by Dianne Emley
Hanging in her closet were several cocktail dresses that would have been perfectly acceptable, including the one she’d bought for her first date with Thomas. She’d flipped through the hangers as an exercise, knowing in advance that none of them would be any good. They were all tainted with other times, other events, other men. She was having yet another fresh start. That called for a new dress.
Paula had done their hair. She’d been a hairdresser in one of her previous lives. She’d pinned Iris’s hair into a twist at the back of her head with tendrils dangling down her neck and teased her own thick mane into something big and glamorous to go with the black, knee-length, low-cut number she’d bought. With a little TLC Paula could still cut a striking figure.
At the party, Paula swept two champagne flutes from a tray carried by a waiter and handed one to Iris. “This ought to warm you up.” Paula downed hers in two gulps and grabbed another.
Iris raised her eyebrows.
Paula shrugged. “They’re free and you’re driving.” She scrutinized a tray of hors d’oeuvres carried by another waiter and piled several onto a small cocktail napkin. “Fancy schmantzy party, Iris Thorne.”
Iris shrugged. “It’s okay.”
“Listen to you. Been there. Done that.” With her eyes, Paula followed a waiter who had just entered the terrace from the kitchen. “I could really tie one on tonight. That stupid Angus calling all day really pissed me off.”
“How do you know it was him?”
“It’s just like something he would do. He treats me like crap all the years I’m with him, then I take off and he won’t leave me alone. I’m not going to stand for him dogging me the whole rest of my life. No way. It’ll be him or me.”
Iris looked at her soberly.
“Hey, don’t stress on it. I’m taking off. I’ll go shopping for some wheels tomorrow, then”—she ran her hand in front of her like a car going down a road—“see ya!” She took off after the waiter.
Iris nibbled at a corner of toast and caviar. Her snug dress wouldn’t allow her to eat much more. She eyed the crowd.
While Paula went in search of more hors d’oeuvres, Jeff Rosen energetically walked toward her with his hand outstretched. “Iris! I’m so glad you came.”
“Hi, Jeff,” Iris said guardedly, taking his hand. She assumed he knew about the will. “Nice turnout.”
“Gil has loyal supporters. Their contributions might be small but at least it keeps him from being in the back pocket of a few large contributors like Gaytan DeLacey.”
“Who’s Gaytan DeLacey beholden to?” she asked.
“He never told you?”
“What do you mean?”
“I found out today that you’ve been dating him.”
“News travels fast.”
“Little goes unnoticed in a campaign like this.”
“Apparently.”
“Just so you know, Gaytan DeLacey’s biggest contributors are real estate developers. They have their eyes on that five-hundred-acre ranch.”
She gave him a blank look.
He gave her a smug one back. “There’s a lot about Thomas Gaytan DeLacey that you may be unaware of.”
Paula returned with a fresh glass of champagne and another napkin piled high with hors d’oeuvres. She popped a stuffed phyllo dough pillow into her mouth and licked the flaky crumbs from her fingers.
Rosen eyed her suspiciously, as if he thought she’d crashed the party.
Iris quickly made the introductions. “Jeff Rosen, this is my friend Paula…ah…”
“Molina,” Paula volunteered.
“Very pleased to meet you, Paula.”
She gave him her greasy hand. “Delighted, I’m sure.” She slurred a bit. The champagne was taking effect. That didn’t stop her from snagging another glass from a passing waiter.
“Paula?” Rosen widened his eyes. “You’re Gaytan DeLacey’s sister.”
Paula pointed her hands to herself. “That would be me.”
He looked at Iris. “Now this is interesting.”
“Guess I’m just rotten with DeLaceys lately, Jeff.”
“Mrs. Molina, we heard about your house burning down,” Rosen said. “Do they know what caused the fire?”
“I don’t know what they know, but I have some ideas,” Paula said.
Rosen furtively looked around, then grabbed their arms and started guiding them away from the crowd. “Look. About that will. Gil’s prepared to pay whatever it takes to get his hands on it.” He looked from Paula to Iris.
“It’s not mine to sell,” Paula said. “Iris bought it from me.”
“Iris?” he pleaded.
She shook her head.
He looked at her incredulously. “Why not?”
“I have my reasons.”
“You think you’re going to help Gaytan DeLacey win this campaign?” He pointed at Iris. “You’d be better off if you gave us the will now. Gil’s about ready to have the Gaytan murder case reopened because of this new evidence. Then you’ll be forced to turn it over. I wonder how the folks at McKinney Alitzer will feel about promoting you then.”
Paula grabbed his hand and forced it to his side. “Didn’t your mother tell you it was impolite to point?”
Iris looked at him evenly. “I’d advise you to get all your facts in order before you did that. Ask Gil about what really happened to Humberto de la Garza.”
“I know what happened. He hurt himself falling down a hill when he resisted arrest.”
“Really?” Iris scrutinized him out of the corner of her eye.
“There’s no evidence to the contrary.”
“Oh yeah?” Paula said. She staggered slightly on her high heels. “You’d better be pretty goddamned sure, mister.” She punctuated her words by poking him in the arm with her finger.
He glared at her. “Excuse me?” Turning to Iris, he said, “What is she talking about?”
“Jeff, I suggest you have a heart-to-heart with Gil about what happened that day. If you don’t, you’ll see a political career crash and burn like you’ve never seen before. It won’t be a shot in the arm for your career either.”
There was robust laughter coming from the center of the terrace. Gil Alvarez was holding court.
Paula said, “That’s him, isn’t it?”
Iris nodded.
“I’ll be damned.” Paula shook her head and started walking toward him.
Iris quickly followed, with Rosen close behind.
Alvarez’s face was slightly flushed. His eyes sparkled and his grin was broad. He was in his element. He spread his arms expansively, a lit cigar wedged between his fingers. “Considering how much he mentions the mayor’s endorsement, he should give himself a third name, Thomas Gaytan DeLacey Riley.”
Everyone within earshot laughed with delight.
“You would have thought that Mayor Riley adopted him or something.”
More laughter.
A tall man stood next to Alvarez. He looked to be in his fifties and had a full head of wavy silver hair and a broad barrel chest. He wasn’t wearing a tuxedo like most of the other men or even a dark suit, but had on a tweedy sports jacket over beige pants. His tie was broad and the material was cheap and stiff. He made Alvarez, who was wearing a black tuxedo, look downright elegant.
He casually looked over the crowd, almost as if out of habit, and immediately spotted Iris and Paula—nothing unusual about that since they were probably the most flashily dressed women there.
Alvarez took a sip of champagne and extended his arms again. “What my opponent doesn’t realize is that getting the mayor’s endorsement can actually be a liability. The mayor only has a forty percent approval rating in the Fourteenth. Most of the constituents see the mayor as elitist—not in touch with the needs of the people. This endorsement can end up being Gaytan DeLacey’s boat anchor.”
There was scattered applause and shouts of “Here, here!” and “Right on!”
Alvarez spotted Jeff Rosen waving at him, tryi
ng to get his attention, but ignored him. “Elitist,” he sniffed. “I tried to give Gaytan DeLacey a tip. I told him, Thomas, stop telling people how you graduated from Yale. Doesn’t make you connect to the Fourteenth, sitting there behind the velvet rope of the Yale Club.”
There were murmurs of agreement.
Alvarez drained his glass.
“Oh no,” Rosen moaned.
“I told him. Thomas, I said. Good thing you didn’t take up sales as an occupation because, my friend, I don’t think you could sell pussy on a troop train.”
There were scattered guffaws, mostly from the men. Some of the women tittered uncomfortably. The tall silver-haired man slapped Alvarez on the back and laughed heartily.
Rosen looked aghast.
Iris grinned malevolently. “That’s your candidate.”
Alvarez was about to continue talking—a fresh glass of champagne in his hand, apparently having the time of his life—when Rosen took him by the arm and physically removed him from the scene. The silver-haired man tagged along.
“Miss Iris Thorne,” Alvarez said. “How wonderful to see you.” He bowed and kissed her hand. “You look delightful. I’m glad that Thomas Gaytan DeLacey at least has luck with the ladies.”
Rosen indicated Paula. “And this is Paula Molina. Thomas’s sister.” He shot Alvarez a meaningful look.
Alvarez kissed her hand. “I must say that Bill and Dolores DeLacey certainly had very attractive children.”
Paula nabbed another glass of champagne from a passing waiter.
Alvarez introduced the silver-haired man. “This is my old friend and former partner, Ron Cole.”
Iris tried to keep her expression convivial as she shook his hand.
Paula was not as discreet. “I’ll be damned. Ron Cole and Gil Alvarez. Who would have thought? What a small world. You two guys caught my grandfather’s murderer. Thank goodness you got that dangerous Humberto off the streets.”
Cole said, “Sure. I remember you girls.” He looked them up and down. “Like I always say, thank heaven for little girls.”
“Thank heaven,” Alvarez agreed.
Cole asked, “So which one of you had the dog?”
Iris tugged on Paula’s arm. “We’d better go.”
Paula jerked her arm away. “What business is it of yours?”
“Let’s go.” Iris again latched onto Paula.
Paula walked sideways, dragged by Iris. “Are you a dog lover or something? Is that why you almost shot poor Skippy?”
Alvarez stopped smiling for the first time that night.
“Poor Skippy,” Paula wailed. “You loved that dog, didn’t you, Iris?”
Cole formed his hand into a gun and leveled it at Iris. He clicked his tongue against his teeth.
Iris tried to scurry away, but Paula was intent on taking her time, working the rear view for all it was worth.
CHAPTER THIRTY
After work the next day, Iris drove to Casa La Propia Hospital, where Dolly had been a patient twenty-five years ago. The Woodland Hills hospital was on a large parcel of land that had once been in the middle of nowhere in the arid, sprawling San Fernando Valley. As the property steadily grew in value, pieces of its vast lawns were sold off by hospital directors seeking a quick budget fix. Now the once gated, very private psychiatric hospital stood facing a busy boulevard next to a large commercial-retail complex.
After Iris had cooled her heels in the hospital lobby for twenty minutes, a middle-aged woman wearing a sedate dress and low heels led her to a sparsely but elegantly decorated office. The walnut Colonial-style desk and credenza were spotlessly polished. The brass pulls gleamed. Many framed diplomas and certificates hung on the walls. On the credenza was a bust with the functions of the human brain delineated—language, memory, motor controls, body senses, and so forth. A bookcase was crammed with psychology books. There were no photographs or other items of a personal nature. A butler’s table held an electric teakettle, disposable cups, and coffee and tea paraphernalia. An area to one side was furnished with a couch, a well-padded armchair, and a swivel-based, high-backed leather chair. Several clocks were situated around the room; one was visible from any seat. Each end table held a box of tissues.
“Doctor Osgood will be with you shortly. Please have a seat.” The woman left.
Iris stood in the center of the room, wondering if the instruction was actually some sort of a test. She evaluated the available places to sit and took what she thought was the best one—the leather swivel chair. She could see the whole room from there and wouldn’t have to tug at her skirt hem, which would ride up if she sat in the soft chair or couch.
A man entered the room, wearing a crisp white cotton short-sleeved wraparound smock with ties that circled around the back and were fastened in a bow in front. Underneath he wore dark suit pants and a light blue shirt with a button-down collar and a tie in a subdued print. He looked to be in his sixties and had thin but carefully styled silver hair frozen in place by some stiff concoction. He was barely as tall as Iris and had a large nose, small brown eyes with lids that drooped over the corners, and a big mouth with purplish lips and gums. He carried a thick manila folder.
Iris decided that even though appearance seemed to be important to this man, he had never been good-looking and had certainly always been short. She wondered what effect that had had on him through his life. He didn’t seem to be very friendly. He had given her a distinctly disapproving look when he entered the room.
“I’m Dr. Randolph Osgood.”
“Iris Thorne.” She stood and shook his hand.
“Nice to meet you. Please sit down.” He gestured to the couch and the other chair.
Iris got the idea. She sat on the end of the couch. Sitting in his chair was a small mistake. She felt like telling him to lighten up.
“You are a friend of the DeLacey family.”
“Yes, I am.”
He took a pair of half-glasses from the smock’s breast pocket, set them on the end of his large nose, then gazed at Iris over the tops. “When you said you wanted to speak with me about Dolly DeLacey’s illness and treatment, I took the liberty of calling Bill DeLacey.”
Iris nodded.
“Is that problematic for you?”
“Not at all.” She smiled pleasantly.
“You may or may not know that patient records are confidential and I’m not about to share them with whomever might call.”
“Certainly not.” Arrogant ass, she said to herself.
He opened the manila folder on his lap and began flipping through the pages, occasionally pausing to examine one in detail. All the while, he continued talking to her. “It’s Bill DeLacey’s opinion that I should speak with you about Dolly’s illness and treatment in the most general terms. I conceded that I could do that without getting into specifics about Mrs. DeLacey’s case. Mr. DeLacey feels you could benefit from some education about ECT, electroconvulsive therapy, and the depressed individual.”
“Does he?”
“Hmmm…” He frowned at a page, then abruptly closed the folder and took off his half glasses. “He says that you are under the rather curious impression that Mrs. DeLacey did not die by her own hand.” He held the glasses by one of the arms and spun them. “Furthermore, you believe that Mr. DeLacey was involved in her death. To support this position, you reference a telephone call that Mrs. DeLacey made to you a few days before she expired. Is that correct?”
“That’s right. And she didn’t leave a suicide note. And why would she hang herself? It’s so grisly. Certainly she could have gotten her hands on drugs.”
He refolded the glasses and returned them to the smock. “A suicidal person can be very resourceful, Miss Thorne. Anhedonia can reach such a level that an individual will seek almost any means of freeing themselves from it.”
“Anhedonia?” She hated admitting he’d used a word that she didn’t understand.
He raised his chin. “The state of deriving little or no pleasure from lif
e. Furthermore, notes are left in only a quarter of all suicides. Mrs. DeLacey had attempted to kill herself at least once before, when she intentionally drove the family car into a cement wall in nineteen seventy-one.”
“Were there other attempts?”
He flipped the glasses out, put them on, and reopened the folder. “The last time I saw Mrs. DeLacey was June, nineteen seventy-one. I’m unaware of any attempts after that.”
“Why did you discontinue care?”
“I strongly encouraged Mr. DeLacey to continue with the follow-up drug therapy. Additionally, a program of follow-up shock treatments might have been in order. As I recall, there was a financial issue. ECT was quite expensive then, as it is today. I don’t know what became of Mrs. DeLacey after she left my care.”
Iris said, “Mr. DeLacey sent her to the family doctor. But a family practitioner certainly wouldn’t be on the cutting edge of psychiatric care. Do you think that if she’d received proper care, she wouldn’t have deteriorated the way she did?”
“I’m not in a position to comment on another physician’s treatment plan, especially one I haven’t reviewed.”
“If Mr. DeLacey was concerned about the expense of ECT, why did he authorize it in the first place? And why did you administer it?” She scooted forward so that she was sitting on the edge of the couch. “By the early seventies, ECT had fallen out of favor.”
He crossed his legs, settled into his chair, and again took off his glasses. “You are correct, Miss Thorne. That occurred partially as a result of abuse. In the fifties and sixties, ECT had been used to treat everything from schizophrenia to backaches, not to mention subduing problematic patients. Its popularity has returned in recent years. Nowadays, it’s reserved for severely depressed patients who don’t respond to drug therapy. But the technique has been greatly modified and humanized. Patients are anesthetized first, making the convulsions largely internal. Patients used to come out of ECT with bruises and even broken bones.”
Iris said, “The problem is that, even when properly administered, ECT alters personalities and destroys memories. Short-term memory loss is common, but some people lose long-term memory and sometimes it never returns.”
