by Linda Barnes
“Dr. Manley wanted the notebook back very much,” I said. “If I’d had it, I would have given it to him.”
Tessa Cameron’s eyes flashed. She said, “I don’t know why you wish to keep it, but you have no right. This thing we speak of is a—a fraud! It’s like with a dead painter, like Picasso, say, a dead master. You think a nobody, a student, perhaps, in an art school, should be able to squiggle lines on a page and then say to me this is a genuine Picasso and you should pay me twenty thousand dollars for this little penciled nothing drawn yesterday? It is an outrage!”
Bingo: Had someone offered to sell her the notebook? For, say, twenty thousand dollars?
“Wait a minute, Mrs. Cameron,” I said. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but with art, forgery devalues the true work. If someone finds another thousand ‘Picassos,’ each genuine Picasso is worth less.”
“This would be true, yes,” she admitted.
I said, “But if Thea were alive and writing after all these years, a new manuscript would be a gold mine. It would generate tremendous interest in her earlier novel—”
I have rarely been stared down by a woman a foot shorter than me, but Tessa did an admirable job.
“It is not a new manuscript; it is a fake,” she said coldly. “My Thea is not alive. You think she would run away and never speak to her mother? She loved me with all her heart. Some son-of-a-bitch, some political enemy of my son’s, that is all we’ll find at the bottom of this. I will pay you, I tell you, not for the single chapter alone, which I trust you will return, but to make this person—whoever it is—stop what he is doing.” She pulled a lacy handkerchief from an invisible pocket, applied it gently to her eyes. “Make him stop writing these hateful forgeries, make him stop breaking my heart.”
“Mama,” Garnet said, trying to grasp her hands. “Please. I can handle this. There’s no reason to tear yourself apart.”
“You,” Mrs. Cameron murmured spitefully, “you can’t even handle your wife. Even now, if she’d stay until the election—”
“Mother, I’m sure Miss Carlyle isn’t interested in the election,” Garnet said, a smile frozen on his face. If he could have wrapped his hand over his mother’s mouth I’m certain he would have.
“You’re not the man your father was.” Mrs. Cameron hurled the insult like a favorite cudgel.
“Praise the Lord,” he answered sarcastically, “and pass the Martini pitcher. Perhaps, Miss Carlyle, you might return some time when my mother is more herself.”
I admired the way he’d called her an irresponsible alcoholic without using the words for attribution.
I said, “Look, Mr. Cameron, I have an appointment with your mother, not with you. If she wants to talk, I’m happy to listen.”
“She does talk,” he said, his teeth clenched.
“And you, you stink of jealousy every time I mention Thea’s name.” The woman turned on her son. “There’s some law, perhaps, that I can’t talk about my own child in my own home?”
“What was she like, Mrs. Cameron? I’ve read her book, but …”
“Don’t egg her on,” Garnet Cameron said. “Please.”
She froze him with a glance.
“That was a very naughty book for her to write, no? She was a wild thing, my daughter, like a horse no one could tame. My father owned such a horse once, an Arabian, and only I could ride him. But even I could not tame Thea. She wrote of that stuffy school of hers. She made fun of everything and everyone and some lied and said, of course, they did not recognize themselves at all, and some laughed, but the laughter caught in their throats and choked them.” She stifled a noise and I realized she was holding back tears. “Sometimes I think that was why the man killed her, because she spoke to him when she shouldn’t have, said something funny and wicked.”
“Sit down,” I urged, leading her back to her chair. A pitcher of Martinis. If she’d overindulged, the smell of liquor was well camouflaged by her camellia perfume.
“She had no talent for kindness, my daughter,” Tessa continued as soon as she sat. “She had a tongue that cut like a blade, so sharp. It was a failing, but I thought to myself, she has plenty of time to grow gentle with the passing of years. In her later life, I thought, she will acquire also this virtue, and become a great lady. And she will be the daughter I will grow old with, the one who will take me to lunch, to tea at the Ritz, because I have already lost my older daughter, and it will be my life to be proud of her and, poof, it is gone, and all I have are memories like a wisp, a puff of smoke.”
“Already lost your older daughter? What do you mean, ‘lost’?”
Garnet shot me a poisonous glance.
“That’s enough, Mama,” he said.
She removed a pack of cigarettes from her top drawer, a crystal ashtray.
“Mama, the doctor said.”
“What? I do as I please, Garnet. None of you ever understood me. Not even your father. My children only lie to me or preach to me—except for my brilliant girl, my Thea. Truly, she is the only one who listened—”
“Getting yourself killed isn’t so brilliant, Mother.”
There was a moment of uneasy silence while Mrs. Cameron lit her cigarette with a slim gold lighter. She wasn’t a woman accustomed to lighting her own cigarettes. Her fingers shook. Garnet wasn’t about to help.
“All pleasures you would deny me,” she said bitterly. “Even memory—”
The knock on the door was hesitant this time.
“Contessa? Are you in there?” The voice was high and thin.
Ah, I thought. The arguing soprano.
“Open the door, Garnet,” Tessa said.
He didn’t like it, but he obeyed. Hell, if she’d ordered me to open the door in a tone like that, I’d have done it too.
16
Marissa Cameron had attempted to repair runny mascara and powder over tear tracks. Neither technique had worked. Her nose was red, her voice shaky. She and husband, Garnet, had been the screaming couple, no doubt about it.
I studied her with interest. The news photo had been a head shot; it hadn’t hinted at how truly young Marissa seemed. I mean, there’s twenty-three, and then there’s twenty-three. Roz is in her early twenties, but Roz looked like a hardened street player in comparison.
Alice-in-Wonderland hair, tied back with a thin blue ribbon, fell almost to the waist of Marissa’s yellow dress. In the photo her hair had been pinned and piled, giving her a commanding air. Devoid of curl, her hair hung like cornsilk, emphasizing her narrow shoulders, fragile build. She seemed frail, small, in need of protection.
I sneaked a glance at her feet. High heels accounted for the staccato footsteps, but it was hard to believe she possessed a voice like a diamond-edged cutting tool.
After a brief moment of indecision, a firming of her stance, she ignored Garnet completely. He and I evidently didn’t exist. This was between her and her mother-in-law.
“I came to say good-bye, Tessa, and thank you. You’ve been good to me,” she said softly. She sounded brave and stoic and hurt. And somehow wrong, as if she were auditioning for a role she didn’t quite understand.
“Darling, please stay.” Tessa took her hand, tried to embrace her. With Tessa’s cigarette dangling precariously, and only one active participant, the hug was awkward.
“No, Tessa. I can’t.”
“Is there something you’re not telling me? Perhaps you are pregnant, darling? That would explain so much—”
Garnet broke it up with, “There’s no reason for Ms. Carlyle to witness this charming domestic scene, ladies.”
“Who is she?” Marissa asked.
“Why would you care?” Garnet answered sharply.
A buzzer sounded with sufficient noise to make Marissa jump. Garnet grabbed a slim cell phone from his pocket.
“Yes,” he said. “I’m aware of the time. Phone ahead and tell them the traffic’s bad on the Pike or something. You know the drill.” He flipped the phone shut.
“Garnet, really,�
� his mother said, tapping ashes carefully into the crystal bowl, “you should go. People hate waiting. Your father never let the voters wait.”
“Lot of good it did him,” Garnet snapped.
Marissa wavered back and forth, carrying a handbag too large for comfort or style. I peeked around her, through the open door, and noted a pile of luggage in the corridor. A matched set in hunter green. More than she’d need for a campaign jaunt, unless she were planning to campaign out-of-state for, say, six months to a year.
During an awkward silence, I withdrew a standard contract form from my briefcase. Tessa grabbed it, possibly thinking I’d changed my mind and decided to return a scrap of her late daughter’s writing.
I said I’d do my best to determine the source of the forgeries.
“What forgeries?” Marissa said. “What are you talking about?”
Her voice had that ingenuous note again. Did she always sound like she was lying?
Tessa ignored her. “I want them to stop immediately!” she said. “And I want to know who is making them up! There is no question of bringing in the police,” she added with a quick glance at Garnet.
I wondered if Tessa suspected her older daughter, the “lost” Beryl, of copying her dead sister’s substance and style. If Garnet hadn’t butted his way into the office I might have found out.
“What’s this about, Tessa?” Marissa asked sweetly. “Is there some kind of trouble? Can I help?”
“No, dear,” Tessa said. Then, to me, “I’ll write you a check, a retainer, yes?”
“Fine,” I said.
She kept her checkbook and a gold Cross pen in the tiny escritoire. A place for everything and everything in its place.
Marissa licked her lips, said, “Well, it’s time for me to go. I didn’t want to leave without saying—”
“Please,” Tessa said, “stay a little longer.”
“Mother,” Garnet snapped.
Tessa colored, and bowed her head, seemingly reprimanded. She scribbled rapidly, handed me a check and the signed contract. Before I had a chance to say more than a simple good-bye, Garnet seized me by the elbow, not hard enough for me to cry out, just firmly enough to guide me down the halls and out the door without undue fuss. He was extremely efficient. His Who’s Who write-up hadn’t mentioned anything about a stint in the Military Police. He had the moves of a good nightclub bouncer.
Once we were outdoors, he announced, “You can ignore everything that was said in there. My mother will change her mind within forty-eight hours. That’s a guarantee. You’ll be required by law to return the check. You might as well tear up the contract now. She’s under duress. You have no right to take advantage of her.”
I shrugged. “She called me,” I said. “Not the other way around.”
“If you have any writings supposedly penned by my dear departed sister, you’d be wise to get rid of them.”
“Your mom wants them; you want to get rid of them. Interesting,” I said.
“Good-bye.”
A cab pulled up at the porte cochere, honked twice. Henry, the spying chauffeur, was loading Marissa Cameron’s luggage into the trunk. Garnet went to supervise—possibly concerned that she might be stealing the family silver—leaving me to walk the last few steps to the Toyota alone.
I usually lock my car doors. In Cambridge or Boston, I practically chain the car to a tree because car theft is so common. In the rarefied Dover air, with the chauffeur on patrol, I’d been careless.
I glanced in the backseat, unconscious cop-rule #27: Never get into your car unless you’ve checked for unwanted passengers. The humped shape underneath my raincoat moved, and I started to open the back door.
Drew Manley raised his head and looked at me with supplication in his blue eyes. He placed a finger to his lips, then lifted both hands to make driving motions.
I shoved the back door shut, opened the driver’s door, got inside, and carefully started the engine.
If I could see both his hands, I figured he probably didn’t have a weapon. Still, the driveway seemed especially long and winding.
When we reached the road, I said, “So, Doctor, you want me to turn left or right?”
“Take a left on Farm, bear right at Bridge, keep going straight and it’ll get you onto North Street. We can take that into Medfield.”
“You comfortable back there?”
“No.”
“You might as well sit up on the seat.”
“Not yet.”
“Is there a coffee shop, a rest area?”
“Drive,” he said. “When we get someplace safe, you can help me up.”
I tried to miss most of the potholes, but the occasional labored grunt told me I wasn’t always successful.
“Don’t go so fast,” he muttered as we passed a huge red barnlike house on the right.
I slowed and watched the stone fences vary in height and color. Beyond the fences huge lots were heavily wooded, like forests with well-tended lawns; there were mansions back there. I could see the occasional chimney, a slated roof or two. Cars whizzed by, expensive sedans all. I kept to the speed limit; the Dover cops might use any excuse to stop a dirty ten-year-old vehicle.
After four long minutes, we crossed some railroad tracks and I let out a sigh of relief. Intuition—and my surroundings—told me we’d made it to my side of the tracks, the side I felt most comfortable on.
The wrong side.
17
“Where are we heading?” I asked after a while. I find distances amazing in the suburbs. I mean, I like to drive, but miles and miles between corner grocery and gas station would make me nuts in no time. I prefer concrete sidewalks, pedestrians on the march.
His voice was soft, muffled. “Make sure you stay on North. Are we past the Police and Fire?”
“Just passing it. Isn’t there any place closer?”
“We could have gone to the Pharmacy, but the whole town hangs out there. Look over on your right. Should be some kind of Chinese restaurant coming up. Big parking lot.”
The lot was fairly empty. I pulled into a sheltered spot near the rear. The place was too close to the police station for comfort. I didn’t want any sharp-eyed uniform watching me assist an elderly gent off the Toyota’s rug.
I half-lifted, half-wrestled him onto the seat. He wore a pale blue knitted sports shirt, dark slacks and shoes. His face was red, his silver hair mussed, his glasses tilted at an odd angle, but he insisted he felt fine. I recommended that he rest a bit before emerging.
“I overheard—” he began immediately. “I needed to tell you—then Garnet came—” He spluttered to a close. “Guess I’d better sit awhile, catch my breath,” he admitted grudgingly.
I surveyed the unpromising frontage of the Dragon King. Chinese/American Cuisine, it promised. I’ve always found “cuisine” riskier than “food.” Cocktail Lounge, said another sign, in smaller print than KENO!, which was plastered across the front door in huge yellow letters with a screamer. The establishment sat next to a chiropractor’s office and a two-by-four real estate agency.
“You want a drink?” I asked Manley. “Takeout?”
Breathing more easily, he regarded his immediate surroundings with disapproval. “The back of your car’s a disgrace,” he said huffily. “I must have been lying on shoes, something sharp. Maybe an umbrella. Smelly, too.”
“I don’t recall inviting you on an inspection tour,” I snapped, stung by his accuracy.
“Please,” he said humbly, holding out a hand by way of apology, “I could use a chance to stretch my legs.”
“Are we going to run into anyone you know?”
He gave the restaurant a dubious glance. “I doubt it.”
I helped him out of the car. He staggered once, muttering about pins and needles in his leg.
The interior was generic suburban Chinese place. I could have described the fish tank, the dark carved wood, the vases filled with plastic carnations, the garish dragon paintings without venturing inside.
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A sign said “PLEASE SEAT YOURSELF.” Evidently business wasn’t good enough to keep a lunchtime hostess busy.
We had no trouble finding a small booth. If any cops were drinking in the adjacent red-carpeted lounge, they were plainclothes strangers.
He ordered tea. I ordered hot and sour soup along with hot and spicy green beans, surprised to see both items on the mostly Mandarin menu. He shook his head when the bored young waitress raised questioning eyes in his direction. Maybe she thought I was going to share. I wasn’t planning on it; Tessa hadn’t invited me to lunch.
The sulky girl made a few scratches on her order pad, and disappeared, taking tiny steps that hardly ruffled her long traditional garb. Daughter or niece of the owner, I decided. Less than fond of her job.
“Would you like to know something I’ve learned, something I should have learned a long time ago?” my former client asked as soon as the waitress was out of earshot.
I shrugged and kept quiet since I wasn’t sure whom I was talking to—the seemingly sincere liar, Adam Mayhew, or the battered bewildered liar of the same pseudonym, the one who’d yanked me off the case. Or the genuine Dr. Drew Manley.
He took my shrug for assent. “Never get involved with a patient. No matter how you feel for her, no matter what your heart says, keep your patients at arm’s length.”
“If you’re trying to tell me you’re not Tessa Cameron’s half-brother,” I ventured, “I already knew.”
“I do live there, most of the time. I’m Tessa Cameron’s lover—her paramour, she calls me—which is ‘lover’ in old-fogey talk, or maybe Italian. I have been Tessa’s lover since Franklin died. I was in love with her before that, but I never acted on it. For that long, at least, I resisted temptation.”
From the way he said it, I got the feeling that Tessa would not have been unwilling before Franklin’s demise.
“She won’t marry me,” he stated simply. “I’m not Catholic.”
“What kind of doctor are you?” I asked.
“A good one. Retired.”
“Now that I know your name, Dr. Manley, exactly how long do you think it’ll take me to find out what medical specialty you practiced?”
