Spider Season (31 page)

“Fred’s gone,” Maurice said. “The hospital called a few minutes ago. I tried to reach you, but there was no answer.”

“I forgot to take my phone. I’m sorry.”

“His heart was too weak. I’m sure they did their best.”

I had no words, so I just let him talk. Mostly, he recalled milestones in his life with Fred, the good times, alternately laughing and crying. He told me that it all felt unreal, that it didn’t seem possible that Fred was actually gone from his life.

Then he said, “Benjamin, there’s something you should know.”

“What’s that, Maurice?”

“Years ago, Fred and I decided to leave this property to you. I know it’s an old house, not that big and nothing fancy. But we’ve kept it up fairly well, and it’s all paid off. And with the apartment and the yard, and this being West Hollywood, well, it’s worth a good bit of money, at least by our standards.”

“Maurice, that’s very generous. But let’s not talk about that now.”

“No, I want to say this. At some point, you and I will exchange places. If I’m still able to get up and down stairs, I’ll move into the apartment and you’ll come down here to live.”

“Maurice—”

He shushed me, and continued. “Our hope was always that you would make a good life for yourself in this house, maybe settle down with someone special. Maybe that nice young man, Ismael, who Fred and I like so much. You see a future with him, don’t you?”

Shame gripped me. I couldn’t bear to tell him what had happened up in the apartment a few hours earlier. Not just then, maybe not ever.

“I’m not so sure Ismael and I are meant to be together.”

Maurice patted my knee, as he had so often over the years.

“You’ll learn soon enough,” he said, “if you haven’t already, that companionship with someone you respect and care deeply about is what makes life bearable, even worthwhile. Loneliness is the great burden we all face, Benjamin. But how we face it and meet its challenge, how it shapes and transforms us, all that is within our power. And the power of two is infinitely greater than the power of one.”

The cats shifted to get more comfortable, molding themselves into each other like a spooning couple. To the east, through the trees, the sky was pink. The early sunlight found its way to the street and began to gently baste the house.

“If you could drive me to the hospital in a few minutes, I’d appreciate it. They promised not to move Fred until I come to see him. And his wedding band—I told them I’d prefer to remove that myself.”

“Of course,” I said. “We can go whenever you like.”

“Where have you been, anyway? Coming in at such a late hour.”

“Just out,” I said. “Out driving.”

He searched my face. “Is there something you need to tell me, Benjamin?”

“No. Things are okay.”

“You’re sure?”

I nodded vaguely and reached over to take his hand. It was withered but soft, and I noticed that he’d removed all his jewelry, the bracelets and rings he was so fond of wearing. Except for his gold wedding band, the one that matched Fred’s. I couldn’t imagine Maurice ever removing that.

“How are you holding up, Maurice?”

“I’ve had better days.” He smiled self-consciously. “But you’re with me, Benjamin. That helps.” He squeezed my hand. “You and the cats.”

THIRTY

With September came blistering Santa Ana winds and more wildfires. The sound of sirens became routine. White ash drifted down on the neighborhood like a fine mist.

Amid all the news coverage of the fires, Fred’s death briefly got some attention, as spider bite fatalities in urban areas sometimes do. If Jason Holt hadn’t known about Fred’s contact with the brown recluse, I thought, he surely did now. Maybe he realized he’d finally gone too far, because I heard nothing from him in the ensuing days. I was in a quandary about what to tell the authorities, whether I should raise questions that would trigger a coroner’s investigation. Since I had no proof, I hadn’t mentioned my suspicions to Dr. Kaplan. With nothing to indicate foul play, he was likely to declare Fred’s death natural when he signed the death certificate. To be on the safe side, though, he’d ordered toxicology tests. The tox report would take several days, probably longer, which bought me some time to make a decision.

As much as I dreaded it, I felt compelled to talk to Maurice about the possible connection between Holt and Fred’s death. I worried that Dr. Kaplan might decide on his own to get the coroner involved, and I didn’t want Maurice to hear about it first from someone else. But I procrastinated, fearing his reaction.

At week’s end, on a Saturday, Maurice held a memorial service behind the house. It seemed too soon to me, the timing more appropriate for a funeral than a festive celebration of Fred’s life that one might have expected from Maurice. I’d anticipated music, dancing, laughter, but the service turned out to be a modest and somber affair, with only Maurice’s closest friends in attendance. When he stood up before us to speak, his voice and manner lacked any sign of vigor. He commented that each year his circle of friends grew smaller, as age or disease took them one by one, and how grateful he was for those who remained. He briefly reminisced about Fred, becoming emotional when he spoke of Fred’s devotion and essential decency, which was often lost on others beneath his gruff exterior. Maurice also spoke about the various causes they’d been involved in over the decades—civil rights, women’s rights, gay rights, workers’ rights, the environment—and how he saw them all connected, inseparable from one another. It troubled him, he said, that the younger gay generation, by and large, didn’t seem too concerned about the issues shaping its future, that too many young queers had grown dangerously complacent, focused on their own immediate comfort and pleasure, while forces that would oppress them grew stronger and bolder with each passing day.

For all his sincerity, Maurice’s words lacked the energy and passion for which he’d always been known in the community. He’d been understandably subdued since Fred’s passing, unwilling to be away from home for any length of time, and preferring to spend long hours alone with the cats, rather than have friends in or accept their invitations to go out. He’d always been the most resourceful and dependable man I’d known. But he wasn’t the same now that he’d spent a week of nights alone in the bed he and Fred had shared for so long. The reality of Fred’s death, I think, had finally sunk in. Maurice seemed detached, less engaged with the outer world, and simply worn-out, as if all of his eighty-three years had suddenly caught up with him.

Toward the end, when it was time to spread Fred’s ashes, Maurice carried the urn out into the rear yard and removed the lid, while we stood around him. But he was quickly overcome with feelings and asked me to do it for him. I used my bare hand, tossing handfuls into the garden they’d tended together for so long, saving the final ashes for spreading on the grave where they’d buried the baby dove in the shade of the blue hydrangea.

When the service was over and everyone was gone, the cats reappeared on the patio, taking their usual places on the cushions, while Maurice and I cleaned up.

“Your friend Ismael didn’t come,” Maurice said. “Didn’t you want him here?”

“We haven’t spoken recently,” I said.

He waited for more, but when I wasn’t forthcoming, he said, “I see.”

I dumped paper plates in the trash cans beside the garage while he carried a tray of glasses into the house. We met again on the patio. Maurice picked up a broom and began sweeping.

“Alexandra called yesterday from Seattle,” he said, “expressing her apologies that she couldn’t be here today.”

“I guess her book tour is pretty tightly scheduled.”

Templeton had been profiled on
60 Minutes
the previous week, and interviewed on several talk shows, looking gorgeous, sounding articulate, and demonstrating an impressive grasp of her extremely serious subject.
The Terror Within
was climbing all the big bestseller lists and would probably win an important award or two. It seemed likely that she’d become a media star, grabbed up by one of the network news departments or at least turned into a staple on the gab shows, where the male experts could be fat, bald, and frumpy, but their female counterparts had to be trim and attractive, as well as smart and well-spoken. In that sense, Templeton was just what the networks and cable news shows were looking for. She was due in San Francisco today for more interviews, then back in Los Angeles on Monday, just in time to help her parents make the final preparations for her Saturday wedding.

“She asked me to wish you a happy—” Maurice broke off, mildly alarmed. “Oh, my goodness. It’s your birthday, isn’t it? Where’s my mind, Benjamin? I completely forgot.”

“That’s all right, Maurice. I’ve been trying to forget, myself.”

“But fifty, Benjamin. It’s such a milestone. I should have at least made a nice cake.” Distress crossed his face like a cloud. He placed a withered hand to his cheek. “Everything’s been so—I don’t know, so out of sync.”

Our eyes met and he burst into tears. I thought he might collapse and took him in my arms.

“What’s happening to me, Benjamin? I’m behaving like such an old Nellie.”

“You’ve earned the right,” I said.

He cried on my shoulder for a minute or two, then pulled himself together.

“Let’s finish cleaning up,” he said. “It’s funny how much cleaning I’ve done this past week. I haven’t been able to stop. The house has never been so spic-and-span.”

He began rearranging patio furniture, which didn’t really need it.

“Won’t it be wonderful,” he said, “seeing Alexandra get married next week?” He looked over. “You are planning on attending, aren’t you?”

I smiled for his benefit. “Of course. I wouldn’t miss it.”

I hadn’t told him about my suspicions regarding Templeton and Cathryn Conroy, and what Conroy planned to write about my father’s death. Maurice didn’t even know about my secret; I’d never discussed it with anyone but Ismael and Alexandra. Conroy surely would have filed her piece by now, I thought, and it would have been scheduled for the next available issue. With biweeklies like
Eye,
that usually required several weeks’ lead time, even if the story warranted a fast break. So I still had a little time before I needed to prepare Maurice for what was coming.

What couldn’t wait, however, were my suspicions regarding Jason Holt. The thought of broaching it with Maurice sickened me, and not just for his sake. If Holt had put that spider in our mailbox, it had surely been meant for me, not Fred. That made me culpable, if only indirectly. All my life, I’d been a magnet for trouble that had ended up hurting others. But never more than this time.

“Maurice, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

“What is it, Benjamin?”

He paused in his work to face me.

“Do you remember the hate mail I was getting earlier this summer? The nasty phone calls and other harassment?”

“From that strange man, Jason something-or-other?”

“Jason Holt.”

“Is he bothering you again?”

I told Maurice about my two visits to Holt, about his implied threats and his fascination with spiders.

“He does sound awfully strange,” Maurice said, still not getting it.

“I have no way of proving it,” I said, “and I could be overreacting. It’s just that—” I broke off, avoiding his eyes.

“What is it, Benjamin? What is it you’re trying to tell me?”

I laid a hand on his shoulder, and forced myself to meet his eyes.

“I’m concerned that Holt might have been involved in Fred’s death.”

Maurice drew back as if repulsed, causing my hand to drop. “What?”

“The spider, the mailbox, Holt’s vengeful behavior toward me. It raises certain questions.”

He turned away, using the broom for support. When he faced me again, he shook his head resolutely.

“That’s not possible, Benjamin. Fred’s death was an accident.”

“I suppose it was. But still—”

“No!” He shook a bony finger at me, his eyes sparking. “It was a terrible but unavoidable accident. That’s all it was.”

“If it was homicide,” I said gently, “it wouldn’t diminish our memories of Fred. And you’d want to know the truth, wouldn’t you? If Holt was involved, you’d want him to answer for it.”

Maurice sat down heavily in a folding chair, his eyes downcast.

“I’m not sure that I would.” When he looked up, tears brimmed. “That someone had intended that spider for you, and Fred had died because of it? That Fred and I had been robbed of whatever time we had left together by such a thoughtless, dangerous prank?”

He shook his head again, and stared out across the yard, where the flowers he’d planted in the late spring were fading.

“I don’t know if I could live with that, Benjamin. I truly don’t.”

THIRTY-ONE

In the days that followed, I saw and heard nothing from Jason Holt. Yet the specter of Fred’s death and Holt’s possible involvement in it continued to hover darkly over my life, temporarily casting Lance Zarimba to its fringes. My appearance on
Jerry Rivers Live
was growing near—the producers had called twice to ask questions and prep me—and I knew Lance would be a focal point of the hour. But at the moment, it was Fred’s passing and the way he’d died that loomed largest.

Several times I picked up the phone to contact Detective Haukness, feeling compelled to trigger a homicide investigation. But each time I hung up before completing the call.

I didn’t know for sure that Holt was responsible for Fred’s death or if I could ever prove it. It’s one thing to become obsessed with someone, I thought, harassing and punishing him because he won’t pay attention to you, as Holt had done to me. It’s quite another to cross the line to homicide. Had Holt placed that spider in the mailbox simply to frighten me, to remind me that he was still capable of annoying and intimidating me? Or had he, knowing that I was immune depressed, placed it there hoping it would bite me and make me seriously ill, maybe even kill me? Was Holt merely a petty sociopath and self-deluding narcissist, or was he capable of murder?

I still craved more clues about him and about his past. In my mind, I went over the three key people in his life that he’d mentioned: Silvio Galiano, Charles Wu, and Victoria Faith.