“You don’t know him by name, Leona, but you know him. I was a little better informed, had picked up on the Gustave part but had no idea about Westfeldt. Despite all those years of first-rate libations—”
“What the hell are you babbling about?”
“Gustave Westfeldt,” I repeated, as if summoning a deity. “Old guy, curly white hair and a tiny little mustache.” A beat. “Hunchbacked.”
Color drained from her face.
I said, “The bartender from the Fauborg Hotel. For thirty-three years, as it turns out. All those people who serve us, we never take the time to learn much about them. But I learned a lot about Gustave. He’s eighty-four, happy to be retired. And sharp, mentally. He never learned your name. Or Mark’s. Because you always took a booth, never sat at the bar. But he sure recalled your faces. And your drinks. Sapphire Martini for you, straight up, olives plus onions. Onions without olives would’ve made it a Gibson, but you wanted both. You drank an identical cocktail in Death Is My Shadow, guess it’s been your favorite for a while. I have to tell you, Gustave didn’t approve, said if someone wanted salad, they should order salad. He developed his own private name for it: Gibsini. He laughs when he says it. And that’s how he filed you away. The Lady Who Likes Gibsinis. Mark went for eighteen-year-old Macallan, which is a commonplace order, so Gustave filed him as The Man with the Lady Who Likes Gibsinis. Then there was a third party who started showing up with the two of you, a couple of years ago. Blond, lovely, young—so young Gustave first figured she was your and Mark’s granddaughter. He filed her as The Girl Who Likes Rum and Coke. With one exception. The last night of her life. That night she ordered a—you guessed it—a Gibsini.”
Her cheek twitched again. She turned to block it from view. Didn’t see me nudge the laptop.
“Here’s the thing about bartenders,” I said. “Even when they seem not to be paying attention, they often are. And they notice all kinds of things. What Gustave started to notice was that Little Miss Rum and Coke always sat between you and Mark and that the second time she joined you, when Mark thought no one was looking, he slipped his hand between her legs. Kept it there. And the strange thing was, Rum and Coke endured it as the conversation continued. Gustave, being an upright type of fellow, was immensely offended but he’d seen all kinds of things that offended him, had remained steadily employed by keeping his mouth shut. His tolerance was strained even further when at the end of that evening, Mark moved his hand and yours took its place. And that’s the way it tended to go when the three of you showed up on Sunday night at the Fauborg and retired to that nice corner booth. Mark’s hand, your hand, Mark’s hand, your hand. You were out of view from the other patrons but Gustave had a nice clear view. ‘Now I got it,’ he told me. ‘These are perverts, I wanted to spit in their drinks.’ ”
She gave a start.
I said, “Don’t worry, he didn’t, like I said, he’s a man of discretion. And he never told anyone. Until he told me. Because I really am a good psychologist and I know how to ask the right questions. And”—rubbing my thumb and forefinger together—“I know how to provide what we call positive reinforcement.”
She muttered something.
“What’s that, Leona?”
“You’re disgusting.”
“Don’t you think that’s a little harsh, Leona, coming from someone whose view of morality can be thought of as blurred? To be charitable.”
“So what?” she said, facing me. “She was an adult, got amply compensated, no one got hurt, it kept us whole and healthy and intimate with each other. So what?”
“If that was the end of it, we wouldn’t be talking, Leona. But she turned up dead and I watched your movies and learned that you knew your way around a gun. I’m not talking Actors Studio nonsense. Your relationship with firearms was real and intense and borderline erotic. I believe you could go upstairs and bring down that Glock and finish me off with one shot. But you won’t. Because you’re smart. Because you being a gun gal isn’t the important insight. That one I got from your costar.”
A hand rose to her lips, cupped around her chin, and squeezed hard enough to turn the surrounding skin rosy.
“The inevitably wooden Stu Bretton, Leona. He really did stink as an actor but what makes him fascinating has nothing to do with technique. It’s his striking resemblance to someone.”
The facial tic slid down to her torso, eels running riot beneath her skin. Her entire body shook. Her head bowed.
I said, “Stu was a big guy, beefy, handsome, that nice head of thick, wavy dark hair. Which describes your son Phil to a T. As a matter of fact, Phil could be Stu Bretton’s clone. The timing fits: Phil was born a year after Death Is My Shadow was filmed. Nothing unusual about a leading lady bedding her leading man, it happens all the time. What makes Phil’s paternity interesting is that he’s got a twin who’s the spitting image of Mark. Now, how could that be, Leona?”
She buried her face in both hands.
I said, “Big puzzle, but here’s where my training paid off. Take a look at this.”
I held out the same faculty card I’d flashed at Magda.
She did nothing at first, finally spread her fingers, peered through.
“I may be a whore, Leona, but I’m a highly educated whore and working as a med school professor has exposed me to all sorts of interesting things. The incredible fixes people get themselves into. You know what I’m talking about.”
She began breathing hard.
I said, “Superfecundation.”
Her shoulders heaved. She moaned.
“Big word but a simple concept, Leona. A woman has sex with two men during a brief period of time and has the bad luck to drop two eggs during that particular cycle. The result is fraternal twins with the same mom but different dads. It’s not that unusual in so-called lower animals, rarer in humans but probably not as rare as we think. Because what woman, even if she figures out what happened, is going to divulge her secret? I’ve seen it at least twice in a medical setting: people coming in for tissue typing and we get results that are … thought provoking.”
She hunched lower. Gustave Westfeldt’s female counterpart.
I said, “Your problem, Leona, was that you couldn’t keep it a secret. Mark figured it out. Probably when the boys started puberty and Phil started looking like a man and the resemblance slapped Mark across the face. Because he’d seen all your movies, maybe even socialized with Stu Bretton. Big problem for you, Leona. But also Mark’s problem because by that time he’d come to love both boys and the thought of rejecting Phil because of your screwup was unthinkable. Good for Mark, very noble. But being good old horndog Mark, he also decided to capitalize on the situation. As in, we’ll stay together, Lee, go on like nothing happened. But I get to screw all the girls I want and throw it in your face to my heart’s content. In fact, Lee, not only do you have to tolerate it, if I want you to participate, you’ll damn well participate.”
Her hands flew away from her face. She smiled. Wet-eyed. Wild-eyed. “You think you’re so brilliant? Mark didn’t figure it out. I told him. Before Philip became a man, when the boys were seven. Because I’d seen pictures of Stu as a child, knew what was coming, knew I had to deal with it. And don’t kid yourself, you stupid punk, Mark didn’t need an excuse to jam his pecker in every available hole. He cheated on me during our honeymoon.”
“Then I stand corrected, Leona. But the result was the same. Your confession gave Mark a lifetime of leverage and molded the relationship you two shared for over forty years. Maybe it wasn’t so bad. Once you get past those silly taboos, what’s the big deal about a threesome, a foursome, an anything-some? Who cared what got stuck where as long as you ended up with the house, the cars, the toys? And, heck, Leona, you found out you like chasing youth as much as Mark did. Enter Steven Muhrmann. And Tiara Grundy. I am curious about one thing: Did Stu Bretton ever find out about Phil?”
She tightened up, readying a retort. Shrugged.
“He had no interest in paternity?”
“Stu was shallow,” she said. “That’s why he couldn’t act his way out of a paper bag.” Wagging a finger at me. “He wasn’t greedy. The only time he wanted to see Phil was after he got sick with cancer. Not to make trouble, just to see him. I took Phil to lunch at Spago. Stu had a table across the room. Stu was a ghost, didn’t look like himself anymore. Philly and I had a lovely meal. Foie gras mousse on kumquat tart.” Licking her lips. “Fava bean bruschetta … Stu picked at a salad. He left first. Our eyes met. He blew me a kiss when Philly wasn’t looking. A week later, he was gone.”
“Peaceful passing,” I said. “Private room at the actors’ hospice.”
“You bastard! You’ve excavated us?”
“More like surface digging. I found a picture of you and Mark at a fund-raiser for the hospice. Found Stu’s obituary in Variety.”
“All that smoking we did on screen,” she said. “It’ll probably do me in one day.” She laughed. “When the boys were real little, before I told Mark, Phil had always been his favorite. Bigger than Frankie, stronger, more athletic. ‘The kid’s Hercules, Lee, where the hell’d he come from?’ And I’d chuckle along with him. Then I’d go off to my room and cry.”
She demonstrated, let the tears flow silently. Maybe it was Method Acting. It seemed real. I could’ve felt sorry for her. If she was another person.
I said, “Did Mark’s attitude change after he knew?”
“Not one bit,” she said. “Mark was a prince.”
“A prince who betrayed you.”
The tears ceased. She made an ugly, guttural sound.
I said, “You orchestrated Mark’s retirement, figured with enough fun for all, maybe he’d relax and take you on a damn cruise. Unfortunately, just the opposite happened. Mark veered from the script and improvised. He grew to like Tiara. She amused him. Even her fake British accent amused him. He started to see her as more than a sex toy and began sneaking around you. Funneling her more money than you’d agreed upon. Gave her a diamond watch way above her pay grade. And Stevie Muhrmann was no better, going along with it. A bigger cut for Tiara meant a bigger cut for him. The problem with improv, though, is that actors can run amok. A director’s worst nightmare. But you never saw how serious the problem was until Mark had the poor judgment to die unexpectedly and you had the even worse judgment to cut off Tiara’s funds.”
“I’m the bank?” she said. “Fuck her.”
“Actually, you were the bank, Leona. And banks run into problems when they’re faced with Too Big to Fail. Which is exactly how Tiara had come to see herself. Because Prince Mark had armed her with a ton of leverage by divulging Phil’s paternity.”
I stopped.
She breathed hard and fast. Growled. “Bastard.”
Hard to know who she meant. Maybe everyone.
I said, “Maybe it was pillow talk, maybe intentional mischief on Mark’s part. Whatever the case, the damage was done and Tiara took the knowledge seriously. There’s a pathologist who’d been testing her for STDs for years and she asked him if he also did paternity testing. She wanted science on her side in case you went into denial mode.”
“Bitch,” she said. “Pushing me, pushing me after I warned her. She was trailer trash, cheap, clueless, stupid. Didn’t even know how to order a drink when I met her.”
“The whole Pygmalion bit, down to the accent,” I said. “Talk about My Spare Lady. Maybe her poor judgment had something to do with her own mother dying, some people don’t grow up until they’re orphans. Or maybe it was just the faucet turning off, no more style to which she’d grown accustomed.”
“Bitch.”
“Entitlement’s a nasty addiction,” I said. “No rehab for it and cold turkey sucks. Tiara’s ultimatum was clear: Pay me a whole lot of money or I go straight to your sons and give them a little genetics lesson. Talk about button-pushing, Leona. Your crowning accomplishment was raising brothers who love each other. Would the boys’ relationship survive the truth? Maybe, but you couldn’t risk finding out. So you agreed to Tiara’s demand but told her as long as I’m paying, I’m staying, honey. You slept with her a few more times. You even let her stay at your house on Old Topanga when she got tired of paying rent. Then you set up a final date. Back to the Fauborg, where you and Mark and Tiara had spent so many quiet evenings before retiring for fun. The hotel was going down forever, perfect metaphor. You wrote the script: ingénue, bodyguard. Experienced older woman calling the shots. The inevitable merging of flesh. You even had Tiara wear the outfit you wore in Death Is My Shadow. Told her to order the same cocktail. Use the same cigarette holder and sunglasses. Because we know how that scheming character ended up. But perhaps there was another reason, Leona: Maybe you were finally eliminating traces of the persona you’d played your entire adult life. Bad girl pushed too far who inevitably loses. Time for a new you.”
I smiled. “The Prime of Miss Olna Fremont.”
She waved that away.
I said, “Tiara complied superficially, but once again, she improvised. Wore the watch Mark had given her. Talk about a subtle little fuck-you.”
She fidgeted.
I said, “The plan was the three of you would ‘meet’ in a dark cocktail lounge, go off together, end up somewhere—probably right here on satin sheets. Stevie was looking forward to a night of fun. Loved playing Secret Agent Man.”
She snickered. “His brain was potting soil.”
“Two against one, Leona. You’ve got guts.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“How did it go down?”
“What’s the difference, let’s talk business.”
“Here’s what I think: You kept Tiara waiting, finally phoned Stevie and told him there’d been a change of plans, returning to the main house was out of the question. Stevie said, ‘Bummer.’ You said, ‘No problem, we’ll party at the other house. Where Tiara’s staying, anyway.’ Your log cabin, you bought it with your own money, so it was unsullied by Mark. It appealed to you because it reminded you of all those western sets. You had the two of them meet you somewhere, picked them up in one of your cars. Not the Rolls, too delicate, not the Mercedes, too small. Had to be the Range Rover, perfect for mountain roads. You drove, they rode. A few miles before Old Topanga Road, you stopped and pulled over and said, ‘There’s a great view spot, I want to see if the stars are out.’ The three of you got out, maybe you pointed out some constellations, it is beautiful up there at night. And then Tiara met the Asp.”
She studied me. Scooted closer, stroked my fingers. “I take it all back. You are a smart boy.”
“Thanks, but you made it easy. That last scene in Death where that cop tries to wrest your weapon away from you and you get shot during the struggle. Little side-by-side derringer, the one you kissed in previous scenes. It’s a distinctive-looking weapon. Ralston Firearms model XC324, aka the Asp. Last manufactured fifteen years ago, crude but flexible: Each barrel can take a .45 bullet or a .410 shotgun shell and any combination thereof. The coroner was puzzled by how evenly aligned the wounds were on Tiara’s face because she’s assuming two shooters. But one double-whammy from a single person would explain it perfectly. From what I’ve read, it’s got quite a kick but nothing a gopher-blasting gal couldn’t handle. Risky, though, because if you missed, you’d need time to reload. But you had confidence. Bye-bye pretty face. That was the whole point. Enough slavish devotion to youth and things that don’t matter. How’d Stevie react?”
“What do you think?” Her mouth dropped like a trapdoor and hung slackly. She bugged her eyes.
Aping a dullard’s surprise.
I said, “You weren’t worried he’d attack you?”
“Not a chance,” she said. “He always did what I said.” Smiling. “Guess that was the attraction.”
She played with her hair. “It’s not like I gave him time to think about it. I kicked her down the hill, got back in the car, and started it up. He stood there, looking like he was going to be sick. I said, ‘Are you going to
keep staring like a jackass or can we finally have some real fun?’ ”
She walked her fingers along a seat cushion. “I got a little specific about the fun. What you’d call positive reinforcement. He scampered right in, I touched him where he liked to be touched. Tossed it into his lap.”
“The Asp.”
“It was still hot,” she said. “That’s a problem with it, it gets hot. I wore gloves.” She broke into throaty laughter. “When it hit his crotch, he shot up so fast he banged his head on the roof. I said, ‘Calm down, darling. We’ll have a blast.’ No pun intended.”
Slapping her knee. Squeezing my hand.
I said, “But it was intended. A mile later you stopped again, pulled out a second gun from where you’d been hiding it. A .357 that could be fired a whole bunch of times. You ordered him out of the car. Why didn’t he fight back then?”
“Scared,” she said. “Like a pathetic little girl. I almost wanted him to try, he’d have ended up with no face himself. But too much to clean up.”
“He got right out?”
“Dropped to his knees and begged.” Huffing. “Pathetic. He started asking me why. ‘None of your business,’ I said. ‘Now get up and let’s have an adult discussion.’ ”
Laughing. “He actually thought he was going to be okay.”
“Then you shot him in the back. Why twice?”
“What I wanted,” she said, “what I’d thought about—was to have him drop his pants and shoot him where it counted. Watch the look on his face when he realized what I’d turned him into. Watch him realize he was oozing away. But a girl has to be practical. I needed to get it done and move on.”
She touched my cheek, let her fingers trickle toward my chest. I intercepted her. No way for her to conceal a weapon under the tight sweats but my heart was pounding and I didn’t want her to feel it.
Being this close to her made me want to bolt.
Like holding a defanged snake. An asp. The cerebrum says Safe. The primitive brain, the one that kicks in when survival’s at stake, says Get the Hell Out of There.
Mystery: An Alex Delaware Novel Page 27
