W Is for Wasted (22 page)

“You had a phone call,” she said. “A man named Barnaby from Ajax Financial Recovery.”

“Collection agency,” Pete said. “The guy’s been bugging me for weeks. I can’t think why he’d call here when I just sent off a check. I told him it was in the mail, but he wouldn’t back off. He’s the kind of fellow can’t admit he made a mistake.”

“He said the account had been turned over to him because payment was overdue by six months. With late fees and charges, the total’s six hundred dollars.”

“Well, then it’s lucky I took care of it before they jacked up the total again. Ask me, it’s a hell of a way to earn a living, harassing folks over something like that.”

She studied his face carefully. “If you had problems you’d let me know, wouldn’t you?”

“Absolutely, I would. Happily, that’s not the case. In fact, business is looking up. I’ve got an appointment at one o’clock that I think might net me a handsome chunk of change.”

“But you know you can tell me, right? If there’s a problem?”

“When have I not? That was the deal we made, how many years ago? Coming up on forty by my count.” He stretched out his hand on the table and she laced her fingers into his. “Speaking of which, I’ve got a surprise. I wasn’t going to tell you, but it occurred to me I better give you fair warning.”

He removed the brochure from his jacket pocket and placed it on the table, elaborating as he went. He showed her the route along the Danube, pointing out some of the stops on the itinerary; Budapest, Vienna, Passau. He was honest about not having the entire sum set aside, but he was getting there, he said. She didn’t seem as excited as he’d hoped, but the idea might take some getting used to. They’d never traveled abroad. Europe was just a rumor as far as they were concerned. They had passports, which they were careful to keep renewed, but they’d never had occasion to use them. Her spirits seemed to pick up as he told her about the accommodations. He had ways of making it seem real; not an extravagance but something they deserved after forty years of being happily married and careful about the money they spent. They finished lunch. He cleared the table and made quick work of the dishes. By the time he left for his run to Colgate, she was her usual sunny self again and he felt better. No point in being depressed when there was so much to look forward to.

•   •   •

The meeting with Linton Reed started off on a bad note. Pete reached the university in ample time, but he was forced to drive around the campus in search of the Health Sciences Building, which he hadn’t spotted on the map he’d picked up at the campus information center. He pulled a ticket from the dispenser and circled the lot until he found a parking space. On reaching the clinic’s administrative offices, he made a point of asking to have his parking ticket validated. In the event the conversation didn’t go well, he didn’t want to get stuck paying the campus parking fees. The department secretary didn’t approve of his being there, but she didn’t have the nerve to refuse to validate his ticket. She pasted three stickers to the back. He took a sly satisfaction from her dislike of him, which she could barely conceal.

To retaliate, Pete was made to wait thirty-five minutes before he was escorted down the hall and allowed into His Holy Presence. The good doctor was handsome; smooth cheeks, clear blue eyes, fleshy lips, and a nose with a slight upward tilt to it. His was the kind of face most would trust. Dr. Reed’s first glimpse of Pete had generated a nearly imperceptible flicker of surprise in the good doctor’s eyes. Pete caught it. He always caught that look.

Linton Reed observed him with clinical detachment and Pete could see his mental processes at work. Dr. Reed had doubtless read about Pete’s disorder in medical texts, but this might have been the first real live instance he’d come across. Naturally, that would make Pete a curiosity. Dr. Reed said, “Which of your parents suffered from Marfan syndrome?”

“My father,” Pete said. He felt an instant dislike for the young man, who apparently thought his being a doctor entitled him to probe Pete’s genetic history when the two had only just been introduced. Marfan was an autosomal dominant condition, which meant that a defective gene from only one parent was needed to pass the disease on. It also meant that each child of an affected parent has a 50-50 chance of inheriting the defective gene. It annoyed Pete that in his “doctor” role, Linton Reed had adopted a deeper tone of voice. This was meant to underscore his authority, conveying the rights vested in him as a medical wizard entitled to pry into everybody else’s private business.

The good doctor probably hoped to open up a whole discussion of Pete’s condition, but Pete had something else on his mind. Linton Reed was a charmer and fully accustomed to exercising his personal magnetism. He was a sheepdog at heart. He looked harmless, but he couldn’t resist herding his fellow man. He’d been born with an unerring instinct for bending others to his will. Pete had had a dog like that once, a border collie named Shep who just couldn’t help himself. Take a walk in the woods with friends and Shep would dash ahead and behind, keeping everyone together whether they wanted that or not. The urge was inbred and the implication was always that the dog knew better than you did.

Pete loathed the man sitting across the desk from him. He remembered prigs like him in grade school, smart, but soft from sitting on their big fat superior white asses while kids like Pete rose to the challenge of the bullies. Linton—shit, even his name was prissy—would dissolve in tears while Pete fought down to the bitter end. His nose might be bloody and his shirt torn, the back of his pants streaked with dirt and grass stains, but the other guy always backed off first. His opponents took to coming after him with chains and stones, at which point he was sometimes forced to concede. Anything short of that, Pete was fearless.

Dr. Reed adjusted his watchband, not checking the face, which would have been rude, but making his point nonetheless.

“Ms. Sobel mentioned you had a personal matter to discuss.”

“I’m here to do you a favor.”

The set smile appeared. “And what might that be?”

Pete opened the folder he’d brought with him and placed it on the desk. He wet his index finger and turned a page or two. “It’s come to my attention that you’re in a bit of a sticky situation.”

“Oh?”

“This is in regard to the Phase II clinical trials involving a drug called Glucotace. I confess I don’t understand all the nitty-gritty details, but according to my sources, the drug was originally intended for diabetics until it was taken off the market for what turned out to be, in some instances, fatal side effects. Your current hypothesis is that in combination with Acamprosate and another drug . . .”

“Naltrexone, which is in common use. Studies have shown it mitigates the craving for alcohol.”

Pete held up a piece of paper. “I’m aware of that. It says so right here. Your theory is those two drugs plus Glucotace might prove effective in the treatment of nicotine and alcohol addiction.”

“Statistics show alcoholic smokers are more prone to severe nicotine dependence than are nonalcoholics with higher smoking rates.” Dr. Reed’s tone was bemused and slightly professorial, as though Pete might benefit from enlightenment. “We’re just beginning to address the relationship.”

“And we appreciate your attention to the matter,” Pete said. “With regard to Glucotace, your observation was that patients in treatment for alcohol dependence often develop a craving for sweets, which naturally plays havoc with their insulin levels. Your idea was to control glucose as a means of minimizing the peaks and valleys. Use of Glucotace, in this instance, would be classified as off-label.”

The doctor smiled. “And you know this how? I’m just curious.”

“Get an NIH grant and much of this is public record. The rest I picked up on my own. Success here would go a long way toward boosting your career. Comes to publishing, you’re already ahead of the curve. How many papers in this year alone? Forty-seven by my count. You’re a busy boy.”

“Some of those were coauthored.”

“Duly noted. I made a copy of the list.”

Linton Reed’s face remained blank. No herding behavior here. “I don’t understand where you’re going with this.”

“You want the long version or the short?”

Dr. Reed’s eyes were dead. “Keep it short.”

“There’s been some suggestion you’re cooking your data.”

“Pardon?”

“The clinical trial. You’re manipulating the numbers, making them look better than they are; something I gather you’ve done in the past. There was that business in Arkansas, which I grant you was a problem of a different sort.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I may not know the whole of it, but I know enough. Whatever’s going on is of no interest to me personally, but I gather it’s of the utmost importance to you. You have that pretty little bride of yours, new home the in-laws bought you, nice car.”

“Leave my private life out of this.”

“Just pointing out how much you have to lose. Good job, all those high-class friends. This comes to light and you can kiss all that good-bye.”

“This conversation is over.”

“Conversation’s over, but your jeopardy is not. I have an idea how you might sidestep disgrace. I’d be happy to spell it out if you’re interested.”

The good doctor’s voice dropped into the manly range that must have served him so well in other circumstances. “If you don’t leave my office this minute, I’ll call security.”

Pete stood and took out a business card that he placed on the desk. “I’d give it some thought. You’ve got a lot at stake and you can’t afford to get caught out. Even the
accusation
of trimming, founded or unfounded, would open up a can of worms, especially in light of your previous infractions.”

“Get out of here.”

“Call if you want to chat, buddy. I’m here for you.”

Linton Reed was already reaching for the phone, prepared to summon the troops. Pete left in as unhurried a manner as he could muster, refusing to admit the doctor had struck fear in him with the threat of campus gendarmes. The secretary studiously avoided looking at him as he passed, which was fine with him.

He returned to his car and when he pulled up to the exit gate, he noticed the kiosk was empty and the parking attendant was nowhere to be seen. Pete waited a moment, then got out of the car and walked around the rear until he reached the kiosk window. He peered over the sill, reached in, and activated the mechanism that raised the gate. Then he got back in his car and pulled out. The validated ticket he stuffed in the glove compartment in case he had some future use for it.

Pete headed for home. He’d planted the seed and now he’d leave it to Dr. Reed to follow the thread to its logical conclusion. Give him a week and he’d cave. What struck Pete as weird was he didn’t feel that good about the deal. There was something depressing about the whole thing. Linton Reed was a bad egg. He was a man who cut corners and to date he’d managed to tap-dance out of harm’s way, using his considerable charm and his good looks. The encounter should have given Pete the satisfaction for a job well done. In truth, he was weary beyond belief.

Maybe it was time to retire. Ruthie made excellent money and it wouldn’t be a problem getting by on what she earned. Essentially, that’s what they’d been doing for the past eighteen months. The house was paid for and their expenses were minimal. She must know how broke he was. She could probably see through Pete’s pie-in-the-sky claim of imminent financial gain. She knew him better than he knew himself, and what he loved about her was she’d never dream of calling him on his shit. She was protective of him. She made it possible for him to save face. In the meantime, it crossed his mind that if the good doctor never called him, it might be reason to rejoice. They’d find a way to survive. If the good doctor didn’t call, he’d take it as a sign and he’d hang up his spurs.

•   •   •

At the office first thing the next morning, his phone rang. He nearly let the call go to the answering machine, but for once he picked up.

Linton Reed said, “What do you want?”

“Whatever you think it’s worth.”

“I’m not going to
pay
you. Why would I do that? You’re way off. You don’t know the first thing.”

“You don’t want to pay, we have nothing to discuss.”

“Whatever you think you have on me, you’re dead wrong. What you’re attempting is extortion. I’ll call the FBI.”

Pete felt something sour rise in his throat. “I’m not talking about money to keep quiet. I’m talking about making the threat evaporate. You got a problem. I got a plan.”

“For which I pay.”

“Everybody pays for services. That’s how business is done.”

“How do I know you won’t come back for more?”

“Because once I neutralize the danger, that’s the end of it.”

“What are you, a hit man?”

“What’s the matter with you? I don’t hurt people for any reason. I’d never do such a thing. Any rate, I don’t think this is something we should discuss on the phone. Why don’t we find a place to meet? That way, we can pursue the matter in private and see if we can reach an agreement.”

There was a long silence and Pete waited it out.

Finally, tersely, the good doctor said, “Where?”

I followed Alice as she crossed the back porch and went down the wooden stairs. Lolly sat in a shady spot under a cottonwood tree on one of two metal lawn chairs. These were duplicates of the ones I remembered from the scrim of yard in the trailer park where I’d lived with Aunt Gin; metal back and seat, supported by a continuous bend of U-shaped tubing, which gave the chairs some bounce. The finish here was chalky from sun exposure, but the chairs were otherwise in great shape. Between the two, there was a metal table resting on three legs.

The larger part of the backyard was given over to a vegetable garden, densely planted and still producing; cherry tomatoes, peppers, eggplants, and two kinds of squash. The beds were bordered with dark green kale and bright orange marigolds. The roses along the fence had been pruned to short, blunt sticks.

Alice said, “Lolly, this is Kinsey. She’s a friend of Terrence and Evelyn Dace. They lived next door to you and David on Daisy Lane. Do you remember them?”

“Oh, yes. It’s so nice to see you again,” she said, and then looked at her cousin, waiting for the next cue.

Alice said, “I’m going to bring you some lemonade. You can tell Kinsey about the garden.” And then to me, “Lolly designed the beds when she first came to live with me and now we work awfully hard to keep them in shape. I’ll be right back.”

She returned to the house, leaving me alone with Lolly, who looked every bit of her eighty-six years; big-boned and gaunt with wide shoulders and a wide, sloping bosom that disappeared at her waist. Her eyes were buried in soft folds. The dress she wore was cotton with an old-fashioned faded floral print in blues and pinks. She wore opaque beige stockings and sandals with thick straps. She had a colander in her lap and she was shelling peas, though the results were a jumble of torn and broken pods with the occasional spill of bright green. Once in a while she looked down, puzzled by the sight, but unable to correct for the error in play. Her expression was probably one she’d settled on for most occasions; pleasant, but with a fixed quality, like someone traveling in a foreign country, unacquainted with the language and therefore hoping to avoid conversation.

She flicked an anxious look toward the back door and then leaned close. “Who is that woman?”

“Your cousin, Alice. Your mother and hers were sisters.”

Lolly’s expression was anxious. “Alice is young. That woman’s old. She moved into my house and now she’s bossing me around. What right does she have to give orders?”

I felt myself detach from reality for a quick reassessment. My neighbor Gus had fallen into the hands of an unscrupulous caregiver who operated in this same manner, discounting complaints and suggesting psychological problems where there were none. If Gus told anyone how mistreated he was, the listener’s natural inclination was to write him off as a mental case. For all I knew, Lolly was telling me the truth. At the same time, if Alice was indeed a stranger taking advantage of an elderly woman, she wouldn’t have allowed me to see Lolly in the first place, would she have?

“I just met her,” I said. “I called and asked if I could visit and she agreed.”

“I’ve never seen her before in my life. Have you?”

“Not until just now,” I said. “Do you remember Terrence and Evelyn Dace?”

“Of course. Are you a friend of Evelyn’s?”

“No, but I talked to her children, Ethan—”

“Ellen and Anna,” she said, filling in the family tree.

I was thinking, good, we’re back on track. “Do you remember the name Karen Coffey?”

“Oh, yes. She went missing in February and they found her days later stuffed in that culvert, not two miles from Daisy Lane. She’d been raped and strangled with a cord. I felt so bad for the family. They were members of my church.”

“You have a good memory.”

“Do I?” she asked, and then, hesitantly, “Have you seen my daughter, Mary?”

“I don’t know Mary. I wish I did,” I said. “Were you at Terrence and Evelyn’s house the night Karen Coffey disappeared?”

“I was. David and I went next door at six o’clock for a potluck supper. I brought a three-bean salad and homemade rolls. Evelyn made that casserole she does with cauliflower, sour cream, and grated cheese. I’ve asked for the recipe four times, but she won’t give it to me, which I told David is just typical of her.”

“Did you have a pleasant evening?”

“We did. The pastor of our church and his wife were there. We had supper and then talked about raising money for the new Sunday-school building.”

“David’s your husband?”

“Yes, but you know he went out some time ago and hasn’t come back since. He’ll be upset if he hears that woman’s been bossing me around. Do you know who she is?”

“I believe she’s your cousin, Alice.”

“The visiting nurse said the same thing, but I know Alice and that’s not her.”

“Do you remember where Terrence was that night?”

“At the house with the rest of us. The pastor’s wife brought meatloaf, which I thought was too dry—though please don’t repeat what I said. When Terrence went to the store for ice cream, the pastor halted the discussion, thinking he might have something to add when he got back. Evelyn told him vanilla and he bought peppermint. Was she upset? Oh, my stars. That woman can throw a fit. Are you a friend of hers?”

“I haven’t met her,” I said. “What’s she like?”

“Crazy as a loon.” She crossed her eyes, stuck her tongue out the side of her mouth, and made a circle with her index finger at her temple.

“Lolly, can you tell me who’s president of the United States?”

She leaned forward and put a finger to her lips. “I didn’t vote for him. Don’t tell.”

“What’s his name again?”

“Richard Nixon.”

I stayed long enough for half a glass of lemonade and some inconsequential chat. I kept a discreet eye on my watch and at 9:45 I excused myself, saying I had to get back to the hotel in order to check out. I thanked Lolly for her time. I thanked Alice for allowing me to come. When she accompanied me back through the house to the front door, I saw no sign of the flowers or the box of candy I’d brought. I hoped Lolly got something out of the deal. Did I trust her recollection? I most certainly did.

•   •   •

I crossed the lobby of the Holiday Inn on my way to the elevators. I’d planned to check out before Mamie and Evelyn arrived, but it occurred to me I should hang on to my room so I could put a call through to Henry prior to my departure. I had just enough time now to pack my belongings and get myself centered before the meeting. I could also use the opportunity to make a few quick notes.

A woman called out, “Kinsey?”

I knew the minute I turned around I was looking at Ethan’s wife. Mamie wasn’t fat by any means, but she was solid. She was taller than I and a good forty pounds heavier. Dark eyes, dark hair skinned back and held with a clip at the nape of her neck. Her face was full, tanned as though she spent all of her waking hours outdoors. She was packed into a pair of black slacks and a crisp white blouse, the shirttail out and belted at the waist. She wore big silver hoop earrings and she carried the manila envelope I’d left behind with Ethan. I knew it was the same because in one corner, I could still see the imprint of Binky’s wee front teeth.

Behind Mamie, seated on the couch, was Evelyn Dace, whose expression I can only describe as sorrowful. She wore a lightweight tweed suit, wren brown, with a white polyester blouse under the jacket topped by a big softly draped bow.

Mamie was holding her hand out. “Mamie Heisermann.” Her voice was of the booming type.

I shook hands with her obligingly, murmuring exactly what one does in situations of the kind.

“Let me introduce you to Evelyn,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind our coming early.”

“Not at all,” I said, though I did mind. The move was meant to catch me off guard, which it had. In the meantime, I couldn’t help but think that Ethan and Mamie were as unlikely a married couple as any I’d seen. She carried herself with authority. He seemed both self-involved and clueless about others’ perception of him. I was impressed by his stage persona, but not with the man himself. I wondered if Mamie had any idea how he behaved when he was out of her sight. Surely, any woman married to a musician has some inkling of what goes on.

I tagged Evelyn Dace at roughly her ex-husband’s age, which I knew was fifty-three at the time of his death. Her eyes were blue, but not the same bright shade as Anna’s. The orbs of her eyes seemed sunken, defined by shadow. She kept her smile modest, as though the hardships in life had robbed her of humor and hope.

We shook hands. Anna had told me Mamie and Evelyn didn’t get along, so the two must have set aside their hostilities in order to present a united front. I might have felt flattered, but I realized a better interpretation was that the two had now merged their antagonisms, the better to focus them on me.

Mamie said, “I talked to the manager and he says we can use the conference room as long as we’re out by noon.”

I thought,
Two hours? Shit!
“No problem. I’m on my way home, so I don’t have long. I’d like to be on the road by eleven.”

“So you said on the phone. I hope you’re not thinking to cut the discussion short. What if we haven’t reached an agreement?”

“About what?”

“Well, I can see you’re already being argumentative.”

“Let’s just see how it goes,” I said, not wanting to engage. We might end up in a fight but it didn’t have to start right
now
.

She led the way down a short side corridor off the lobby in a section of the hotel set aside for trade shows and conventions of a modest sort. The room we entered could have accommodated fifty people, but not many more. Windows ran the length of the room. The carpet was dark blue and the walls were faced with a neutral fabric meant to deaden sound. I could imagine a meeting in progress; coffee carafes arranged on the sideboard with trays of sweet rolls, doughnuts, and other pastries. Maybe a fruit platter if management wanted to make a show of healthy choices. The big conference table would be furnished with a scratch pad and ballpoint pen at each place. There’d be pitchers of ice water with plastic cups stacked nearby. I truly wished I were going to that meeting instead of the one pending.

This table was bare and the room was empty except for a whiteboard with an instant-erase marker pen. Someone had drawn a “Kilroy Was Here” cartoon in the center. We arranged ourselves at one end of the conference table, Mamie at the head. I took the seat to her right so I was facing the door. Evelyn sat across from me. With the glare from the window at my back, she probably couldn’t see my facial features.

I glanced at Mamie. “Where do you want to start?”

She removed a copy of the will from the manila envelope, leafing through the pages like a prosecuting attorney approaching the witness stand. Some of the faux friendliness had faded and we were getting down to brass tacks. “I have to say we’re perplexed. Evelyn and I were talking on the way over and she reminded me that before Terrence went to prison, he drew up a will that was nothing like this one.” She fixed her brown eyes on mine.

“He rewrote his will after he arrived in Santa Teresa. The date’s probably on there someplace. This was after he and Ethan quarreled and he left Bakersfield. It must have been a hell of a fight if this was the end result. Ethan said you were there. You want to talk about what went on?”

“The less said about that the better,” Mamie remarked, her expression chaste.

“Terrence was drunk,” Evelyn said. “No big surprise. He was always drunk.”

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize you were there or I’d have asked your impression.”

“I’m telling you what I heard.”

I turned my attention to Mamie. “Anna says Ethan spit in his father’s face. Is that true?”

“That was uncalled for. I told Ethan he was way out of line on that score. Even so, I don’t believe it warranted this level of retaliation.”

Evelyn jumped in. “I’m in total agreement with Mamie. We can’t understand why you’ve been given a role in such an intimate family affair. How in the world did you end up executor of the estate? My husband’s death is distressing enough without this blow on top of it.”

“Ex-husband,” Mamie said.

“I was as surprised as anybody else,” I replied.

“I’ll just bet you were,” Evelyn said, cutting me short.

Mamie gave Evelyn a warning look.

“Well, I don’t see why we should shilly-shally around,” Evelyn said, bristling.

“And I don’t see why I should sit by while you turn this into a big stinking fight,” Mamie snapped back.

“If you like I can go through the chain of events,” I said.

Mamie’s gaze flicked to mine. “Please.”

“First of all, you know who Rebecca Dace was?”

Evelyn spoke up. “She was Terrence’s aunt. Her brother Randall was Terrence’s father. She had another brother named Sterling, but he died some years ago.”

“Rebecca Dace married my grandfather Quillen Millhone. He and Rebecca had one child, my father, Randall Terrence Millhone. From what I’ve been able to piece together, he was Terrence’s favorite uncle.”

“Which doesn’t answer my question,” Evelyn said. “Why did you inherit all that money with such a flimsy blood tie? You’re barely related to us at all. It just doesn’t seem right.”

“I’ll tell you as much as I know,” I said, and repeated my account, which I rendered in excruciating detail, hoping to dispense with any questions she might pose.

When I finished, both women stared at me.

Mamie shook her head slightly, checking the last page of the will to make sure she hadn’t missed anything. “What about these witnesses? We don’t recognize the names.”

“Those were friends of his.”

Evelyn said, “Well, I’m happy he had friends. That wasn’t always the case. I’m sure you understand why we’d be skeptical.”

“You want to tell me what’s on your mind?”

Evelyn reached for the will and checked the pages as Mamie had. “Well, who is this Mr. Singer? Have you any idea?”

“He and Terrence met at a homeless shelter. I didn’t make the man’s acquaintance until last week.”