Cold Shoulder

by Lynda La Plante

  Brad arrived at his mother’s nursing home in the late afternoon. He had called Lorraine’s number four times but received no reply. He decided he would try once more before he left. He didn’t know why he wanted to see her; he was not infatuated or in love with her, but he couldn’t shake off the memory of how gentle he had felt toward her, how good it had been to hold her in his arms.

  Mrs. Thorburn was seated by the windows overlooking the elegant gardens. The nursing home was not far from the horrific L.A. County Medical Center but very different. This was the Motion Pictures Home for ex-stars or anyone connected to show business. Mulholland Drive was on one side, Cabon Avenue on the other. The private rooms with dining areas and small kitchens looked out onto a spacious garden and beyond the gardens was Mirasol Park. Mrs. Thorburn was there out of choice. She was not incapacitated or infirm, but she said she liked the company. She was sitting in one of the bright communal lounges, reading Vogue, the arthritic hands with their perfectly manicured nails gliding over the pages, pausing to tap a particular photograph and then ripping off a yellow sticker from a pad and carefully applying it to a page. She still bought lavish clothes, sometimes an entire collection, which were delivered to the home.

  Brad watched her for a few more minutes. Everything about her was immaculate: her wig, false eyelashes, and pale powdered skin drawn tightly over the high cheekbones. The many face-lifts had given her a surreal look so she could, at a distance, be taken for a thirty-year-old woman; only close up did one see the stretched, taut, aging skin. He called her name softly as he approached and bent to kiss her cheek. As always she averted her face.

  “Be careful of my hair, darling.”

  He pulled up a chair, sitting to one side. She closed the magazine and held it out as if to an unseen butler. Brad took it and pushed it into the side of her wheelchair. She was wearing a lilac silk draped blouse with four rows of pearls at her neck and large matching pearl and diamond earrings. There was a soft cashmere lilac shawl across her knees and her skirt was a deeper tone. He could see her delicate feet encased in soft handmade cream shoes, her pale white legs and still shapely ankles resting on the wheelchair step.

  “How are you?”

  “Dreadful. How do you expect me to be?”

  Her perfect lips, dark crimson, her overlarge, overwhite false teeth, grimaced in a sneering smile. “I hear you’re selling the house? I always hated it. Will we get a good price?”

  “I think so.”

  “Where are you going to live?”

  “South of France.”

  “Always loved Cannes but it’s not what it used to be. Your father took me there often in the early days, but we had problems with the staff, probably because he was fucking them.”

  Brad smiled at the way she dropped in the word “fucking” as if to shock, but he was used to it. She could swear better than any man he’d ever met and he felt something akin to fondness for her, which surprised him. Suddenly she pointed one frail, red-nailed finger toward the gardens. “They’re putting in a new border and a fountain. I just hope it’s not some awful cherub pissing. I hate those little penises spurting water. I’m always surprised how many people choose them, very distasteful, nasty things, penises—uncircumcised ones in particular. I made sure you were circumcised—much more attractive, especially if you’re being sucked off.” She gave a shrill laugh, and placed her hands over her lips like a naughty schoolgirl, her diamonds glinting in the sunlight. He gave a small tight smile; she had often disgusted him when she’d said something similar in company, especially in front of his college friends. She’d always delighted in being crude, offensive, and overtly sexual, enjoying the embarrassed blushes she caused.

  “Mother, do you remember that big topaz ring? It had diamonds all around it, very large, set in platinum,” he said quietly, surprised at himself for even bringing the subject up.

  “Hard to forget. Your father would always give me something extravagant when he was screwing somebody else. The more expensive it was the higher the chance of it being a close friend. The topaz was good quality and they were rose diamonds, excellent carat. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason.”

  “Ah, my darling, there’s always a reason. I suppose it was one of the items Steven stole or sold or whatever they wish to call it. Well, it was a beautiful ring but too ostentatious for my taste.” She turned to face Brad, her eyes still china blue.

  “Why did he have so many other women? My father. It’s always struck me as odd. You must have loved each other at one time?”

  “Love never came into it, sweetheart.” He wanted to hold her clawlike hand, but she was turning to one of the other residents, waving like royalty.

  “We worked together. She’s very infirm, poor dear. We were having such a good gossip the other day, she told me a marvelous story about Irving. It was on a Mickey Rooney movie … now there was a talent, pity he was so short and … um …” He saw her mouth tighten, then she plucked at her cashmere shawl.

  “No, love never came into it, that was why he hated me so much and tried to hurt me in every way possible. He hated me because I could not find him attractive. I married him for his money. I told him at the time but I don’t think he believed me.”

  He leaned back slightly. He wanted her to be lying, needed her to say there had been some love. He felt like a helpless young boy; had he been born out of hatred?

  “Is that true, Mother?”

  She turned back to face him, her blue eyes like ice chips. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know and I have to go.” He stood up. She waved again across the elegant room and murmured that it was teatime. “Will you write to Steven?” he asked.

  He was astonished by the venom in her voice when she replied.

  “He’s dead to me. I can’t bring myself to write or make any contact. He does not exist. I’ve already changed my will. You’ll get everything. Everyone here has been so, well, understanding, but I won’t discuss it. Ah! Yes, I remember what I was going to tell you, it was a movie with Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney, and Irving came to my dressing room and …”

  He touched her shoulder. He had heard all her movie stories many times, knew they were mostly lies. “I’ll write, and then, as soon as I’m settled, you’ll come visit me.”

  “That would be very pleasant, dear.” Both knew the other was lying; there would be no visits. There was no antagonism or reprimand in her bright eyes. She held out her hand and he kissed it gently. How often had he smelled that sweet floral perfume? How many times had he as a child wanted this woman to hold him and kiss him? He felt it even now: he wanted some sign that she cared for him. But she gave none, dismissing him by withdrawing her hand.

  He walked away across the polished wood floor, then turned back, half hoping she would still be watching him. But she was already flipping through the pages of Vogue again, positioning a yellow sticker on a long cream evening gown worn by a doe-eyed model.

  She hadn’t worn an evening gown for more than thirty years but she hadn’t wept for much longer. Tears ruined her makeup, made her false eyelashes unstick. It had taken many long years of practice not to weep. She could remember the last time she had cried herself to exhaustion. It had been when she had found her husband in bed with her closest friend. The two of them naked, moaning with orgasmic pleasure. She had never had an orgasm in her entire life; she was frigid; she was, as her husband had called her, the “Ice Maiden.” Only little Steven had broken through to her heart. Only Steven had known how to love her, seemed to know intuitively the fear she had of allowing herself to be loved. He had known how to kiss her without pawing or fumbling. Only Steven knew how delicate she was—and now even he had betrayed her. He had been as brutal as every man she had ever encountered, selling off her precious things without even asking, going with disgusting lowlife, whores, filthy disgusting unwashed pieces of humanity. Sitting trapped in her wheelchair, she remembered his slim, delicate body; his sweet, tender kisses; his perfect
circumcised penis that she had loved to kiss awake and then to rub his semen over her skin, because it was better than any of her expensive creams. They had discussed its therapeutic powers endlessly, lying together in her overheated bedroom. She had never believed that what they were doing was wrong—it was only natural. She bore no blame for what he had subsequently done: that had nothing to do with her. The women he had murdered were whores, just like the bitches her husband had brought home. They had meant nothing to her, and she refused to feel any remorse for the women her beloved son had killed. She would not forgive him for stealing from her, not forgive him for bringing the terrible-smelling police officers to interview her, showing her photographs, terrible photographs of Steven pretending to be her. She could not understand why he had subjected her to such awful humiliation, such scandal, when she had managed to live her entire life without so much as a hint of gossip surrounding her. It was unforgivable because she thought, of all people, Steven understood; she had only ever loved Steven. She started to sing softly to herself, snatches of a song she’d sung in a chorus someplace a long time ago.

  “If I say I love you, do you mind,

  If I shower you with kisses, if I tell you, honey … this is …”

  but she could no longer remember all the lyrics.

  Steven Janklow was being led from his neatly made bed in the white-walled room. He liked nighttime. Every night on the way to the bathroom with his guard, he passed a window. He always stopped in his tracks when he saw his reflection in his white cotton institution gown. “Oh, hello, darling,” he whispered, before he was led into the bathroom. He never spoke to anyone else, only to the image in the dark window-pane, but he was always smiling. He seemed happy and contented, often singing the same few lines from some half-remembered song.

  “If I say I love you, do you mind,

  If I shower you with kisses …”

  Brad Thorburn returned to France. He made one last attempt to contact Lorraine but received no reply. “If I say I love you, do you mind …”

  Rosie and Lorraine had worked hard all week. They had bought some cheap office furniture, a bookcase, and filing cabinets. They had arranged for the phone to be connected and delivery of a word processor. Lorraine dropped by the gym to see Hector and explained that she was taking over the office next door. The proximity of the gym would make it very convenient for workouts.

  They did not hire a sign painter as no good agency wants its work broadcast. They would keep a low profile and advertise in newspapers and magazines. Lorraine would require a license and a permit to carry a weapon, but she felt she should give Bickerstaff a few weeks before she asked a favor. She’d left her number and the address in case he wanted to talk to her but he hadn’t called.

  She and Rosie were surveying their handiwork when there was a thump on the door. Lorraine turned. “I thought you were doing Europe.”

  Rooney took off his hat. “The wife still is. They called me back for the Craig Lyall business.”

  She tilted her head to one side and he gave an odd, rueful smile.

  “Okay, I’m lying. I called Josh to see what was happening and, well, in case they needed me I thought I should come back.”

  “Do they?” she asked, wanting to give him a hug but deciding against it. Rooney was not really the kind of man you hugged.

  “Nope, they didn’t, but, man, are they all very pleased with themselves, and now there’s no nasty smears about the Art Mathews suicide, which makes the FBI happier.”

  Rooney was wearing a big T-shirt, baggy pants, and a loud checkered jacket. He somehow even managed to take his bad taste right down to odd two-toned shoes. He edged farther into the new office and looked around. “You won’t get a license, you know,” he said flatly.

  She shrugged. A lot of agencies were working without one.

  “Won’t get the good clients. You won’t even get a weapon license.”

  “I’ll take it day by day, Bill.”

  He sniffed and looked around, twisting his hat. “You got my home number?” he asked. He had something on his mind but was too embarrassed to come out with it, so he merely shrugged his shoulders. “I might go and have some of that raw fish. I’ve missed it. I don’t suppose you’re in the mood for some?”

  “Not right now, but thanks for the offer.” She let him plod all the way to the door before she took pity on him. “Bill …”

  He turned, plonking his hat on. “Yep?”

  She walked slowly toward him, arms folded. “I know you’re retired and looking forward to sitting back and enjoying a life of leisure, but I was just wondering …”

  He couldn’t hide it: his face lit up as he looked at her expectantly.

  “Well, as you said, I couldn’t get an investigator’s license or a weapon permit. I’ve only got my driver’s license thanks to you. What would you say to helping me out—not full-time, I wouldn’t ask that of you, but maybe just a couple days a week?”

  She let him do a lot of frowning and head scratching but then he smiled. “I’ll put in the license application today. I’ve got a lot of contacts—we could make a go of it.”

  She put out her hand and he shook it and then he pulled her toward him. The big man that nobody dared hug clasped her tightly, his voice was hoarse with emotion. “Always said you were one of the best. I’m proud you pulled yourself back up. I’m proud of you, Lorraine.”

  Rosie watched him walk off before she snapped, “I thought I was your partner!”

  “You are. We need him, Rosie, he’s got his retirement bonus, he’s got contacts. It’s all to do with contacts and he’ll be a good front man.” She put her arm around her fat friend’s shoulders. “I’m feeling good, Rosie, positive. How about you?”

  Rosie was as tickled as old Rooney had been. Lorraine had this ability to draw you to her, make you want to please her—kill her at times, too—but more than that, you felt if she was happy then you were part of that happiness.

  “I’m feeling good, partner. I know we’ll make a go of it, I just know it.”

  Rosie and Lorraine went on to an AA meeting. They both went regularly twice a week. Jake was waiting for them to join him. He was the greeter at the door as they took their places in front of the small informal platform. This meeting was important because Lorraine was going to share her story. Rosie glowed with pride. She herself was not ready yet to stand up and be counted, as Jake called it, but she was closer than she’d ever been before, and she felt she owed it to her friend Lorraine. Rosie had a future. It wouldn’t all be smooth sailing, she knew that—she was no fool—but at least she was in a far better position than she had ever dreamed possible. She was thankful that she’d taken that crazy chance on the strange skinny woman minus a front tooth, because they’d both come through. To see Lorraine sitting up there, elegant, strong, and vital, made the long, hard journey they’d traveled together worth every minute.

  Jake took out a big square handkerchief. He couldn’t stop himself: Lorraine was making him cry, not because of what she was saying—he knew most of it by now—but because, like Rosie, he was so proud of her, and it was hard for him to believe that the wretched creature Rosie had brought back from the institution was now facing the demon head on. She had fought it, and almost been beaten, but now he was sure she was on her way to recovery. You could almost feel her energy, her optimism.

  “My name is Lorraine and I’m an alcoholic. Eight years ago, I was a police lieutenant. I was also a drunk. I committed a terrible injustice. I mistakenly took a young boy’s life because I was drunk. There is no excuse. Nothing will ever take away the guilt I felt, still feel, will always feel.” Lorraine continued the story of her life, how she had lost her children and her husband, how she had sunk into prostitution, how she had fallen downward to every kind of depravity simply to earn enough money to drink herself into oblivion. She talked about meeting Rosie. When she said that was in April, it made her pause, realizing it was not so long ago. Then she continued about her introduction to
Jake, how she came to be here, and finally that on the first of October she had opened her own business and was hoping she would make a success of it. She then thanked everyone for listening to her story, and said she felt she was living proof of how far down someone could go and how, in only seven months, climb back again.

  “I don’t want oblivion anymore. I want my life. I want to live my life and I want to live it sober. I will always be indebted to AA and to my friends. At last I feel more at peace with myself and with God. Because for a while, I thought he’d abandoned me. But he didn’t, he hasn’t. I’m Lorraine again, and she’s been missing for a long long time. Thank you.”

  FOR THE LATE ROY LA PLANTE,

  A GENTLEMAN

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I sincerely thank Susanne Baboneau, Gill Coleridge, Esther Newberg, Patty Detroit, the real Lorraine Page whose name I borrowed, Hazel Orme, Clare Ledingham, Liz Thorburn, Harry Evans of Random House, and my wonderful American editor, Susanna Porter. To everyone at the Pasadena Police Station and Sheriff’s Office, thank you for your time and expertise. But above all my thanks to a very admirable lady who brought me the story of her life.

  ALSO BY THE AUTHOR

  Bella Mafia

  Entwined

  Framed

  Prime Suspect 1

  Prime Suspect 2

  Prime Suspect 3

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  LYNDA LA PLANTE started her career as a television actress, then turned to scriptwriting, where she made her breakthrough with the phenomenally successful British television series Widows. In the United States, she is best known for her television miniseries Prime Suspect. She has won two Emmies, the 1993 Edgar Allan Poe writers award, and top British awards. La Plante lives in East Hampton, N.Y., and London.