. I gave Bitsy a bath, brushed Billy Boots, trimmed his claws, and then did my own nails. Everything had to be perfect.

He called late. I whispered sleepily that champagne on ice awaited his arrival. “One more day,” I said.

“We need to talk about that.”

“Yes-s-s,” I purred.

“Something really great has happened. I've been invited to take part in an FBI/State Department symposium on terrorism. I talked to the chief today and he was really enthusiastic, heartened by the offer. The more cooperation we can foster with these guys, the better off we are.”

“When is it?” Was rain about to fall on my parade?

“Starts tomorrow,” he said briskly.

“How long?” I held my breath.

“I'll be up here another week.”

“A whole week?”

“It's an excellent opportunity to work with these guys, good for the city and good for me personally. Because of the department's past troubles, the FBI hasn't trusted us or wanted to work with us. You know how it's been. And you know how important mutual cooperation is on some of those extraditions we've been trying to make from south of the border.”

His spiel had begun to sound like an official presentation.

“But we were—”

“A chance like this doesn't come often.”

“And me you can see anytime, is that it?”

“Believe me, I'm as disappointed as you are.”

When did all this come about? His invitation to participate didn't arrive at midnight. Why didn't he tell me be
fore I scrubbed the apartment, washed the dog, bought the champagne, manicured my nails, requested comp time, and practically picked out a silver pattern? He prefers terrorism to me, I thought furiously. I'll show him terrorism.

“The best things are worth waiting for, babe,” he said. “We've got the rest of our lives.”

He got me with that one.

I stared at the ceiling later, disappointed and surprised at my own sweet understanding. That is how good police wives are, I told myself. Wait and wonder, swallow disappointment and worry, smile bravely, bear up and behave like a trouper. Did they actually find fulfillment in that?

 

In the morning I called to ask my mother to dinner. She'd been on my mind since I visited Althea. Also, I didn't want to dine alone on the night McDonald and I should have been together. And, most importantly, someone had to see and appreciate my spotlessly clean apartment.

“Sweetheart! I've been thinking about you,” she said cheerfully. “Kendall McDonald isn't back in town yet, is he? What will you be wearing when he arrives? Make it memorable, something he'll always remember you in.”

I did not mention my new nightgown. “I thought, maybe my navy blue”

“No, no, no! Something glamorous, unforgettable, in some lighter shade of blue. A bias cut, with a draped neckline, a romantic little soft jersey dress that skims the body. Something like mat would be absolutely darling on you, with your figure.”

“He's delayed,” I said glumly. “Won't be back for another week. Want to have dinner here tonight? I'll cook.”

“You darling, but I have to settle for a rain check. Roger is coming in from New York, and we have plans. I wish you'd called sooner.”

“You didn't return my last call,” I complained. When
did our relationship take this 180-degree turn? I wondered. Her chronic complaint was always that I didn't call or see her enough. These days, with her high-fashion job and burgeoning social calendar, I had to make an appointment.

“Who the heck is Roger?” I grumped.

“You remember, I told you about him, recently retired, relocating to Aventura.”

“I thought you were seeing that fellow from the cosmetics firm.”

“Warren,” she chirped. “We're doing brunch on Sunday.”

“Well,” I said. “Sounds like you're all booked up.”

“What's wrong?” She said it so spontaneously it startled me. “I'll cancel on Roger if you need me, Britt.”

“No. Don't be silly. I'm really glad one of us has a life. Have fun.”

“I saw that dreadful story about the baby in the parked car. Everyone was talking about it.” She clucked. “If you could just write something pleasant for a change, I'm sure you'd feel much better about yourself.”

That was the mother I remembered. Somehow I felt better. For a moment there, I thought she'd gone sensitive and caring on me.

My mom had a date. Everybody I knew had happily paired off. That I was not totally alone in my misery and frustration was small comfort.

I called a kindred spirit from the office. Althea sounded relieved. “I was so worried when you didn't return my calls.”

Her words irritated me, probably because I woke up irritated. The state map with the red pushpins hung over my shoulder, a dark presence behind me, casting an imaginary shadow over my desk.