“Okay, okay . . .” I grabbed her hands and held them. “I do.”
“Thank you.” She lowered her head back down on my chest once again and put her arm around me, hugging me tight.
I lay there, stroking her hair. The Aintree sisters had circled the wagons. Whatever had happened in that bedroom was strictly a family affair. I was an outsider, and a potentially dangerous one at that—a friend of the homicide lieutenant who was in charge of the case. Was Reggie visiting me to find out what I knew? Had Monette put her up to this?
“Stinker, about your dad . . .”
“What about him?”
“I’m thinking he’ll be scared off by all of this. That he won’t show up now. How about you?”
The coyotes began to howl. Lulu shifted around uneasily on the bed.
“I heard them last night.” Reggie’s voice was barely more than a whisper. “I thought I was dreaming.” She breathed in and out for a moment before she said, “I don’t believe those letters are real. I think he’s dead.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Just a feeling I have.”
“So who’s been writing them?”
“Monette, who else?”
The same Monette who’d suggested to me last night by the pool that it was Reggie who was writing them—in cahoots with Boyd Samuels. “Why would Monette do that?”
“That’s obvious.”
“Trust me, nothing is obvious to me right now.”
“Monette’s an inventor of stories. It’s what she does when she’s in crisis mode. She made up that story about Dad sexually abusing her to deal with the pain of losing Mom. And she’s made up this story about Dad magically reappearing after twenty-plus years in the wilderness to cope with the pain of losing Patrick to Kat. It’s about her. It’s always about her.”
“And yet you flew out here. Why?”
“I told you why. Because I thought I’d be needed. And I was right. Not that I had the slightest idea Monette was going to shoot the cheating bastard. I can guarantee you she wasn’t planning to. If she had been then she wouldn’t have bothered with those fake letters, would she? She doesn’t need them now. She’s got her story.” Reggie fell silent, exhaling slowly. “Can we talk about something else now?”
“Such as . . . ?”
“Why did you dump me?”
“You really want to talk about that?”
“Yeah, I really do.”
“Okay,” I said, stroking her hair. “I had to.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that I was having so much fun with you that I could barely even remember what my novel was supposed to be about. And then, poof, off you’d go to Havana or Senegal, and instead of writing I’d just pine away for you, wondering when I’d get to see you again. I knew I’d never write my book if we stayed together. I had to end it.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me that? Why did you shut me out? You wouldn’t see me. You wouldn’t even talk to me on the phone.”
“That was my size-huge ego. You were Regina Aintree. The Regina Aintree. I was just an angry young nobody who’d published a couple of short stories. I was so desperate to prove to you that I was a serious writer. It was the single most important thing in the world to me. Nothing else mattered.”
“I hated you.”
“I know.”
She lay there in silence for a moment. “You really wrote it because of me?”
“Of course. That’s why I dedicated it to you.”
“I did it for you, too. Getting involved in all of those political causes, I mean. I wanted you to think I was incredibly daring and independent and fascinating. But do you know what I really wanted? I wanted my family back. My mother had killed herself. My father had disappeared. My big sister had sold out and written that horrible book about him. My whole life had been torn away from me. A few months before you broke up with me, I was sitting on stage at a women’s poetry symposium in Gabon, waiting to read one of my poems, and it hit me right between the eyes that where I really, truly wanted to be was settled down with you at some nice little college in New England raising kids in a sweet old cottage, puttering in my garden and making my own jam the way Mom used to.”
“You never told me that.”
“I couldn’t. I was afraid you’d be disappointed if you found out how conventional the Regina Aintree truly was. I wanted you to think I was gutsy. I’m not. Monette’s the gutsy one. Look at what she’s accomplished. Her own TV show, a retail empire, two kids. I could never have had kids. I’d have forgotten them somewhere or dropped them on their heads. I’m the fraidy cat of the century. I wake up scared every morning and I stay scared all day long. The only time in my whole life when I ever felt truly calm inside was when I was with you. Want to know something? This feels nice, Stewie. Like old times,” she murmured as Lulu lay there next to us, mouth-breathing. “Although it smelled a whole lot less like low tide at Rockaway Beach in those days.”
“If I kick her out of the room, she’ll start barking.”
Reggie rolled a bit more over onto her side, her inner thigh resting on top of my legs. Slowly, I became more and more aware that she was no longer an old friend with frozen feet who’d come in out of the night to snuggle. She was a soft, pliant, very alive woman who was stretching and arching herself against me.
“What are you doing?” I asked her.
“What do you think I’m doing? I’ve been desperate to jump you ever since I got here. I tried to visit you last night but Monette had already claimed you.”
“We had a drink by the pool and talked. That’s all.”
“I know. I watched you from my window.”
“I’m not going to get caught in between the two of you, am I?”
“You are so clueless. You’re already caught and you don’t even know it. But you’re mine. You belong to me. And I’m going to make this as easy as possible. You don’t have to tell me you still love me. You don’t even have to move. All you have to do is let me ravage you.”
“You’ve become an awfully canny little negotiator, Stinker.”
“Besides, if you’re going to write a novel about us—and I’m positive that you are—then you’re going to need this scene. It’ll be wonderfully poignant. The two of us together in your bed like this after all of these years. Unless you’d rather do it the other way around.”
“With me on top instead of you?”
Her lips broke into a smile. “No, with us in my bed instead of yours. I can go back to my room if you’d like. You can tiptoe inside and tell me how desperate you’ve been to jump me. It would be more traditional that way.”
“We’re not traditional and never have been. Besides, you’ve got neighbors—Danielle on one side, Monette on the other. There’s liable to be some moaning.”
“I can keep quiet.”
“But I can’t. And I’m perfectly content to stay right here.”
She touched my face with her fingers before her lips gently brushed mine. “Good, so am I.”
“It’s never going to happen, you know.”
“What isn’t?”
“The sweet old cottage. The garden. The jam. Especially the jam.”
“I know.”
“I’m still in love with Merilee.”
“I know.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
“Why don’t you just kiss me and find out for yourself?”
So I did. Gently at first, and then not so gently.
By then Lulu had decided to get a drink of water from her bowl in the kitchen. She’s always been very discreet.
It wasn’t 1977 anymore. We weren’t two wild kids crazy with passion for each other in her third-floor room of the Chelsea Hotel. We were a pair of battle-scarred middle-aged people who were ensconced in the pool house of her sister’s multimillion-dollar Brentwood estate. Steamy it wasn’t. It was affectionate, tender and just a tiny bit wistful. A warm embrace between two old friends that just ha
ppened to include reentry. It was also a profound acknowledgment that we were breaking the spell we’d held over each other for so many years. I was letting go. She was letting go. We both knew it and so we both took our time, savoring it.
And when, at long last, she collapsed on top of me, her kaleidoscope eyes twirling and glittering in the moonlight just like they had on that warm summer night in Yellow Springs a million years ago, she whispered, “Hello, Stewie.”
And I whispered, “Hello, Stinker.”
Even though we both knew it wasn’t hello. It was goodbye.
Chapter Nine
“We checked with the people who installed the home security system here,” Lamp informed me as he drove us out the main gate, past the media horde, in his stylishly dented white LAPD Chevy Caprice sedan. “The keypad on the service gate does indeed have a memory. It was accessed early yesterday morning.”
“How early?”
“At 6:47 am. We talked to Hector Villanueva at his home in Pico Rivera. He swears up, down and sideways that he hasn’t been here since Friday. A neighbor across the street says Hector’s truck hasn’t left his driveway all weekend.”
“Did you check with the young Tab Hunter?”
“If by that you mean the pool man, Gavin Cliff, we did.”
“Is Gavin Cliff his real name?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Sounds bogus to me. Highly bogus.”
“He confirmed that he was here early yesterday morning.”
“Was that the only time the service gate was accessed yesterday?”
“The only time,” Lamp confirmed, his hands gripping the steering wheel tightly as he made a left onto Sunset and started in the direction of Bel Air and the Hills of Beverly. Today he wore an olive-colored suit made of something no-iron, a white shirt, striped tie and the same pair of nubucks with red rubber soles that he’d worn yesterday. Unless, that is, he owned two identical pairs and rotated them for proper foot hygiene. “Did Gavin show up this morning?”
“I didn’t see him, but I wouldn’t expect to. It’s Sunday.”
A bright, sunny Sunday, and not yet 9:30. I’d been stropping Grandfather’s razor when Lamp had shown up at the pool house to ask me if I wanted to take a ride. So we were taking a ride. I didn’t know if he was taking me to church or to Du-par’s for a stack of their buttermilk pancakes. I just knew that he seemed a lot more awake than I was. I’d barely managed two hours of sleep after Reggie tiptoed discreetly back to her room at 5:00 am. I had a dull headache and the strong taste of library paste in my mouth even though I’d downed two glasses of fresh-squeezed orange juice and a pot of strong coffee. I wore the glen plaid tropical worsted wool suit from Strickland & Sons with a pale green shirt to match my complexion, a blue-and-white polka-dot bow tie and my Panama fedora low over my eyes to shield them from the bright sun. Lulu rode on the seat between Lamp and me, her tail thumping happily. She loves to ride in police cars.
“It may interest you to know,” Lamp said, “that one of the guests who was at Joey’s birthday party yesterday is the registered owner of a black 1988 Pontiac Trans Am just like the one that tried to run you over.”
“And shove Monette off Coldwater Canyon, don’t forget.”
“I haven’t.”
“Well, who is it, Lieutenant?”
“Kat Zachry’s half-brother, Kyle.”
I mulled this over as we cruised our way past the Bel Air Gate at Sunset and Bellagio. Lulu climbed into my lap, planted her back paws firmly in my groin and stuck her large, wet black nose out my open window, her ears flapping in the breeze. “Kyle is Kat’s flunkie,” I said. “He has access to the production offices. Could have typed that fake note from Patrick to me on Malibu High stationery and had a studio messenger deliver it to Aintree Manor. But why?”
“I thought we’d drop by and ask him. Kat rents him an apartment north of Fountain on Sweetzer. She hasn’t left her place in Laurel Canyon since yesterday. Kyle was there with her until he went home late last evening. My people tell me she’s hunkered down there this morning with a network publicist, her agent and the honcho producer of Malibu High. Boyd Samuels showed up there, too. Don’t ask me why.”
“Don’t have to. I can tell you why. Because he smells money.”
Whitney still reigned supreme on the Sunset Strip’s mammoth billboards. And Marky Mark and Kate Moss were still almost, kind of getting it on. But the Strip was eerily quiet on a Sunday morning. Ours was the only car on the road. The sidewalks were empty, clubs and restaurants shuttered. It felt like a ghost town.
“We have some preliminary autopsy results on Patrick,” Lamp informed me. “The blood spatter patterns on the wall and bedspread seem to indicate that he was seated on the bed when Monette hit him with the first two shots. The blood smears on the bedspread indicate that he slid from the bed down onto the floor, where she fired the kill shots straight down through his heart. He bled out right there. All of which backs up her version of what happened. He had a blood alcohol level of 0.23, nearly three times the legal limit to operate a motor vehicle in the state of California. The man was seriously drunk. We don’t know what else was in his system—toxicology will take at least a week—but you saw him snorting coke out on the patio with Lou and Kyle shortly before he went upstairs, didn’t you?”
“I saw Lou slip him some pills, too. I also wouldn’t be surprised if Patrick smoked a doobie on his way to the party. The man was a serious druggie.”
Lamp shook his neat blond head. “Based on his blood alcohol level alone, I’m surprised that Monette didn’t find him passed out cold on the bed.”
“Maybe she did. Maybe she’s lying to us.”
He glanced over at me, frowning. “Where are you going with this?”
“Nowhere. I’m just trying to deal with my disappointment.”
“Over . . . ?”
“I was hoping that you were taking me out for buttermilk pancakes.”
“Sorry, I’m afraid not. We already ate.”
“‘We’ being . . . ?”
“Belinda and me. She’s the lady I’m currently seeing. Really terrific person. She teaches kindergarten in Huntington Beach, makes jewelry.” He showed me the turquoise and silver bracelet on his wrist. “Like it?”
“I do, but I’m reeling a bit. Does your mom know that you date girls?”
“You’re such a rib tickler, Hoagy. Trust me, I’m not the innocent lamb that you make me out to be.”
“Then kindly explain something to me. How is it that you’re not all grumpy, cynical and sour?”
“Because I don’t let the job get to me. When I clock out I put it out of my mind and I enjoy being alive. Sometimes that’s not easy, but it’s what I do.”
“Lieutenant, I admire you.” We rode along the slumbering Strip in silence for a moment, Lulu with her nose stuck out the window. “Did you find out anything from the Beretta?”
“What we expected to find. Four shots fired. One set of fingerprints. Monette’s. The barrel and trigger were clean otherwise.”
“How clean?”
“Meaning . . . ?”
“Had the gun been wiped clean before she used it?”
“Actually, it did appear to have been wiped clean.”
“With . . . ?”
“Who knows? A rag or cloth of some kind.”
“Does that tell you anything?”
“Yeah. It tells us that she likes to keep her gun clean.” He glanced over at me. “Our lab people did turn up something a bit unexpected this morning. Blood and tissue from two different blood types under Patrick’s fingernails—Type O and Type A.”
“I don’t suppose you know what Monette’s blood type is, do you?”
“We do. She let us take a sample while she was in custody. Could have refused in the absence of a court order, but she didn’t, even though her lawyer advised her to.”
“And . . . ?”
“Monette is Type O.”
“Meaning the Type O blo
od and tissue under his nails are hers.”
“Presumably. She does have those gouge marks on her arms.”
“So where did the Type A come from?”
“We don’t know. One possibility is Patrick himself. He was Type A.”
“His own blood and tissue ended up under his nails? Does that typically happen?”
“Blood? Absolutely. If he was clutching at the wound in his side, for instance. But tissue? That’s a big fat no. I’ve encountered heroin addicts gouging themselves when they’re going through extreme withdrawal, but not gunshot victims. Never. Besides, the ME found no fingernail gouges anywhere on Patrick’s body.”
“So what do you make of that?”
“He gouged someone else is what I make of it. Someone with Type A blood.”
“Meaning that someone else was in the room when he was shot?”
“Not necessarily. He could have gotten into an altercation with somebody before he went upstairs. You didn’t happen to notice blood under his nails when he was snorting that coke out on the patio, did you?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“And he went up to the master bedroom suite shortly after that?”
“Correct.” I glanced at him as we rode along. “What are you thinking?”
“That we’ve got something concrete to work with now. I can get a court order to compel everyone who was in that house yesterday, including you, to submit to a thorough physical exam as well as give us blood and hair samples.”
“Why hair?”
“Our people discovered several different hair samples on the bedspread, which may prove valuable if we find a hair that belongs to an individual who had no credible reason for being in that bedroom.” Lamp fell silent for a moment. “I’m also thinking that something happened in there yesterday that we still don’t know about. I don’t believe Monette is telling us the whole story. Do you?”
“Not even maybe.”
“How about you, Hoagy? Are you telling me the whole story?”
“I’m just out here earning a paycheck, Lieutenant. Or trying to.”
“You didn’t exactly answer my question.”
The Girl with Kaleidoscope Eyes Page 20
