“I’m sure he was.”
“Oh, I wish Cook were here to read the tea leaves. All of a sudden I feel so hopeful, yes, and determined, too, as if I can make everything work out for Grady and me to be together again. I’ll start by being realistic. Money is important to him. All right, I’ll get some. A lot, I’ll get a lot of money and buy him back.”
“You’re tired. Don’t think about it now.”
“But I must begin planning right away, right here.” She surveyed the room as though she were memorizing every detail of it: the bird prints on the wall, the porcelain kettle on the stove, the bread box and matching canister set on the counter, the bouquet of yellow plastic flowers and the ceramic owl cookie jar on top of the refrigerator. She said solemnly, “I will never forget this room and sitting here like this with you, planning a whole new future for myself. Will you ever forget it, Ellen?”
“No,” Ellen said. “Probably not.”
She stared into her cup. There were no leaves indicating a trip, no specks that meant money, no twigs that were tall dark strangers. There was only a soggy tea bag.
Part IV
In November, Dr. Laurie MacGregor flew down from San Francisco to spend the Thanksgiving holiday with her husband, Tom Aragon. Considerable time was wasted on
the problem of what to do with the live twenty-five-pound turkey which Smedler had sent to each of his employees from his brother-in-law’s turkey farm. The turkey, after a tranquilizing meal of grain sprinkled with vodka, was taken to the local children’s zoo, having lost no more than a few feathers and two friends.
At the club Mr. Henderson decorated the dining room with life-sized plastic skeletons, thus cutting some of the losses entailed by the Halloween Hoedown. People who questioned the propriety of the decorations were given an explanation which Henderson had cunningly devised to foil his critics. The skeletons were reminders of death and hence of the resurrection, for which everyone should be thankful on Thanksgiving. Little Miss Reach, who was ninety and closer to the subject than most, suggested that it would have been better to wait until Easter. Henderson made a note of this for future reference. There was a chance, however slight, that he and maybe even Miss Reach would still be around by Easter.
For Christmas, Cordelia Young received a new Mercedes from her parents. Her thank-you speech was brief:
“Oh, dammit, I wanted a Ferrari.”
During the same week Mr. and Mrs. Quinn were sent official notice from Mr.
Tolliver, Headmaster, that their son Frederic would not be welcome back for the spring term or any period thereafter. Frederic’s speech was also brief: “Hurray!” Mrs. Quinn told Frederic her heart was broken. Mr. Quinn said his was, too, but Mrs. Quinn said hers was more broken than his. During the ensuing argument Frederic was forgotten. He went up to his room, retrieved his Hate List from under the desk blotter where it was hidden and crossed off Mr. Tolliver’s name. It was silly to waste a lot of good
clean Hate.
On New Year’s Eve, Charles Van Eyck attended the Regimental Ball to keep alive his contempt for the military in general and his brother-in-law, Admiral Young, in particular. He went through the receiving line three times, audibly noting the amount of gold braid and ornamental hardware and estimating their cost to the taxpayer. His sister, Iris, struck him on the shin with her cane. The Admiral was more tactful: “My dear Charles, I’m afraid you’ve had too much to drink. You mustn’t make an ass of yourself.”
“Why not?” Van Eyck said amiably. “All you fellows are doing it.”
Van Eyck was also busy during February.
Amy Lou Worthington received anonymous and somewhat belated acknowledgment of her deflowering in the form of a sympathy card: “Sorry to Hear of Your Loss.”
Ellen Brewster found on her desk an old-fashioned lace-and-satin valentine with an old-fashioned message:
Roses are red
Violets are blue,
Sugar is sweet
And so are you.
Van Eyck had brought it up to date and more in line with his sentiments by penciling out the last line.
Ellen went out to the terrace to thank him in person, but Van Eyck was having one of his sudden and mysterious attacks of deafness. He cupped his right ear and said, “Eh? What’s that? Speak up.”
“The valentine.”
“Eh?”
“Thank you for the valentine.”
“Eh?”
“An earthquake has struck Los Angeles and the entire city is in ruins.”
“It’s about time,” Van Eyck said. “I predicted this forty years ago.”
At intervals throughout the fall and winter Aragon thought of Miranda Shaw. He’d heard nothing about her at the office, and when he remembered to ask, it was always at an inconvenient time—the middle of the night or over the weekend when the office was closed or during Smedler’s and Charity’s separate but equal vacations.
It was in April that he saw her on the street, waiting outside the entrance to an underground garage that served a block of stores downtown. Whatever had happened to her during the past months, she had kept up appearances. She was perfectly groomed, her hair in a French twist at the nape of her neck, her dress a flowered silk with a voluminous pleated skirt and scarf. Though she was small, and standing very quietly, she couldn’t help being conspicuous among the housewives hurrying to sales and the clerks and secretaries to their jobs. The dress was too fancy and her makeup too theatrical for nine o’clock in the morning.
At closer range he noticed the subtle changes in her. Her red-gold hair seemed a little brassier and there were blue circles under her eyes and lines around her mouth that the makeup didn’t hide.
“Good morning, Mrs. Shaw.”
“Why, Mr. Aragon. How nice to see you again.”
They shook hands. Hers was thin and dry as paper.
“You’re looking very well, Mrs. Shaw.”
“I’m surviving. One mustn’t be greedy.” She hesitated, glancing over her shoulder as though checking for eavesdroppers. “I suppose you know my husband’s will went through probate in February and the bad news became official. He spent all of his own money and a great deal of other people’s.”
“How have you been living?”
“Strangely.”
“Strangely?”
“I believe that’s a fair way to describe it,” she said with a faint smile. “I have a job. It’s not exactly what I would have chosen but it makes me self-supporting for the first time in my life. I even have a social security number. Yes, it’s all quite official, I’m a working woman. Surprised, aren’t you?”
“A little.”
“The salary isn’t much but I get room and board and I won’t starve. Do you remember Ellen Brewster at the Penguin Club?”
“Oh yes.”
“It was her idea. I never thought I had anything worth teaching anyone, but apparently I do . . . Here they come now. Pretend we’re not talking about them.”
He didn’t have a chance to wonder who “they” were. Cordelia and Juliet were emerging from the underground garage, blinking in the sun like giant moles. They looked at Aragon without recognition or interest. He had no part in their world, there was only room for two.
“Cordelia rammed a concrete pillar,” Juliet said. “But it wasn’t her fault. There was an arrow pointing left and an arrow pointing right and she couldn’t make up her mind, so she hit the pillar which was in the middle.”
“An honest mistake,” Cordelia admitted cheerfully. “It could happen to anyone.”
“But especially you,” Juliet said.
“We learned a lesson from it, though.”
“It’s a dumb way to learn a lesson. Which I didn’t anyway.”
“You did so. You found out a Mercedes is no better than any other car when it comes up against
concrete. Crash, bang, crunch, just like an ordinary Cadillac.”
“Pops won’t care but Mrs. Young will be furious.”
“Girls,” Miranda said. “Girls, please. Forget the car for a moment and pay attention to your manners. I’ve told you repeatedly not to refer to Admiral Young as Pops. He is your father. Wouldn’t it sound better to call him that?”
Cordelia shook her head. “Father is what you call somebody with his collar on backwards. Or like in our father who art in heaven. That kind of father belongs to everybody.”
“Our personal father is Pops,” Juliet said. “His wife is Mrs. Young.”
“Girls, please. I don’t want to be harsh with you but I must ask you not to call your mother Mrs. Young.”
“Why not? You do.”
“She’s not my mother.”
“She may not be ours either,” Cordelia said. “We have no proof. Anyway, she’d just as soon not be.”
“She hates us,” Juliet explained. “We don’t mind. We hate her back. She hates you, too, but you can’t hate her back because you’re a lady and ladies never get to do anything they want to.”
Both girls thought this was extremely funny. Cordelia screamed with laughter and Juliet’s face turned bright pink and she had to wipe her eyes and nose on the sleeve of her wool sweater, which was very absorbent and ideal for the purpose.
Miranda stood quietly, her only sign of emotion a deepening of the lines around her mouth. “You are attracting attention. I want it stopped immediately or I’ll report every word of this conversation to your mother. Now run along and start your shopping and I’ll meet you at Peterson’s in the shoe department in half an hour. I have to go and check how much damage was done to the car.”
Cordelia had the last word. “Not enough.”
Miranda watched them walk briskly down the street arm in arm and still laughing. Then she turned back to Aragon. “I told you I’ve been living strangely. This is it. I’m supposed to teach the girls etiquette and the social graces. As you must have observed, I’m not a very good teacher.”
“They’re not very good students,” Aragon said. “Hang in there anyway.”
“I don’t have a choice.”
“Not now. But perhaps eventually . . .”
“Eventually sounds so far in the future. I’m not sure I can wait.”
He didn’t ask about Grady and she didn’t volunteer any information. Grady seemed as far in the past as “eventually” seemed in the future.
A few weeks later, returning to his office after lunch, he found a message on his desk from Ellen Brewster asking him to drop by the Penguin Club on a personal matter. He went as soon as he’d finished work for the day.
It was five thirty, cold and overcast, as it often was in May. The club had made the transition from fall to spring with only minor adjustments—a fresh coat of paint on the walls, a change of greenery in the redwood planters, different pads on the chairs and chaises, and a new lifeguard, a short, stocky young man with a blanket draped over his head and shoulders. He appeared ready and willing to save lives, but the pool was unoccupied.
The seasonal changes in Ellen were more obvious. She had shorter hair, curled and frosted at the tips, and she wore oversized sunglasses and lipstick so glossy it made her mouth look like wet vinyl. He wondered about the sunglasses. There hadn’t been any sun for a week.
“I’m glad you came,” she said, sounding glad. “Would you like some coffee?”
“Fine.”
“Let’s go in the snack bar. No one will be there at this time of day.”
She was almost right. The only customer was an old man with a copy of Fortune open on the table in front of him. His eyes were closed and his chin rested on his collarbone. He was either asleep or dead; no one seemed interested in finding out which.
A fat pink-cheeked blonde stood behind the counter filing her nails. She gave Ellen a bored look.
“The snack bar’s closed. I’m just waiting for my ride.”
“Isn’t there some coffee left?”
“It’s stale.”
“We’ll take it.”
“You’ll have to pour it yourself and drink it black. I’m off duty and we’re out of cream.”
The verbal exchange or the sudden honking of an automobile horn outside the rear door had wakened the old man.
“What’s happening around here? Can’t a man read in peace?”
“It’s time to go home, Mr. Van Eyck,” Ellen said. “The snack bar is closed.”
“No, it’s not. I’m here.”
“You shouldn’t be.”
“I don’t see any Closed sign posted on the door.”
“I’m posting it in a minute.”
“What about that fellow with you? Wait till Henderson hears about this, you sneaking young men into the snack bar after hours.”
“Mr. Aragon is my lawyer.”
“Have you done something illegal?”
“Not yet,” Ellen said. “But I’m thinking of committing a murder.”
“Think again. You’d never get away with it. You lack the finesse, the savoir-faire, and you have childish fits of temper.”
“Please go home, Mr. Van Eyck.”
“If you insist. Though I resent being evicted in order that you may conduct a rendezvous with a young man who doesn’t look any more like a lawyer than I do. Where did he go to law school?”
“Hastings,” Aragon said.
“Never heard of it.” Van Eyck picked up his magazine and left. In spite of his shuffling gait and a pronounced list to starboard he moved with considerable speed.
Aragon tasted the coffee. The fat blonde had been right. It was stale and bitter and lukewarm. He couldn’t do anything about the age and temperature but he added a pinch of salt to take away the bitterness.
“I can get you a year’s honorary membership in the club,” Ellen said.
“Why would you want to do that?”
“I can’t afford to pay you and it wouldn’t be fair for me to ask your advice for nothing.”
“This coffee ought to cover two cents’ worth. Ask ahead.”
“I had a letter from Grady yesterday.”
“Where is he?”
“Las Vegas.” She took off her sunglasses and he saw why she’d worn them in the first place. Her eyes were red and slightly swollen. “He wants to come back here.”
“It’s a free country. He doesn’t need your permission or mine.”
“No, but he needs money and a job, so it’s not all that free, is it . . . ? Here, I’d like you to read it.”
She took a small envelope from her pocket and handed it to Aragon. It had been postmarked five days previously in Las Vegas and in the upper left corner was the address of a motel chain that showed porn films. Grady might have worked there, stayed there, or simply borrowed its writing paper.
Dear Ellen
I guess you heard about me and Mrs. Shaw and all that water under the bridge. I hope she’s doing OK with no hard feelings etcetra.
I ran into lousy luck which put me in bad with some of the pit bosses and I would like to get out of this freaky place. I feel bad vibes coming at me. What
I really wish is I had my old job back. Is there any chance of getting a break from Mr. Henderson. If you think so would you send me an application form to fill out right away. Thanks, you are a real peach.
Best regards from your old friend Grady Keaton
“‘Mrs. Shaw and all that water under the bridge,’” Aragon repeated. “Grady has such a sensitive nature.”
“He feels guilty, I’m sure he does. It’s just—he doesn’t express himself on paper very well.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I think that’s rather a cute way of saying he ran off in her thirty-thousand-dollar car and left her broke in a fore
ign country.”
She rubbed the sunglasses up and down the lapel of her jacket a few times before putting them back on. It was either a stall or an attempt to clear up the view she had through them.
“That’s what I need your advice about. Suppose he comes back to Santa Felicia. Whether or not he gets a job at the club, Miranda is bound to find out about it. Can she prosecute him?”
“Without knowing all the details of the case, I’d say she could at least sue him for the return of the car.”
“He probably doesn’t have it anymore.”
“Then she can be a good sport and forgive and forget,” Aragon said. “If I were Grady, though, I wouldn’t depend on Miranda being a good sport. She’s not built for it.”
“Could she have him put in jail?”
“Judges and juries decide things like that, lawyers don’t.”
“If there’s any chance he’ll be punished, I’ve got to warn him to stay away.”
“Why?”
“You read the letter,” she said with a wry little smile. “He’s an old friend and I’m a real peach. Aren’t us real peaches expected to do things like that?”
“I guess you are.”
“Well?”
“Check with Miranda. She might not want him punished any more than you do. Ask her.”
“I can’t ask her without letting on that I’ve heard from him and know where he is.”
“Make it a hypothetical question.”
“I don’t believe I could fool her. We’ve become pretty well acquainted during the past six months.”
“How?”
“Seeing each other here at the club. She isn’t a member anymore, she can’t afford the dues, but she comes in with Admiral Young’s daughters. While they swim and have lunch she talks to me in the office. She could swim and have lunch if she wanted to—Mr. Henderson would be glad to bend the rule about employees of members not being allowed the privileges of members. She won’t accept any favors, though. Or maybe she just likes to get away from the girls whenever she can . . . Did you know she was working?”
The Murder of Miranda Page 15
