The Broken Promise Land

by Marcia Muller

  I was silent, thinking about what he’d been through since that Thursday-morning conversation, wondering if now was the time to ask the questions I had in mind. With Ricky, I’d long known that the line defining what he considered an invasion of privacy moved according to his mood. Given his coke high, I suspected that a good many areas were currently off-limits.

  He confirmed that by saying, “I’d like to be left alone now.”

  “Okay, but tomorrow we’re going to have to talk about a number of things. And Hy needs to explain some basic security precautions to you.”

  He nodded.

  I got off the stool and gave him a long hug. Wished I could also hug my sister. But my relationship with Charlene, as is often the case between sisters, had always been complicated, and I wasn’t in the mood for further rejection. Until she came to me, I’d have to limit my aid and comfort to her husband.

  When I got back to the guest house after a brief stop in the kitchen to forage through the fridge, I found a lamp on in the bedroom, but no Hy. Probably with his team, I thought, and hoped to God there hadn’t been another crisis. I crossed the room, stripping off my clothes on the way to the bathroom, but stopped at its door, puzzled by a faint flickering light inside. I peered around the jamb, saw Hy stretched out in the big Jacuzzi tub. A candle burned on a stool, and beside it sat a bottle of wine and two glasses.

  “McCone, about time. Come and join me.”

  I smiled slowly, testing the water temperature with my toes. “Lovely surprise.”

  “I thought you could use a relaxing soak about now.” He poured wine and offered me a glass as I slipped into the tub. The water stung the small cuts that I’d sustained on my arms in the aftermath of the sniping, then soothed them. I took the glass from Hy’s outstretched hand and sipped.

  “So,” he said, “you have any success with anything since I last saw you?”

  “None.” I filled him in, finishing, “And now I’m afraid Ricky’s going to rebound to Rae.”

  “Would that be so bad?”

  I stared at him, astonished. “It’d be horrible! Rae’s my friend, Charlene’s my sister. How could I deal with either of them?”

  “Well, from what you’ve told me, your sister doesn’t want Ricky anymore.”

  “No, but she’s got her pride. If he took up with someone else right away… well, God knows what that would do to her. And I can’t imagine what she’d do to me once she found out it was Rae, and that I’d introduced them.”

  “Both of you would weather it.”

  “But what about the kids? It’s bad enough they’ll have to deal with their mother having a new man.”

  “I’m sure Ricky would be discreet about the relationship. He’s always valued his privacy.”

  “But Mick would be sure to find out. How would he feel, working in the same office with his father’s lover? He’s only eighteen, even if, as Keim claims, he does play older.”

  Hy considered. “I think the first thing Mick’d do is pitch a fit, but in time he’d come around. Besides, guys of his age are a lot more interested in their own love lives than in their parents’.”

  “Maybe so, but Mick thinks of Rae as a friend. I doubt it’s occurred to him that she’s closer to his dad’s age than his.” I shook my head, tears stinging my eyes. “Oh, God, this whole thing is wrong! So many people could get hurt, so many lives could be ruined.”

  “Charlene’s and Ricky’s lives could be ruined if they stay together. The kids’ lives could be ruined if they continue to be exposed to the kind of vicious fighting I’ve been hearing today. I’ve got a feeling it’s been going on for a long time; there’s a scripted sound to it.”

  I sank deeper into the water till the ends of my hair trailed out, and let the tears flow. “Jesus, I just want to put things back the way they used to be.”

  Gently, Hy said, “Maybe they were only that way in your mind.”

  I sank lower.

  He clasped my hands and tried to pull me toward his end of the tub. I resisted.

  “Ah, McCone, let it go for a while. Come here, I’ll make you feel better.”

  I let him move me till I was straddling his thighs, put my arms around his neck, pressed my wet cheek against his.

  “Just let it go,” he whispered, sliding his hand down my backbone. “Just let it go for now.”

  Eleven

  Sunday morning coming down…

  The title of the old Kris Kristofferson song popped into my head as I walked from the guest house to the terrace, clad in my swimsuit, towel in hand.

  Apparently it was coming down hard on nearly everybody at the estate. At ten-thirty Hy and I were up and about, but the grounds and common areas of the house were deserted except for the guards. Even Nona Davidson wasn’t due to arrive till noon.

  My inner conflict about the breakup of my sister’s marriage had still been with me when I woke up, but my depression had lifted and I felt a renewed sense of purpose. I hurried to the house, determined to make my sister talk to me, as well as make Ricky sit down and start going over the information I needed for my investigation. But in the end, closed doors defeated me, so I went back to the guest house, changed, and followed the path to the pool. The water was morning-fresh and cool. I began swimming laps, concentrating on keeping my crawl even and well-timed. The exercise was just what I needed; every time a bad feeling surfaced I was able to push it down.

  When I pulled myself up on the side some twenty minutes later, I found Norm O’Dell reclining on the lounge next to the one where I’d left my towel. The big bearded man seemed no worse for his coked-up night, although he was drinking a glass of tomato juice that I suspected was doctored.

  “Morning,” he said gruffly, nodding.

  “Morning. I thought you’d be rehearsing by now.”

  “Huh?”

  “Last night Ricky said you’d get an early start.”

  “Early start for us means after lunch. We’ll hit it maybe about two or three, go at it till we’re satisfied.”

  I sat down on the lounge, running fingers through my wet hair. “Is your schedule always that undisciplined, or is it just because it’s kind of a strange weekend?”

  “Nothing undisciplined about it. Doesn’t matter when you work, it’s how. And don’t judge us by last night—the coke and all. That’s not normal.”

  “No?”

  “No. Last night wasn’t the most productive I’ve ever spent down here. Usually Rick runs a tight ship; that’s what makes us good. You should see some other groups’ sessions. I ought to know; I’ve played with plenty of dogs in my day.”

  “What’re they like—the sessions, I mean?”

  He smiled faintly. “Well, it goes like this: Rehearsal’s set for a certain time, but then one of the players doesn’t show up. So you call around for him and finally get hold of him in bed with his girlfriend. He promises to get right over there. By now everybody’s hungry, so one of you goes out for a pizza, and when he gets back the amorous guy still isn’t there, so you eat and get into the beer.

  “Then one of the wives shows up with a kid or two and gets into a fight with her husband and lets the kids run wild. The missing guy finally gets there with the girlfriend in tow. And the girls suddenly decide they don’t like the new song you’re working on because somebody at the supermarket told the wife that songs about divorce don’t make the charts anymore. The guy who wrote it gets in a snit and stops talking to everybody. And by then you’ve broken out the dope and everybody’s so stoned that they can’t stand up. The married couple’re well on their way to their own divorce, the kids’re screaming, the amorous guy’s looking amorous again, and you decide to call it a night.”

  “God.”

  O’Dell nodded, thoroughly warmed to his subject now. “Nonprofessional behavior like that is exactly what keeps you from making it in this business. We rehearse a minimum of twenty hours a week down here—one of the reasons Rick’s got all the guest space. Unlike last night, we don’t bri
ng our personal problems or drugs into the rehearsal room. Sessions are closed—no wives, girlfriends, kids. We tape everything on that little system he’s got there, play it back, analyze it. When we finally go into the studio over in Arizona, we’re prepared and primed to record. We don’t waste studio time that could be rented to a paying customer. And we’re the same on the road; we’re pros.”

  I took advantage of O’Dell’s sudden talkativeness to ask, “You been with Ricky long?”

  “Couple of years.”

  “And you’re from Montana?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “How’d you come to hook up with him?”

  “I was a friend of his guitarist, Dan—the guy who bought it in the motorcycle accident. I guess you could say I used the connection.” An uncomfortable expression had settled on his fleshy face; O’Dell liked to talk about the business, but not about more personal topics. It was with some relief that he looked up and called, “Hey, Jer, Forrest.”

  Jerry Jackson and Forrest Curtin crossed the terrace toward us. The drummer—short and chubby with wild red-gold curls—grinned cheerfully and inhaled on a joint. The ponytailed bass player looked terrible; I suspected he hadn’t slept. He lay facedown on the lounge to my other side and groaned.

  Jackson sat on the end of my chair, offering the joint to me. I shook my head, wondering if he was the one who had supplied the grass to the girls. O’Dell frowned pointedly and said, “Rick’s not gonna like you smoking; we’re supposed to rehearse later on.”

  “I’ll give you fifty-to-one odds that’ll never come off. And if it does, we’ll be without our keyboards player. Pete’s splitting. The situation down here’s got him freaked.”

  “Rick’s really not gonna like that.”

  Jackson shrugged. “Tough. Pete’s got that pregnant wife of his up in Santa Monica, about to deliver any minute. The last thing he wants to do is sit around here and wait on Rick while he and Charly play games with each other. Rick wants to rehearse, he should set his own house in order first, then arrange it at our convenience for a change.”

  “Come on, Jer, don’t talk that way. This lady’s Charly’s sister.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry about that,” Jackson said to me, “but I’ve got to call it like I see it. The man’s marriage is blowing sky high, yes, but we’ve all been through it one way or the other, and you can’t let it interfere with business. And he’s blowing his vibes, too; he screwed up the lyrics on ‘Broken Promise Land’ Friday night, and when I called him on it, he told me to back off. This place is crawling with guards, and he won’t tell us why. And we all know damn well it was no deer poacher that shot Rats.”

  Curtin said into the cushion, “He’s right, Norm. Rick’s not being straight with us, and one of the things he’s not explaining is why his sister-in-law, who’s a well-known private investigator, just happens to be here this weekend.”

  O’Dell looked at me. “That true?”

  “I’m an investigator, yes.”

  “You working on something for Rick?”

  I was silent. Ricky had said there were some things you didn’t share with the people who worked for you; on the other hand, a series of threats was something you didn’t conceal from people who might be placed at risk. “Listen,” I said, “can you persuade Pete to hang around for a little while? I’m going to talk with Ricky, see if I can’t get him to level with you guys.” I got up and started for the house.

  Jackson called after me, “Try one of the guest rooms. Sure as hell he’s not with Charly.”

  But he was—in the beautiful maple-and-cream kitchen. She wore a long white cotton nightdress that made her look childlike and vulnerable; he had on the same cutoffs and tee as last night, and his handsome face was set in angry lines. They stood toe to toe, hurling bitter words at each other.

  “None of this is my fault!” he exclaimed as I hesitated in the doorway. “Don’t try to blame your bad behavior on me!”

  “Bad behavior! You make it sound as if I’d used the wrong fork at one of your awards dinners.”

  “Shit, you picked up a fork right now, the only thing you’d use it for would be to stab me in the back.”

  I started out of the room, my stomach roiling. No wonder Jamie threw up a lot!

  Charlene said, “At least I wouldn’t stab you in the heart, like you did me three years ago.”

  The mention of three years made me pause on the threshold.

  “You think you haven’t? You think—” He broke off, a strange look coming over his face. “What the hell do you mean, three years ago?”

  “Don’t pretend you don’t remember, you bastard.”

  “Don’t remember what? What?”

  “Does the name Patricia Terriss ring a bell?”

  Ricky recoiled, going pale under his tan.

  “I thought it might.”

  “Charly…” He reached out to her.

  She slapped his hand away. “You thought I didn’t know?”

  “Honey, I—”

  “Don’t you dare try to explain. I don’t want any explanations now.”

  “But it wasn’t—”

  “Oh, fuck you!” She turned away, moved toward the counter where the coffeemaker sat.

  Ricky’s shoulders slumped in defeat. He watched her bleakly as she filled the pot with water and reached for the beans and grinder. Then he nodded as though he’d come to a decision, moved to the door, and brushed past me as if I weren’t there.

  Charlene set the grinder down and turned, frowning. In the entryway, the front door slammed. Her eyes met mine, panic seeping into them. Then she ran after him, with me a few steps behind.

  Ricky was already halfway down the flagstone path to the parking area, digging in the pocket of his cutoffs and pulling out a set of keys.

  Charlene called, “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

  He headed for the Porsche.

  She ran after him, grabbed his arm as he opened the car door.

  He pushed her away. “Leave me alone! I don’t belong here anymore.”

  “Ricky, please, it’s not safe for you to—”

  “What the hell do you care about the safety of the guy who stabbed you in the heart? If I get out of here, at least I won’t be jeopardizing the entire family.”

  I looked around frantically for Hy, one of the guards, anyone capable of restraining him in this fury. Nobody.

  “Please don’t leave,” my sister said. “We won’t fight anymore. We’ll talk—”

  He turned on her, rage twisting his features. “Too little, too late, Charlene. I’m ready to tell you what you want to hear: I don’t love you anymore.”

  She had been reaching out to him; now she drew back. Shock flooded her eyes, followed quickly by a rage that matched his. For a moment they locked eyes. Then she lashed out with her left hand and smacked him across the face; her wedding ring made a thin bloody line on his high cheekbone.

  I gasped. Started over there. Stopped. No good would come of interfering—not when they were determined to play out this drama to its last ugly scene.

  Ricky’s hand went to his face as he stared at Charlene in disbelief. Then, quite deliberately, he smacked her back so hard that she staggered and sank to the ground. Before I could try to stop him he got into the Porsche, gunned the engine, and sped out of the parking area.

  Thoroughly panicked now, I started for the intercom in the entryway, then saw that one of the guards had appeared and was already on his walkie-talkie to the gate. I yelled to him, “Tell them to let him through! He’ll crash the car if they don’t!”

  Tires squealed on the blacktop below. The Porsche accelerated. God, I thought, he’ll kill himself if they don’t get that gate open in time!

  The brakes shrieked once; then the car accelerated again. I listened till the sound of its engine died away. Finally I turned and went over to where my sister sat on the ground, hugging her knees, her face pressed against them. She looked up at me, eyes filling with tears.r />
  “Well, Shar,” she said, “what’s it like to witness the death of a marriage?”

  “So where would he go?” I asked.

  Charlene and I sat at the glass-topped table in the pretty cream-and-green breakfast room. My sister had finally stopped crying; crumpled Kleenexes were piled next to her coffee mug, and her eyes were red and swollen. Hy leaned in the doorway, plainly uncomfortable about being privy to the scene.

  “Little Savages, over in Arizona. That’s where he always runs when we… He says it’s the only place he feels at home. He wanted this house, but now that it’s done he hates it.”

  I looked at Hy. He asked her, “What kind of airstrip does he have over there? Can it accommodate a jet?”

  “A small one, yes.”

  “Good. I’ll have a security team flown in from our Phoenix office; they’ll be in place hours before he gets there. He mentioned that his sound engineer lives on the premises.”

  “Yes—Miguel Taylor. He’s kind of a desert rat. He found the land and convinced Ricky to buy it. Now Ricky loves the wide-open spaces as much as Mig does.” Her wan face grew even more melancholy.

  “If Kurt calls Taylor, will he accept his say-so for my team having access to the property?”

  “I’m sure he will, and if Mig’s not there, there’s also a caretaker. Where is Kurt, anyway?”

  “Ricky’s office. He’s been trying to reach him on his car phone, as well as calling around on the off-chance he contacted someone after he took off.”

  Charlene watched Hy leave the room, then turned back to me. Tears spilled over again and she swiped angrily at them. “I don’t know why I can’t stop crying,” she said. “I got what I wanted.”

  “Can we talk about it now?”

  She sighed and began picking a damp tissue apart. “No point in not talking about it. You know I’m leaving Ricky?”

  “Yes, and I also know there’s somebody else involved.”

  “And you disapprove.”

  “I didn’t say that.”