Flesh and Blood

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Nothing,” I said. “I'll go anyway.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Anita. Holding Baxter tight, she walked into the house.

  Cheryl flashed me a look— helpless, apologetic— then followed.

  Kent said, “Let me give you some advice: When someone offers you something, you should take it. Just out of courtesy.” He waved the three twenties.

  “Donate it to charity,” I said.

  He smiled. “I thought I was— Okay, you're a stubborn guy. Let's get you back to your canoe.” Placing a hand on my shoulder. Squeezing a little too forcefully, and when I resisted he dug his fingers in even harder. I freed myself from his grip, and his hands rose protectively. Boxer's instincts. But still smiling.

  I turned and headed back down the pathway. He caught up, laughing, his pink T-shirt spotted with sweat. He wore a strong cologne— orange brandy and anise and some other scents I couldn't pinpoint. “What exactly happened with Cheryl and Bax?”

  “Just what Cheryl said.”

  “The kid wasn't drowning? You just decided to play hero?”

  “At the time it seemed the right thing to do.”

  “I'm asking because sometimes she gets careless,” he said. “Not intentionally, more like . . . she doesn't always pay attention.” Pause. “Did she wave for you or did you just volunteer?”

  “I saw the boy out in the water, couldn't tell he was a good swimmer, and went after him. That's it.”

  “Oh boy,” he said, chuckling. “I've rubbed you the wrong way. Sorry, I just wanted to know. For the sake of those kids. I'm their uncle, and more often than not the responsibility falls on my wife and me.”

  I didn't answer.

  He said, “We're talking child welfare here, my friend.”

  “I volunteered,” I said. “I probably overreacted.”

  “Okay,” he said. “So now I've got a straight answer. Finally.” Grin. “You're making me work, bro.” He wiped his forehead.

  We walked to the fence in silence. When we got there he placed his hand on the gate latch. “Look, you did a good deed, I really would like to compensate you. How about two hundred, cash, and we call it a deal? Also, I'd appreciate it if you don't tell anyone about this— You live around here?”

  “Tell who?”

  “Anyone.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Nothing to tell.”

  He studied me. “You don't know who she is?”

  I shook my head.

  He laughed, whipped out the billfold.

  I shook my head. “Forget it.”

  “You really mean it, don't you?” he said. “What are you, one of those Samaritan guys? Okay, listen, if there's anything I can do for you— like if you need some work— do you do construction stuff? Or maintenance? I've always got something in development. Did you come from Paradise?”

  I nodded.

  “The restaurant,” he said. “That's one of mine— we're going to turn it into a landmark. So if you need a gig . . .” He slipped a white business card out of the fold.

  KENT D. IRVING Vice President and Projects Manager Duke Enterprises

  “Duke,” I said. “Not the magazine?”

  “Yes, the magazine, bro. Among other things.”

  I smiled. “Then how about a free subscription?”

  “Hey, there's an idea.” He slapped my back, drew his head back, and looked into the sun. Edging closer. Crowding me. “Give my office a call, we'll send you a coupla years’ worth.”

  I said, “I can see why you wouldn't want me talking to anyone.”

  “Can you?” Harder slap. “Well, there you go. And I know you'll show some class. Not showing class would make a lot of people very unhappy, and you don't look like the kind of guy who wants to spread unhappiness.”

  “God forbid.”

  “God doesn't always forbid it,” he said. “Sometimes we have to look out for ourselves.”

  He held the gate open, waited until I'd walked to the cable car and boarded, then produced a remote-control unit of his own. Big smile and a thumb flick and I was descending.

  He waved bye-bye. I waved back, but I was staring over his shoulder, a hundred feet beyond, by one of the rock ponds, where a man in tennis whites stood and tossed something to the flamingos.

  Thick torso, bulky shoulders, a cap of cropped black hair.

  Black Suit, now in tennis whites. Drawing back his arm, he pitched to the birds. Scratched his head. Watched them eat.

  Kent Irving kept his eye on me as I sank out of view.

  29

  WHEN I GOT back to the broken pier, Norris was sitting in the sand, legs yogi-crossed, smoking a joint. As I dragged the kayak to shore, he got up reluctantly and looked at his bare wrist. “Hey, right on time. Any wildlife?” He offered me the j.

  “No thanks. Just birds. The feathered kind.”

  “Oh well,” he said, toking deeply. “Listen, any time you wanna take a ride, let me know. Keep bringing cash and I'll keep giving you a discount.”

  “I'll bear that in mind.”

  “Yeah . . . good idea.”

  “What is?”

  “Bearing shit in your mind and not somewhere else.” Rocking on his knees, he settled, sucked hungrily on the cannabis, stared out at the darkening ocean.

  I drove up from the cove to the coast highway, turned right, and parked on the beach-side shoulder, with a hundred-yard view of the entrance to the Duke estate. One more hour— what could it hurt?

  I ran the tape deck as I slumped in the front seat. Old recording of Oscar Aleman riffing on a shiny silver National guitar in some thirties Buenos Aires nightclub. Aleman and the band peeling off a ha-ha rendition of “Bésame Mucho” that would have done Spike Jones proud, but no mistaking the artistry.

  Seven songs later the copper tentacles spread and a gardener's truck emerged, hooked a left, and sped by. Then nothing, as the rest of the album played out. I inserted another cassette— the L.A. Guitar Quartet— listened to one complete side, and was about to pack it in when the gates swung back again and a black Expedition shot out and barreled south on PCH.

  Silver-gray trim along the bottom of the door panels, oversized tires, chrome running boards, windows tinted nearly black. Cheryl's car, as described by Norris, but no way to tell if she was behind the wheel. I followed from a safe distance. The Expedition's brake lights never flashed, not even around sharp curves, and it paid no homage to the speed limit.

  The former Mrs. Duke in her usual hurry? She hadn't displayed any signs of impatience down on the beach, or up at the estate. Why was she still living at the estate a year after the divorce? Maybe not of her own free will. The appearance of Anita Duke and Kent Irving had thrown her. The two of them letting themselves into the guesthouse without apology. Anita calling the shots. Cheryl had capitulated easily to Anita's will.

  Under the thumb of the Duke family? Some sort of custody issue? Kent Irving had alluded to her poor maternal skills, and Baxter's near drowning backed that up. Perhaps the Duke clan was pressuring her to give up the kids, had negotiated her staying close.

  Were the kids with her right now? The Expedition's black windows made it impossible to know.

  I stayed with her past Pepperdine University, maintained the tail as the SUV turned off on Cross Creek, bypassed the fast-food joints and the newer businesses fronting the shopping center, and entered the Malibu Country Mart. The vintage stores were a series of low-rise wooden buildings arranged around U-shaped parking lots and topped by hunter green banners. Nice view of the Malibu hills and land-side homes in the distance.

  Not too many vehicles at this time of day, and I waited until the Expedition found its spot— hogging two spaces opposite Dream Babies Fragrance and Candle Boutique. I parked the Seville as far away as I could. Near the Dumpsters— a pattern seemed to be forming.

  Cheryl Duke climbed out of the SUV, slammed the door, and headed for the candle shop. Alone, no kids. She'd changed into a red silk tank top that exposed a band of flat, ivory belly, pipe-stem wh
ite jeans, and white sandals with high heels. Her hair was pinned up loosely, and big, white-framed sunglasses blocked the top half of her face. Even at this distance the bottom half seemed grim.

  She threw back the Dream Babies screen door and entered, and I sat there checking out the neighboring establishments. More “shoppes” than shops, bikinis and gym wear, nostrums to sooth the skin and the ego, souvenirs and tourist art, a couple of cafés on opposite ends of the U.

  The eatery farthest from the candle shop advertised coffee and sandwiches and provided two flimsy outdoor tables. I took the long way over to avoid being spotted, bought a bagel and a cup of Kenyan roast from a sickly-looking kid with a blue goatee and a Popeye tattoo on the side of his neck. Someone had left a folded Times on the condiments counter, and I expropriated the paper and brought it outside. Both tables were dirty, and I cleaned one off and sat down and busied myself with the daily crossword puzzle, keeping my head bent except for brief glances at the fragrance boutique.

  Ten minutes later Cheryl Duke exited toting a pair of shopping bags. She hooked immediately into Brynna's Bikinis, spent another quarter hour inside, and I made my way through the acrosses before being stymied by a five-letter word for “old fiddle.” She reemerged with an additional bag, dipped into Bolivian Shawl and Snuggle for thirteen minutes, and when she left that store she was toting three more sacks but looking no happier.

  Heading my way.

  I lowered my head, filled in a few more blanks, came up with “rebec” for the fiddle, because it was the only thing that made sense. Just as I'd wrinkled my brow over a three-letter clue for “Catullus composition” I heard her say, “Alex?”

  I looked up, feigned surprise, saw my twin reflections in her sunshades.

  Smiling. Surprised. Mr. Innocent.

  “Hey,” I said. “Know a six-letter word for ‘Indian pony'? Starts with c and ends with se?”

  She laughed. “No, I don't think so— I can't do that stuff. This is weird, seeing you again. Do you come here a lot?”

  “When I'm in Malibu. How about you?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “We probably passed each other without knowing it.”

  “Probably,” she said.

  “Doing some heavy shopping?”

  She placed the bags on the ground. “No, just . . . It's just something to do— maybe it's like karma or something. Seeing you. Or like when you think about someone and then they keep turning up— you know?”

  I grinned. The sunshades said I was doing okay. “Karma sounds fine to me. Care for some coffee?”

  “No, thanks—” The dark lenses moved from side to side, taking in the parking lot. Her bare arms were smooth and lightly freckled. No bra under the tank top. Those nipples again. “Sure, why not. I'll go get some.”

  “Let me.” I stood and handed her the puzzle. “See what you can do with this in the meantime. Cream and sugar?”

  “A little milk and some artificial sweetener.”

  As I turned she took hold of my arm. Leaning forward and giving me a view of fat, white breast tops.

  Her finger made a tiny circle on my elbow.

  “Also decaf,” she said.

  * * *

  When I returned she was hunched over the paper, white-knuckling the pen, tongue tip protruding between her lips. Her hair was down, and it looked freshly combed.

  “I think I got a couple of them,” she said. “‘Lynx’ for ‘wild cat,’ right? And ‘Burnett’ for ‘comedienne Carol.’ But not that pony one— maybe ‘cochise'? Isn't that Indian or something?”

  “Hmm,” I said, handing her the coffee. “No, I don't think that's it. This connecting one's ‘mayfly,’ so there has to be a y in there.”

  “Oh, right . . . sorry.”

  I sat down, picked up my cup. She did the same.

  “Mmm, good,” she said, sipping. “People who do these things— puzzles. I always think it's amazing. I've got street smarts, but I never really cared much for school.”

  “Which streets?” I said.

  “Phoenix, Arizona.”

  “Hot.”

  “Like an oven. Sucked. I left there when I was seventeen— dropped out before graduation, fibbed about my age, and got a job in Las Vegas Rollerblading in Magic Wheels.”

  “The skating show,” I guessed.

  “Yeah, you know it? I used to be a great skater— skated since I could walk.”

  “Magic Wheels,” I said. “That went on for a while, didn't it?”

  “Years. But I was only in it for six months, sprained my ankle and it healed okay but not good enough for serious skating. Then I got a place in the line at Follies du Monde.”

  Off came the sunglasses. Her eyes looked serene. Talking about herself had relaxed her. I sat back and crossed my legs, looked at the three diamond rings on her right hand, the three-carat ruby on her left.

  “A showgirl,” I said.

  “Well, it really wasn't all that— just your basic dancing and kicking,” she said. “First thing they did was change my name. The producers. They said I was gonna be a headliner, needed a new name.”

  “What's wrong with Cheryl?”

  “Cheryl Soames,” she said. “It's not exactly Parisian.”

  “So what'd they come up with?”

  “Sylvana Spring.” She stared at me, waiting. “It was like a big meeting between me and the choreographer. We came up with it together.”

  “Sylvana. Pretty.”

  “I thought so— it means the woods, so like, let's take a walk in the woods. And Spring because what's the best time to walk in the woods— the spring. I thought it was kind of fresh and poetic. Anyway, I danced my tush off for a year but they never made me a headliner but I kept the name.”

  “Another injury.”

  “No.” She frowned and put the sunglasses back on. “It's all politics. Who does what to who.”

  “So how'd you end up in Malibu?”

  “That is a long, long story.” She tapped the newspaper, looked away. “Would you mind if I break off a tiny bit of your bagel? I haven't eaten all day— watching the carbs, but I am kinda droopy.”

  “Take all of it.”

  “No, no, just a nibble.”

  “Don't tell me you're on a diet.”

  “No,” she said. “I just watch. Because— I mean, how long do you have what you have?”

  She broke off a crumb, chewed, swallowed, took a bigger bite, ended up finishing half of the bagel.

  “Kids napping?” I said.

  “Yup. Finally— it's hell getting them tired enough to nap. That's why we were down on the beach. What a day— So anyway, I figured why not use the time to look after little old me?”

  “Makes sense,” I said. “I want to be honest with you, Cheryl. Your brother-in-law told me who owns the property.”

  “My brother-in-law?”

  “Kent Irving. He said he was Baxter's and Sage's uncle, which would make him your brother-in-law, right? He gave me his card with Duke Enterprises on it. I didn't realize I was on famous ground.”

  She frowned. “He's not their uncle. He just likes to say that because it's . . . simpler to explain.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “His wife— Anita— she's actually their sister— Baxter's and Sage's. Their half sister. Not their aunt. That makes her my stepdaughter, so I guess Kent's my stepson-in-law.” She giggled. “Pretty weird, huh?”

  “It is a little complicated.”

  “She's a lot older than me and I'm her mom— Don't laugh, okay? If I start laughing this coffee's gonna go right up my nose.” Tipping down the sunglasses, she flashed green-blue innocence. “It is complicated. Sometimes I can't believe I'm in the middle of it.”

  “Hey,” I said. “Blended families. Happens all the time.”

  “I guess.”

  “So Kent's their brother-in-law,” I said. “And he works for . . . He is your husband, right? You're married to the famous Tony Duke.”

  “Not anymore.�
� She looked into one of the shopping bags. Pulled out a red string bikini and held it up. “What do you think?”

  “The little I can see is nice.”

  “Oh, you,” she said. “Men— they just can't visualize.”