The Girl Who Ran Off With Daddy (20 page)

I kissed her on the forehead. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

She lowered her head to my chest and slept. We both slept.

I
T WAS THE SOUND
of dishware breaking downstairs that woke me. The morning sun was streaming in the windows, and I was alone in the bed. Not so much as a trace of Lulu. A moment later I heard footsteps coming up the stairs, and then the door swung open and Clethra Feingold burst in carrying a breakfast tray, Lulu scrabbling along behind her, tail wagging happily. Dogs, it has been my experience, always wake up in a good mood.

“Well, well, what’s the occasion?” I said, sitting up.

“I thought it was time for me to start earning my keep,” Clethra replied brightly, up as a pup herself. Her hair was brushed, her cheeks flushed. She had on a flannel shirt and jeans. The top button of the jeans was unbuttoned, as were the bottom buttons of her shirt—the better to show off her belly button ring. “Um, there was this little white milk pitcher? With, like, these daisies on it? I hope it wasn’t too valuable …”

“What, that old thing?” That old thing had originally belonged to Merilee’s great-grandmother and had been handed down from daughter to daughter ever since. Merilee would weep. “Not to worry.”

Clethra set the tray down on the bed next to me. There was orange juice. There was coffee. “I didn’t know how you took yours,” she said, meaning the coffee.

“Black is fine.” I took it from her and sipped it.

“How is it?”

I really did try to answer her, but no way. Not without airmailing it all over Aunt Patience’s quilt, which would have meant the ruination of Merilee’s second heirloom of the morning. I’d never tasted coffee quite like it before. But I certainly knew what to call it—Mocha Drano.

“It sucks, doesn’t it?” she agreed sheepishly. “I wasn’t sure how your coffeemaker worked, and I don’t usually make—”

“It’s fine,” I croaked. “Really.”

She sat on the edge of the bed, wringing her hands, suddenly very unsure of herself. “I-I put some food out for the cat. Lulu seemed hungry, too, only all I could find was the cat’s food. Where do you keep Lulu’s?”

“I’ll take care of her. You’re in much too fragile a state to know the truth.”

“Actually, I’m fine,” she insisted. “Last night was a big, big help. You’re a sugar, even though you try to pretend you’re not.”

“Actually, I’m flavored with NutraSweet.”

“Anyway, thanks. I mean it.”

“No problem. That’s what collaborators are for.”

She swallowed nervously, poking at the quilt next to my leg with her finger. “That’s what we are, huh?”

“That’s what we are,” I affirmed, wondering just exactly what was going on. Was this her trolling for a new daddy? She did have me here all to herself. And she had already worked her way into my bed. What next? Bust up a second family? First the mentor, now the pupil? Or was this all my sick imagination? After all, she was eighteen and alone and the roof had just caved in on her. I took her soft little hand and squeezed it. “And we’re friends as well. Thor was my friend, and you’re my friend. Okay?”

She nodded, blushing, and lingered there clutching my hand. “I guess you’ll be wanting to get dressed and stuff.”

“And stuff.”

“Cool.” She released my hand and got to her feet. “I’ll start your breakfast.”

“What am I having?” I asked warily.

“Irish oatmeal. I found it in the pantry. That okay?”

“Only if you’re going to join me.”

“I don’t
do
the breakfast thing.”

“Then forget it. No way.”

“But—”

“That’s my deal. Take it or leave it.”

She rolled her eyes—the all-suffering teenager bit. “Well … okay,” she said with great reluctance, as if this were some totally major sacrifice. Then she smiled at me quickly and went back downstairs.

I showered and shaved and doused myself in Floris. I dressed in the suit of dark brown wide-wale corduroy I’d had made for me in Milan. I wore an aged blue denim shirt and Fair Isle cashmere knit tie with it, the suede balmorals from Maxwell’s, Thor’s bracelet. By the time I made it downstairs a pair of Major Crime Squad investigators had shown up to paw around in the bottom of the pond some more. And the Irish oatmeal, which was on high heat, had boiled over and was streaming across the floor like high-fiber molten lava. Clethra was busy in the parlor watching
That Girl
with Mario Thomas and Ted Bessell. I turned the stove down and mopped up the spilled oatmeal and dumped Clethra’s pot of coffee down the kitchen sink, which had been draining rather sluggishly of late anyway. Then I made some genuine coffee and leafed through the stack of faxes her editor had sent. That morning’s coverage of the murder in the New York newspapers: SNIPPED AND DIPPED screamed the
Post.
THE FINAL BLOW cried the
Daily News.
LEGENDARY AMERICAN AUTHOR DIES IN RURAL CONNECTICUT POND yawned the
Times.
Also three faxes of her own devising:
“Are we still on?”
asked the first one.
“How soon can you deliver?”
asked the second one. The third one declared:
“We’ll stand by her
no matter what,
if you know what I mean.”
Oh, I knew what she meant, all right. Even if we’re sitting on the killer’s very own confession was what she meant. And no doubt hoped. Which explained why the woman liked sending faxes so much. The whirring noise helped drown out that nagging sound of Maxwell Perkins spinning in his grave. I tore the faxes up into tiny pieces and threw them out and put the phone back on the hook. Would have been unprofessional not to.

It started ringing right away—crazed, feverish producers for
Hard Copy, A Current Affair
and
Inside Edition
offering me up to $750,000 for the exclusive story of Thor’s last days. When I said no they immediately asked to speak to Clethra. When I hung up on them the crazed, feverish producers for Paula and Diane and Katie called offering me a sober, responsible network face time with Paula and Diane and Katie, like this somehow beat out three quarters of a mil and the chance to appear on the same show as Bob Barker’s sex slave. When I hung up on them a crazed, feverish editor of
The New York Times Book Review
called asking me if I’d contribute a twenty-five-word remembrance of Thor Gibbs for a special tribute they were putting together. So far they’d lined up Erica Jong, Bret Easton Ellis, Jerry Seinfeld, Simpsons’ creator Matt Groening and supermodel Naomi Campbell. I said no to this, too. I said no to everybody. If the grand-high-exalted Tina Brown herself had called and asked me out to lunch I would have said no.

Then Dwayne Gobble checked in. “Just wondered if you’ll be wanting me this morning, Mr. H,” he said, his voice over the phone somber and respectful. “I mean, I figured maybe you folks would be wanting to be alone today …”

“Let’s make it tomorrow, Dwayne. The police are still poking around. Oh, and Dwayne?”

“Yessir?”

“The tabloid TV shows may start phoning you.”

“No shit, man. They, like, already have, but I … Wait, can you hang on a sec?” I heard a muffled exchange before Dwayne said, “In a
minute,
Mom, okay?” Sounding weary and annoyed. “Sorry about that, Mr. H. Where was I?”

“The tabloid TV shows.”

“Oh, right. Told ’em all to get fucked. Mr. Gibbs was a great man. Man like that, you’re supposed to treat his death with reverence, not try to cash in on it.”

“You’re a good man, Dwayne.”

“Be seeing you tomorrow, Mr. H. And please give my best to Clethra.”

I left the phone off the hook after that. Served up the porridge, put out the maple syrup and honey. She came when I called her and flopped down at the kitchen table, twirling her hair distractedly around her index finger.

“Dwayne sends his best.”

She played with her food, her plump lower lip stuck out. “He’s a lot smarter than I expected. Reads a lot of serious books. He even reads
you
.”

“I make for a nice break from the serious stuff.”

“He said I should try reading you. Should I?”

“Not if you intend to become a healthy, productive member of society.” I tried her oatmeal. Not too terrible, actually. Would be perfect in between those troublesome loose bricks in the chimney. “He thought we’d want to be alone today.”

Her eyes sparkled at me with flirty mischief. “Do we?”

“That’s entirely up to you. We could start working together.”

She set her spoon down, her breakfast untouched. “Like how?”

“Like I could ask you questions and you could answer them.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” she allowed. “Only, I wanna talk about you first.”

The old role reversal bit. I’ve gotten it from every single celebrity I’ve ever worked for. They need to know they can poke and prod at me the same way I’m poking and prodding at them. It makes them feel less vulnerable. “If you’d like,” I agreed.

“Okay, how long have you and Merilee been together?”

“Twelve years, off and on.”

“Like, how come?”

“How come the off or how come the on?”

“The off, for starters,” she said.

“Sometimes we can’t stand to be together.”

“Okay, how about the on?”

“Sometimes we can’t stand to be apart. Eat your oatmeal.”

“It’s boring.” She curled her lip at it.

“Do you want me to make you something else?”

“How come you two won’t get married again?”

“Why, have you been talking to my father?”

She let out a giggle. “Do you get it on with other girls?”

I finished my oatmeal, somehow, and put the bowl down for Lulu to lick. She doesn’t care for oatmeal, but she likes to reserve the right to change her mind at any time. In this sense she is very much like a cat or the head of a film studio. “Other girls?”

“Like when you and her aren’t getting along, I mean. Do you?”

“Not lately, no.”

“Does Merilee?”

“Get it on with other girls?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I wouldn’t know. We respect each other’s privacy.” I poured myself more coffee and sat back down with it. “Why, did Tyler go out on you?”

“
All
the time!” she flared, her little fists clenching. “He’d, I’m like, bail on me because he had this big paper due, okay? So I’d show up at some party somewhere, okay? And there he’d be with some bitch—like his tongue down her throat and everything, okay? One time it was one of my best friends even. I mean, that’s just so shitty.”

“What if you wanted to see another guy?”

“I’d be straight up about it.”

“What if he minded?”

“Then I’d tell him, like, Tyler, you’re being a dick, okay? I’m my own person, okay?”

“Did you tell him you were seeing Thor?”

“No way!” she replied sharply. “I mean, me and Tyler were history by then.”

“He didn’t know about you and Thor?” I persisted. “Before it all blew up in the press, I mean.”

“That’s right,” she said, her eyes avoiding mine across the table.

She wasn’t telling me the truth. This much was obvious. Meaning what? That she’d continued seeing Tyler even after she and Thor had become a famous couple? Or that Tyler knew her relationship with Thor had begun
earlier
than she and Thor had admitted—like when she was still sixteen? Not that this mattered, of course. She and Thor had never actually had sex.

Or
had
they … ?

“Are you and Tyler still friends?”

“No, he’s not like that.”

“Not like what?”

“There’s guys who you like as friends but don’t wanna fuck and then there’s guys like Tyler who you do wanna fuck but you don’t like. I mean, you just
want
them, y’know?” She sighed mournfully. “It’s just so hard to find guys who are good-looking and not schmucks. I sure haven’t.”

I tugged at my ear. “Except for Thor, you mean.”

“Right. Except for Thor.” She was starting to squirm in her chair. My questions were making her edgy.

I got up and poured myself some more coffee, watching her. “Are you still holding to the story that you and he never had sex?”

“It’s not a story,” she insisted. “We hugged and kissed, that’s all.”

“Nothing happened between you two when you were still underage?”

“Nothing happened
period
.”

“He never touched you where he shouldn’t have?”

“No!”

“And you never touched him where you shouldn’t have?”

“No! I
told
you the truth. Geez, why won’t you fucking
believe
me?”

“Because that’s my job, Clethra.”

She puffed out her cheeks impatiently. “This, like, sucks. I’m not having fun.”

“They aren’t paying you two million dollars to have fun. This is work, not the MTV Spring Break.”

“How much longer do we have to keep doing it?” she demanded.

“We can stop anytime.”

“Cool.” And with that she got up and flounced back into the parlor to the TV.

“Not to worry,” I called after her. “I can take care of the dishes.”

Which I did. Afterward, I went upstairs and packed my briefcase and came back down to the parlor with it. She’d moved onward and downward to
The Beverly Hillbillies.
“I’m going to New York,” I informed her.

Her eyes stayed on the TV. “What, right now?”

“What, right now.”

“How come?”

“Things I have to do.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“A day or two. Care to come?”

“And stay where?”

“At our apartment, if you’d like.”

“Couldn’t I just stay here?”

“All by yourself?”

“Why, you think I’m going to
steal
something?”

“Not at all. But after last night I thought you might be frightened.”

“No, like, I’m totally over that,” she assured me. “Plus Dwayne’s coming tomorrow, right?”

“Right,” I acknowledged, thinking maybe he had a little to do with why she wanted to stay. Briefly, I felt a pang of something—I didn’t know what, and I didn’t want to know what. “Our number in the city is right by the phone. There’s a ton of food in the house but if you need anything the key to the Rover is hanging behind the kitchen door. There’s also Thor’s bike.”