The Broken Promise Land

by Marcia Muller

Everything was changing. Everything.

  One of the major changes appeared to have taken place in Rae. At eleven-thirty she greeted me at the door of a suite in the Sorrento, a small, exclusive seaside hotel that was owned by a friend of Ricky’s, who had guaranteed him privacy and anonymity. As she led me into a pretty blue living room, she was more self-possessed than I’d ever seen her, although a little tired. Her blue T-shirt matched the flowers on the fabric of the sofa; the blue of the sea matched her eyes.

  “How’re you?” I asked.

  “Good. Better than I’ve been in a long time.”

  The room and the balcony were empty. “Where’s Ricky?”

  “In the bedroom, talking on the phone with your sister.” She motioned toward a closed door.

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “There’re things they’ve got to settle,” she said. “He was kind of nervous about calling, but I told him to bite the bullet and get it over with. He can’t just run off and leave his whole family in limbo.”

  I sat down on the sofa. “Is he okay?”

  “He will be. I’m being okay for both of us right now.”

  “He’s not on anything? Coke, for instance?”

  She shook her head. “Actually, he got some rest on the way over. I don’t think he’s slept much since the night before your sister told him about Vic.”

  I nodded and a silence fell between us. I looked everywhere except at Rae, pretending to study a picture on the wall and the sea view beyond the balcony. Never had I felt such estrangement between us, even during the rocky patches in our long friendship.

  “Look,” I said.

  “Listen,” she said.

  We both smiled tentatively.

  “I know this is hard for you,” she went on. “It’s hard for me too. But I want you to know I care very much for Ricky; last night wasn’t a casual fling for either of us.”

  “Rae—”

  “I know you’re going to say what you did yesterday: I’m taking a terrible risk; he’s been breaking hearts all his life.”

  “I wasn’t criticizing him when I said that, it’s just that I’ve known him a long time. He’s a performer; they tend to dramatize themselves. He believes what he says or does at a given time, but that doesn’t mean it’s actually so. What he thinks he wants one minute may not be—”

  “You think I don’t know that?”

  “Then why are you—”

  “Because maybe it’s time to stop playing it safe and take a big risk. If I go for it, I may end up having it all or having nothing. But if I don’t go for it, nothing’s all I’ll get.”

  I couldn’t dispute that; it was a concept I’d more or less lived by. I put aside my misgivings long enough to say, “Then go for it.”

  The bedroom door opened and Ricky came out. He did look somewhat rested, but it would take more than a couple of hours in a cramped car to repair the weekend’s damage. He nodded to me, his eyes dull, but when they moved to Rae they brightened. She went to him and touched his arm. “I’m gonna take a shower, and maybe a nap. You and Shar talk, okay?”

  He caught her hand, holding her back. “Red…”

  “No, it’s better this way.”

  He let go, but his eyes followed her. Then he turned back to me, folding his arms defensively.

  I said, “Sit down and relax. I’m not going to start on you. We’ve had enough contretemps in this family to last a life-time. You were talking with Charlene?”

  He sat stiffly at the far end of the sofa. “Yeah. It was a little awkward, but we got some things settled—such as not telling the younger kids about the split till I’m back from the tour and we can do it together. And she’s decided not to go to China; Chris and Jamie need her right now. Charly’s being great about everything, considering all that’s happened.”

  Considering all that’s happened…

  “I guess you and Rae got some things settled, too.”

  I’d meant the comment as a lead-in to what he had to tell me about Patricia Terriss, but he misinterpreted it. “Yeah, and I can practically hear the questions you’re dying to ask me. Am I sleeping with her? None of your business, but from the arrangements here that should be obvious. Is what’s happening with us important? Damn right. Will it last? I don’t know, but I’ll give it my best shot. Does she feel the same? Yeah, she does.”

  “It’s happened awfully fast, Brother Ricky.”

  He grinned wryly. “I seem to recall a tale about a San Francisco woman who’d just busted up with her boyfriend. One morning she got an itch and climbed in her MG and drove all the way up to Tufa Lake, where this guy she’d met a few months back lived on a ranch. I don’t know what happened between them when she got there, but it did happen fast. And they’re together to this day.”

  “Point taken. Now, I believe you have something to tell me.”

  He sobered and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, clasping his hands between them. “Right. I told Red she wasn’t going to like what she heard. She didn’t. You won’t either.”

  Fourteen

  As he told me about Patricia Terriss, Ricky watched me, eyes anxious as he tried to gauge my reaction. I didn’t speak after he finished, and it seemed to unnerve him. I wasn’t silent out of shock or disgust, though; I was running a progression backward and forward in my mind.

  After a bit I said, “I’m glad this is out in the open; now I’ve got something to go on. And in case you’re wondering, I think what you did was pretty damn awful, but what Terriss did was awful, too. I’ve dealt with far worse, and from people who didn’t lose a moment’s sleep over it.”

  He relaxed some.

  “I’ve got a lot of questions,” I went on. “First, tell me more about Terriss. Was she from Austin?”

  “No, she was there to get a career started; it’s a center for country music like Bakersfield. I don’t know where she was originally from, but I do recall her saying something about coming from a musical family. Of course, any hillbilly whose daddy could play a fiddle claims that.”

  “You say hillbilly. From the South, maybe?”

  “She had a faint southern accent, but it could’ve been an affectation. Some of my colleagues lay it on pretty thick to make themselves sound more authentic.”

  “Was Terriss her real name?”

  “I think it was her married name. She mentioned an ex-husband who was working on a Ph.D. dissertation on an obscure area of medieval history. Said he bored her to death, so she took off.”

  “She mention his first name, or where he was studying?”

  “Not that I recall. Tell you the truth, we didn’t do all that much talking.”

  “Okay, describe her.”

  On that he could be more specific: “Tall, willowy, light-brown hair parted in the middle and falling damn near to her waist. Big, big green eyes. Long, slender hands. She was a pretty fair guitar picker, and I told her she ought to go to Nashville, get herself on as a session musician; they work steady and make good money. But no, that wasn’t for her; she had to be a star. Why? I asked. It was her daddy’s dream for her, she said. Their daddies all have big dreams for them—mainly that they hit it big and buy them Cadillacs.”

  “Other than the suggestion that she go to Nashville, did you discuss her career?”

  “She tried to; I did my best to distract her.”

  “And you didn’t promise her anything?”

  “I did not. I don’t make promises to wannabes—whether they’ve got talent or not. If I run across somebody who’s got it and is willing to work hard, I go away and make arrangements for them to meet the right people. After that, it’s up to them.”

  “Okay, do you remember the phone number where you called Terriss to make the date for the motel—the one you say she always put on her notes?”

  He thought, frowning. “No.”

  “And I suppose you destroyed the notes.”

  “God, yes.”

  “Do you remember what her handwriting looked like? Was it similar to
that on the notes you’ve received recently?”

  “She always typed, except for signing with her first initial.”

  “Well, that’s no basis for comparison. Think about that phone number; try to picture it. Was it in the L.A. area code?”

  He closed his eyes. “I don’t know why I think three-ten. Could be because that was my area code in Pacific Palisades.”

  “And your phone records from Pacific Palisades were lost in the fire?”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t call her from there. I used a phone in an empty office at Transamerica.”

  “Well, that’s that. No way of accessing their records without stirring up curiosity. Next question—were you having an affair around a year ago, at the time Charlene found the attorney’s bill?”

  He frowned. “An affair? God, no. After the Terriss thing, I backed off from any kind of entanglement.”

  “Charlene thought you were having one.” I explained what she’d told me about the sympathetic looks and remarks from friends.

  “Now that you mention it,” he said, “I noticed some of that too, but I put it off to foolish gossip among people with more idle time than good sense. People must’ve really been talking, though, because Kurt came right out and asked me if I had something going on the side. He never would explain why he wondered. Why couldn’t Charly just come out and ask, too?”

  “She said she didn’t want to know, particularly after she found the attorney’s bill.”

  For a moment he looked regretful, then he shrugged. “Well, if all it took was some gossip and a piece of paper to finish us, we didn’t have much left, now did we?”

  I had no reply for that, so I went on to my next question. “The house in Pacific Palisades burned six months before that. What started the fire?”

  “Well, you remember how that canyon was—chockful of oak and manzanita and eucalyptus. And it’d been a dry year. When that stuff caught, the fire spread so quick there was nothing we could do but get out fast.”

  “Yes, but what started it?”

  “The investigators thought it might’ve been a campfire; a lot of homeless hung out up there.”

  “Or it might’ve been deliberately set.”

  A sick look spread across his face. “Jesus, what’re you saying, Shar?”

  The scenario was only going to get worse. I hurried on with it. “Benjy died when, in relation to the fire?”

  “About three months earlier.”

  “He overdosed?”

  “Yeah. Benjy was a classic abuser—he’d take anything to get high and he mixed his drugs with alcohol. What got him was a combination of downers and booze. It was after a concert in Denver, the last of a series of back-to-backs. Benjy’d been on coke the whole tour, but I guess he decided to come down before he went home. He died in his hotel room early the next morning.”

  “Your business takes a high toll on its talent.”

  “It does. You put so much of yourself into the music; you’re constantly riding the edges of your emotions, and you’re always on display. You’re continually upping the pressure to perform well because the rewards are so high; and the label’s continually upping the pressure because they’ve got so much at stake.” He paused, thoughtful. “Benjy was a shy man, not comfortable in his own skin. He didn’t think he could go on stage without the drugs to help him through.”

  “You’re a private person. You manage.”

  “I didn’t always. But it’s true I’m comfortable with myself, and I’ve got good control. Besides, I decided early on that I didn’t want to turn into one of those guys who’re in and out of rehab and still end up blowing their lyrics and getting their fingers stuck between their guitar strings in front of fifty thousand people.”

  I returned to the focus of our discussion. “Okay, before Benjy died, Dan was killed in a motorcycle accident. When?”

  “Six months earlier. Dan liked speed, but a different kind than Ben. He lost control of the bike on the Pacific Coast Highway late one rainy night. Sailed right over the cliff.”

  “There was an investigation?”

  “Of course. Kurt kept in touch with the cops; the rest of us were too broken up to deal with it.”

  “A lot of bad things have happened to you and yours since the Terriss woman entered your life. Too many, maybe.”

  “What do you… oh, no, that can’t be!”

  “Think about it: It’s a large coincidence that the two men you sent to deal with Terriss died so soon afterward. And that your house burned down. And that someone may have started a whispering campaign that eventually led to the end of your marriage. Has anything else happened?”

  He considered, then winced as he remembered something. “About six, seven months ago, Chris had an accident in the Triumph; the brakes failed and she plowed into the guardrail on the Santa Monica Freeway. She wasn’t badly hurt, thank God, but it shook her up plenty and she still won’t drive the freeways. I talked to the mechanic and he said there was a possibility that the brake line had been tampered with.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Well, about three months ago I had a call from a sleazoid music attorney. Said he had a client who claimed I’d plagiarized one of his songs. Told me that if I didn’t settle immediately he’d pursue it in a way that would make the John Fogerty case look trivial.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “Referred him to Ethan. After that the whole thing went away; he didn’t even bother to call him.”

  “Didn’t you think it strange that this lawyer had your unlisted phone number?”

  “Yeah, I did, but we were about to move, so I didn’t worry about it.”

  “And now for the latest incident. Have you seen the L.A. Times today?”

  “Catching up on current events wasn’t my highest priority.”

  I took Girdwood’s fax—the worse for wear from Mick’s crumpling it—from my bag and passed it to him. He read, flushing with anger, then balled it up the same way his son had, and hurled it across the room. “Goddamn it! Isn’t anything off limits to those vultures?”

  “I think you’d better be prepared for some bad press.”

  “‘An attractive redhead.’ Well, they got that right. Thank God they didn’t have a name. I don’t want her dragged into this mess. Red’s not used to public scrutiny.”

  “The first time somebody snaps a picture of the two of you together, her face is going to be in every tabloid in the supermarket. But she’s tougher than you think; for you, she can take the heat.”

  “Maybe. And now there’s been another note. If you find out Terriss is the one behind this shit, I suppose that whole thing’ll have to come out, too.”

  “It might be hard to keep a lid on it.”

  “There goes my credibility. But then, maybe I don’t deserve it. Did I actually have the nerve to tell you I came by it honestly?”

  “You did come by it honestly.”

  “Not too many people see me the way you do. There’ll be plenty who’ll be happy to watch me take a fall.”

  “Ricky, this is one of those situations for which you’ve got a manager; I think you should level with Kurt. He’s going to have to do some damage control, maybe hire a consultant who specializes in it—particularly with the tour coming up.”

  “Jesus Christ, the tour!” He closed his eyes, shaking his head. “We’re supposed to kick it off at the Universal Amphitheatre Wednesday night. The single of ‘Midnight Train’ should start getting airplay today.”

  “Speaking of that, when I talked with Kurt earlier, he asked that you call him at Zenith. Apparently he and Ethan were waiting around all weekend to discuss some problem about the new release; he wouldn’t tell me what.”

  “Great—he and Ethan were waiting around, sucking up my booze, and didn’t even bother to tell me there was a problem.”

  “Well, they didn’t get a lot of cooperation from you.”

  “No, they didn’t. Jesus, how much more screwed up can life get?”

  �
��Quite a bit, I’m afraid. And I’m sorry to have to dump something else on you, but you’d better be aware that Mick got hold of that fax and figured out that the redhead was Rae. He also figured out that she went to meet you at Little Savages.”

  “Jesus!” He clapped his hand to his forehead. “How’d he react?”

  “Not well. He was furious with you at first, then said he’d try to cut you some slack. But he says he’ll never forgive Rae, and he’s demanding to be allowed to work on the investigation.”

  “You told him no, I hope.”

  “At first, but then he said he’d investigate on his own. I don’t want him going off and making things worse than they already are—or maybe putting himself in danger.”

  Ricky considered. “So use him in some way, but for God’s sake don’t let him find out about Terriss.”

  “That’s what I initially intended, but on the way over here I started thinking. Mick takes pride in being an independent adult; he hates for us to act overprotective. What if this whole business came out in the media and he found out we’d been concealing it from him?”

  “I just don’t want him to realize—”

  “He already knows or suspects a fair amount about your extramarital activities.”

  “Yeah, I guess he does.”

  “Think, Ricky: The way you handle this could affect your whole future relationship with him.”

  He thought, long and hard. Finally he said, “Okay, tell him. Don’t sugarcoat it, either. And tell him I’ll answer any questions he may have.”

  It was a task I didn’t relish.

  The bedroom door opened and Rae came out, her curls damp; she was clad in one of her oversized tees and, as far as I could tell, little else. Her eyes darkened when she saw Ricky’s agitated expression. Quickly she slipped onto the arm of the sofa and put her hand on his shoulder. I could practically see his stress level decrease.

  “How’s it going?” she asked.

  “As far as Sister Sharon and I, things’re copacetic. Everything else is a mess, though.” With occasional input from me, he explained what we’d been talking about.

  Rae’s reaction was calm, simple, and practical: “You’d better call Kurt right away. And Shar and I had better get started on locating this Terriss woman.”