“I’ll take my chances.”
She cut the wrapping down the back with scissors, gave me a stiff brush, and pointed me toward the shower. She said she would rub in the oils afterward, so my skin wouldn’t be damaged by prolonged exposure in its chrysalis state.
An eternity later, my skin looked as if I’d spent an unprotected hour in the desert at high noon, but at least the briny smell was gone. In its place was something vaguely herbal and not at all unpleasant. It was time for Bobbie’s mind-over-body lecture, but I decided to skip it in favor of a powwow with Melissa, if I could find her.
Things were definitely looking up.
Chapter Twenty-Five
None of the doors had locks at Casa Alegría, so I rapped on the door to our room before I entered—slowly. If Taylor and Melissa were by any chance reconciling under the covers, I wanted to give everybody plenty of notice.
Melissa was lying on her bed with a bag of ice on her head. She looked at me and swung her feet over the edge, sitting up.
“Oh, sorry,” I said softly. “Do you have a headache?”
She put the bag of ice down on the table with a gesture of disgust. “I thought you were Taylor,” she said. “He’s been chasing me all over the place, wanting to ‘talk.’ It was the only way I could think of to avoid him.”
This was not the Melissa Peters I knew. “I know,” I told her. “He even broke in on my seaweed wrap to ask where you were.” I laughed. “He won’t do that again. But seriously, couldn’t you just ask him to leave you alone?” I asked.
“Sure, but it’s dangerous to piss him off.” She sighed. “This is why you should never get involved with somebody you work with. I’m going to have to look for another job, and I can’t afford to have him annoyed at me till I’ve landed the next one. He has to think he’s still in charge. Taylor can be a bad enemy,” she said. Oh, great.
She smiled suddenly. “On the other hand, Taylor has to keep me reasonably happy too, at least until I move on, because if he doesn’t I might slap him with a sexual harassment suit. It gets pretty complicated.”
“Um, do you think it will be hard to find another job?” It was not a disinterested question.
“Of course not,” she said, in a tone brimming with her old confidence. “There are legal jobs going begging. So many lawyers want to be dot-com tycoons—or at least they did—that big-time law firms are having to pay first-year associates a hundred sixty K just to show up. Somebody like me won’t have any trouble.” She gave me a shrewd look. “Even you could probably find something without too much difficulty. I could help you.”
This was vintage Melissa, putting me down and offering me help in the same sentence. It was a relief in a way. “Thanks,” I said, with a small smile. “I wanted—”
“Actually,” she interrupted, looking serious, “there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”
“I want to talk to you too. But you go first.” She would anyway.
She sat cross-legged on the bed. “While I was playing hide-and-seek with Taylor this afternoon, I went for another run,” she said.
“Christ, why were you jogging again?” I asked her. “You’ve already run once today.”
She shrugged. “I didn’t feel like sitting. I had all this energy. I just wanted to run. The problem is, there isn’t really anyplace to go—I wasn’t exactly thrilled with the idea of running off into the Mexican desert by myself—so I just ran around and around this place. Guess what I saw?”
Someone with a better pair of jogging shoes. “What?” I asked her.
“Did you meet that woman with the frozen face last night?” She pulled her features into a likeness of glacial immobility.
I laughed. “Clarissa Harlowe. The one whose Botox treatment went bad.”
“Well, something worse than that has gone bad today. I saw them taking her away in an ambulance.”
“Really? Something serious? I wonder what happened.”
“I don’t know. The attendants were all jabbering away at her in Spanish. When she saw me, she called me over and grabbed on to me like a barnacle. They kept trying to shoo me away, but she wouldn’t let them.”
“What did she say?” I asked.
“She just wanted reassurance, mainly. She kept putting her hand on her heart and saying, ‘Something’s not right.’ She said she could tell there was some arrhythmia.” Melissa looked at me. “She said she thought she might have taken too many of Dr. Crystol’s supplements.”
“Uh-oh.”
She raised her eyebrows. “I didn’t get any more than that, because just then Bobbie came out and started her try-to-relax, let-your-mind-participate-in-the-healing routine. Bobbie told me, politely of course, to mind my own business and move away. She said she—Clarissa Whosit—needed quiet so she could focus her mind and spirit on healing. Then they drove off in the van, which, I might add, had the Crystol logo on the side. It was all a bit slick, if you know what I mean.”
“You mean you think they’re a bit too prepared for this eventuality,” I suggested.
She shrugged. “It’s a thought. It’s probably not a huge deal, but I thought you should know if there’s going to be a lawsuit or something like that. This is your client, after all.”
“Not for long, if Taylor has anything to say about it.”
She smiled, not even bothering to deny it. “Well, it’s possible it could turn into a be-careful-what-you-wish-for kind of thing.”
I didn’t want to go into all the doubts I’d already been harboring about Crystol Enterprises just yet. “Thanks for telling me. I’ll see what Bobbie has to say about it.” I hesitated. “If you’re up for it, I did have another idea about the trust,” I said.
“Sure,” she said. “What is it?”
“The Rule Against Perpetuities,” I told her.
She stared at me, as well she might. The Rule Against Perpetuities is the elusive White Buffalo of estate planning, a legal prohibition against tying up property in trust forever (or for an excessive period of time) whose meaning is so complicated the lucky can glimpse it only occasionally. It is so difficult to explain that the California Supreme Court once ruled that writing a will that violated it did not constitute attorney malpractice. In California, the rule essentially requires that a trust terminate and have its assets distributed within twenty-one years after the death of everyone who’s living at the time the trust was created. Or at least that’s what I thought it required.
I could see Melissa’s mind working. “So how old is Carole’s child?” she asked me.
“Preschool,” I told her.
“Jesus, Becky, that really could work. If she’s added this kid’s children as beneficiaries to the trust, by the time it terminates it could violate the rule. Maybe. I can’t be sure,” she said. “We’ll have to check with my father.” She gave an annoyed little cluck. “How come you thought of that and I didn’t?”
I raised my hands placatingly. “I’m closer to law school than you are. It was on the bar exam. I think.”
“Well, good for you,” she said grudgingly.
“Yes, but if Carole has amended the trust so it violates the rule, then what?”
“I think the bottom line is that California’s version is biased toward allowing the courts to reform trust documents that violate the rule,” she said. “So she may have handed you the key to unlocking the trust and getting the court to appoint someone as trustee who will do a better job of looking out for your kids.”
“What should I do?” I asked her.
“Let’s get the document first. Then we’ll run it past my father and see what he thinks. Don’t say anything to anybody about it—you don’t want her trying to change it back. Let her think she’s getting her way for the time being.”
Boy, did I like this scenario. Carole might be undone by her own greed, and the longer she thought she’d triumphed, the worse it would be for her in the end. But then I thought, She must have had an attorney draft the amendment, right? So why di
dn’t he or she catch the violation?
Melissa shrugged when I put the question to her. “So we don’t get our hopes up too far. Let’s see what happens. In the meantime,” she smiled, “in the meantime, this could actually be fun.”
I decided to waylay Bobbie at dinner, the last scheduled activity of the day, to find out what had gone on with Clarissa Harlowe. The shrimp in citrus sauce with pomegranate seeds was delicious, but Bobbie was nowhere in sight. Maybe she’d transcended the need to eat. I went to her office, but no luck there either. The person on duty at the reception area told me that Dr. Crystol was meditating in her room and could not be disturbed, period.
I asked if I could leave a note. She looked dubious, as if it were a major infraction.
I said it was important.
She gave me a pen and paper with the Crystol crest. I wrote, I need to talk to you, and handed the paper back to her.
Bliss weekend was coming to a close, and I wanted to get to Bobbie before she flew off to her next appearance in Sedona. Most of all, I wanted a direct answer regarding what was in those supplements and whether they had any connection to what had made Clarissa ill.
When I awoke Sunday morning, my note had been pushed underneath my door. At the bottom, Bobbie had written, Later. She’d also added, P.S. I know why you want to talk to me. There’s nothing to worry about.
“Make her level with you,” Melissa told me. “You can’t let the client get the upper hand. You have to maintain control.”
I went for a swim after breakfast and sat out on the lawn reading while I dried. I passed up the morning class, Biofeedback for Beginners, in favor of the latest Elinor Lipman novel. Checkout time was noon, so I went back to reception and asked to see Dr. Crystol before I left.
She’d left very early in the morning, the man told me. Would I like to leave a message?
No, I would not.
Would I like to make a contribution, then?
Contribution to what? I asked him.
He smiled broadly. Many guests liked to leave contributions to Dr. Crystol’s ongoing work when they checked out, but of course it was purely voluntary. “Or,” he added, “you might like to sign up for one of her long-term programs.”
I smiled with equal ferocity and told him I was Dr. Crystol’s lawyer, not her patient.
“In that case,” he said, showing teeth like bullets on a cartridge belt, “we must thank you for helping to make possible Dr. Crystol’s work.” He said it reverently, in the tone all of Bobbie’s employees seemed to have mastered.
“You sound very proud of her,” I suggested.
“She is the Joan of Arc of anti-aging medicine,” he said seriously. “All the doctors are against her, but she is willing to sacrifice herself to save others. She works so hard,” he said, clearly impressed by this anomalous behavior. “She is very noble.”
I had to suppress a smile at the thought of Bobbie’s auto-da-fé and told him I was sure Dr. Crystol appreciated his admiration.
He beamed. “I almost forgot,” he said, extracting a thick manila envelope from beneath the counter and extending it in my direction. “Dr. Crystol instructed me to give this to her lawyer. That is you, yes?”
“Yes,” I said, reaching for it.
For the time being, anyway.
Chapter Twenty-Six
I drove straight back to La Jolla, picked Allie up at Isabel’s, stopped in to thank my neighbor for feeding Burdick, and called for pizza delivery. It was still early evening, so I telephoned Dunewood to find out how my mother had fared over the weekend.
“Finally,” she said, when she picked up the phone. “I thought you’d never call.”
“I was in Mexico for a couple of days, remember? I just got home.”
“They don’t have phones in Mexico?” Her voice had an edge that sounded like something more than irritation.
“Is something wrong, Mother? Are you all right?”
“Of course I’m all right,” she said. “Under the circumstances.”
“What circumstances?” I asked her.
“I told you,” she said. “I hurt.” She paused. “They don’t like me here. I can’t do what I’m supposed to do.”
“What do you mean?” I asked her. “I don’t understand. What are you supposed to do?”
She was silent on the other end of the phone.
“Mother?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said.
“Would you mind if I came over on my way to work tomorrow?”
“Why would you want to do that?” she asked.
“Because I love you, and I want to make sure you’re all right.”
She sighed. “You can come,” she said.
Mrs. Fay, the Dunewood administrator, was gracious about seeing me without an appointment at seven-thirty in the morning.
“Come right in,” she said. “Most of our residents get up early, so I’m usually here by seven. Besides, my office is always open to members of our extended family.”
I took a seat opposite a gigantic jar of candy and an oversized chartreuse stuffed animal of indeterminate species. Mrs. Fay didn’t remark on either, so neither did I.
“What can I do for you?” she asked.
“I’m just wondering how my mother is getting along,” I told her. “Now that she’s had some time to settle in.”
Mrs. Fay was no dummy, despite her taste in office decor. “Is there any particular reason you’re asking now?” she said.
I folded my hands to keep them from gesturing maniacally, a habit I had when I was nervous. “I know my mother can be difficult to please,” I began.
Mrs. Fay smiled and said nothing. She waved her hand, go on.
“She says she can’t do what she’s supposed to do,” I said apologetically. “I’m not exactly sure what that means. But she thinks people don’t like her here.”
Mrs. Fay stopped smiling. “I think she’s overstating the problem,” she said.
One hand escaped from my lap and made its way through the air, taking my arm with it. “The problem?” My voice came out all squeaky. “Oh dear, she is being difficult, isn’t she?”
Mrs. Fay shook her head slowly. “I wouldn’t say that. As I told you before, I think she likes it here more than she’ll admit to you, at any rate. It isn’t that.”
“What, then?”
She sighed. “I believe I told you when your mother was admitted that we require certain levels of performance in order to qualify for both admission and continued residence. I wasn’t going to bring this up so soon, but it appears that your mother doesn’t meet all the required tests.”
I closed my eyes. “Which tests, specifically?”
“Well, for one thing, she takes far too long to get from her room to the dining area. We’ve timed the walk at a sedate pace and added a generous amount of time to that number. But I’m afraid your mother doesn’t even come close to meeting the standard.”
“Maybe she just stops and talks to her friends?” I asked, without much hope that this was true.
“Sometimes, perhaps, but certainly not for every meal.”
“Have you talked to her about it?” I asked.
“Of course. She says her leg hurts and she can’t go any faster.” She looked down at her hands, then back up at me. “That may very well be true. But you must understand that we don’t have the staff to assist our residents every time they leave their rooms. That seems to be what your mother requires, or at least that seems to be what she wants.”
“I’m afraid to ask what happens now,” I told her.
“Well, it’s a bit premature to take any action. I think we should adopt a wait-and-see attitude for now. But I’m afraid that if things don’t improve…”
She didn’t have to spell it out for me.
I wasn’t certain what mood I’d find my mother in, so I tapped on the door very gently. She was sitting in her chair, reading a copy of You Don’t Have to Die.
She looked up. “You’re late,
” she said.
“I was talking to someone,” I told her, torn between amusement and annoyance. “Where did you get that?”
She put down the book. “From the prison library, where else? The woman’s short a sheet,” she said. “You can’t imagine the things she suggests in here.”
Yes, I could. “Then why are you reading it?”
She looked at me shrewdly. “Did you talk to Mrs. Fay?” she asked.
I nodded.
“Then you know why I’m reading it. This Crystol woman is famous. She’s your client. She sent me that ‘I care’ card.” She sighed. “I thought this book might have something to make me feel better. Younger. How did I know it would be a bunch of mumbo jumbo? She was on the Today show.”
“Oh, Mother,” I said helplessly.
“Your friend Bobbie says that negative emotions like anger can make you sick.” She looked at me. “That must be the reason I can’t make it to the dining room fast enough. I’m mad at you for putting me in this place,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” I told her. “I know you don’t want to be here. I’m just trying to do what’s best.”
“You’re always trying to do what’s best,” she said. “Maybe you should just relax a little. Maybe Dr. Crystol’s book is right. I’ve spent a lot of time being mad about things I can’t change.” She shrugged. “Maybe it’s all in my head, but my leg still hurts,” she said. “I mean that, Becky. And if I can’t cut the mustard here, they’ll put me in a nursing home, right?”
“Probably,” I said.
“Do we have the money for that?” she asked.
“I don’t want you to worry about that,” I told her, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. “We’ll do what we have to do.”
“That means no, we don’t have the money,” she said. “I didn’t think so.” She sighed again. “Maybe I should give Dr. Crystol’s ideas a whirl,” she said. “What have I got to lose?”
“Do you honestly believe anger is at the root of your problem here?”
Exit Strategies Page 23
