Staying Cool

by Catherine Todd

  “To coffee on the couch in the living room, if you’re ready,” he said with a smile, standing up.

  “Anyway, you’re right,” I told him, sinking into the soft upholstery when we had adjourned with our cups and saucers. “This case has lit my fuse. Maybe I should write Ramon a thank-you note.”

  He laughed. “I’m sure he’ll settle for getting sprung.”

  “I’m sure he will,” I agreed.

  “Ellen?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “Somebody has to be brave and say it first.”

  I wanted to look away, but it seemed cowardly. “Say what?” I asked him.

  “The ‘D’ word.”

  I couldn’t help laughing. “The ‘D’ word?” Dating. “What is this, Wheel of Fortune?”

  “Actually, it’s more like Truth or Consequences.” He looked at me. “Listen, Ellen, it’s still Just Dinner. But I want you to know that I’m interested in you, and not only as my co-criminologist. If you’re not interested in me, I’ll be disappointed, but it’s okay. I just didn’t want to go any longer without letting you know that I want to see you socially, too. ‘Dating’ sounds like going to the drive-in for a milk shake. I had in mind something a little more serious than that.”

  My pulse was definitely racing. “I’m not…uninterested.”

  He smiled. “An encouraging double negative. Does that mean you are interested?”

  “Of course,” I said. “But I’m also scared.”

  He touched my cheek gently. “Of what? Ghosts? Guilt?”

  I shook my head. “No, I’m pretty sure I’m over that part.” I took a breath. “Of going too fast,” I confessed.

  “Ah. Well, I’ve been burned, too, or at least singed, so I can understand that.” He paused. “I’m not pressing you, Ellen. We have lots of time.”

  “I just don’t want to screw this up. It’s been a long time, and I don’t know the rules anymore.”

  He smiled. “We won’t screw it up,” he said. “That’s our particular Rule Number One.”

  I smiled back. “The only thing is, after my experiences with Kathleen Wyndham and Melanie Klein, I can’t bear to give either of them the satisfaction of being right,” I said. “I don’t want them to know they got me dating again.”

  He laughed. “We won’t call them ‘dates,’” he said soothingly. “We’ll call them ‘social adventures.’ That can be Rule Number Two.”

  “What’s Rule Number Three?” I asked him mistily.

  He set down his coffee cup and stood up. “Rule Number Three is we’d better get you home before we risk breaking Rule Number One.”

  Later, outside my front door, he touched my cheek again. “It’s a big step for you, I know that. I don’t mean to push you. I can wait till you’re ready.”

  I tried to find the perfect words to say to him, but nothing came to mind, so I just turned toward him and kissed him on the mouth.

  It appeared to be precisely the answer he wanted.

  28

  I wanted to get to Mark with my questions before he left for the office that day, but I overslept. Staying in bed was such a rare luxury that I dragged it out, reading the paper right down to the classifieds and indulging in pleasant fantasies that I probably don’t need to describe. I had an appointment at one o’clock to help an artist install his work in Malibu, so I fixed myself an early lunch and ate it on my balcony, looking out over the ocean. I gave the squirrel a serving of peanuts. I felt decadent, luxuriating in free time. I was just forking in the last bite of cottage cheese (I didn’t want to go overboard on the decadence bit) when the phone rang.

  So much for leisure.

  “That you, Ellen?”

  “Ramon?”

  “Yeah, it’s Ray. I got that picture you sent.”

  For Ramon, this conversation was a significant improvement in civility. I felt hopeful. Besides, I felt in considerable charity with Ramon. Look what he’d already done for me. “And?” I asked him.

  “Well, that looks like it. I mean, I can’t remember exactly, you know, but that statue’s Aunt Rosa, so it must be the one.”

  I laughed. “Great. Even if it’s not the very same sculpture, you’ve given me a lot to go on. Thanks for letting me know.”

  “So it’s good news, right?”

  “It’s a start.”

  He paused. “You think you can get me out of here?” he asked finally.

  “I can’t lie to you, Ray. I don’t know. Mr. Crossland and I are doing the best we can.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  “Did something happen?” I asked him.

  “I’m okay,” he said.

  I noticed that he didn’t answer the question directly. I closed my eyes, trying not to think of all the things that could happen to people in prison. In a year, or two, or five, he might not be fit for any other life.

  “I’m trying,” I said, for lack of a more bracing remark.

  “I gotta go. I gotta clean some cells.”

  “Hang in there,” I told him, wondering if that was the best image to suggest.

  He laughed. “Thanks.”

  I consulted my watch. If I hurried, I might have time to call Karin Deacon at the Vendôme Gallery before I had to leave for my appointment.

  “Deacon,” Karin answered curtly, so I knew it was one of her hectic days.

  “Karin, it’s Ellen. I’m sorry to bother you when I know you’re busy, but—”

  “Oh, God, Ellen. It’s a madhouse around here. My assistant lost the paperwork for a major sale, and I can’t get the computer to cough up the information I need. I hate the technological age,” she said vehemently. “Could I possibly call you back?”

  “This is important, Karin. I hate to ask it, but I need a major favor.”

  She paused. I could almost see her pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Oh, Christ. Don’t tell me the Captain of Industry and Miss Congeniality are having another party?”

  “Don’t be snide, Karin. The Jensens have made us a lot of money.”

  “I don’t know about you, but I earned every penny of mine,” she said. “If you knew…” She covered the phone and said something to her assistant. Even under the hand, her voice sounded seriously displeased. I pitied anyone who screwed up on Karin’s watch; she ran a very tight ship. She had high standards and expected everyone else to follow suit. “So what do they want this time?” she said with a sigh.

  “It isn’t the Jensens,” I explained. “It’s me.”

  “What can I do for you?” she asked, carefully noncommittal.

  I explained to her, in summary fashion, about the sculpture, Ramon, and its possible role at the scene of Natasha Ivanova’s death.

  “Interesting,” she said. “This Ivanova woman just keeps popping up like a bad penny, doesn’t she?” Her tone implied that she was clearly outraged at such nerve. “So you’re thinking this sculpture might be a small bronze model for one of the larger works?”

  “It’s possible. Of course, we don’t know for sure that the work even exists, but I can’t for the life of me think of a motive for Ramon’s dreaming up something like that.”

  “I don’t imagine your young convict is exactly au courant with the art world, either, unless you count making license plates in all those pretty colors,” she said. “This is fascinating, I must confess, but what exactly do you want me to do?”

  “I was hoping you might try to track down the disposal—the sale, most probably—of some piece answering that description. I imagine it would have happened fairly soon after the murder, if it happened at all, so that would narrow the time frame. Failing that, anything you could find out to confirm that such a work ever existed would be immensely helpful.”

  “With all the vast resources at my command, I suppose?” she said dryly.

  “I realize it’s an awful lot to ask…”

  “I’m glad you realize that.”

  “You have the contacts, Karin, I don’t. It’s as simple as that. If I could get the
information without bothering you, I would, I promise.”

  She sighed. “Oh, well, I suppose I could always say I’m looking into a possible Botero exhibition,” she said. “Come to think of it, that might not be such a bad idea. Maybe I should talk to the County Art Museum and his gallery in New York.” She laughed. “It’s a thought, anyway. To tell you the truth, I’m sort of bored with the same old, same old.”

  “If you’re looking for something new, I have a suggestion,” I told her.

  “Surprise me,” she said. She sounded skeptical.

  “Have you been to the Art Park?”

  “I’ve heard about it,” she said, “but I haven’t been there.”

  I told her about my field trip. “It’s fresh and exciting. I’d like to do something like that a little closer to home.”

  “You wouldn’t by chance be looking for Vendôme’s backing, would you?”

  “You said you were bored,” I pointed out. I played a risky hand. “Diana Tolbert thinks it’s a bad idea, too. She doesn’t think it projects the right image.”

  “Oh, Diana.” I could almost hear the wheels turning. “Well, I’ll check it out sometime,” she said. “Meanwhile, let me get back to you on the Botero.”

  “Thanks,” I told her.

  The installation took longer than I’d planned. The client, an actor of greater aspirations than prominence, had ordered up a painting to cover the inset wall TV in the master suite. It was supposed to slide sideways by remote control, but after the artist and I nailed it up, the control wouldn’t budge it. The owner was out of town, and his secretary confirmed that he’d just had the house rewired, so “maybe there were some electrical problems.” I wasn’t happy with the lighting, either. All in all, the job took the rest of the day and was thoroughly frustrating.

  When I got home, my answering machine was flashing like the slots in Las Vegas.

  “Ellen, this is Diana. Please call me at the office tomorrow. It’s important.”

  Uh-oh. I pushed the button again with trepidation.

  “Hi, uh…Ellen, it’s me. Tom.” There was a pause. “Your brother.” Another pause. “I have some information for you, but I don’t want to go into it over the phone. I’m working tonight and part of tomorrow, so…I’ll get back to you, I guess. Bye.”

  A definite improvement, on all fronts. I hit “play” a third time, hoping I was on a roll.

  “Hi, Ellen. Karin. Gotta run, but just wanted to let you know I put my minions onto tracing your sculpture, and it looks like you might be right. Nice work! We’re double-checking the authenticity now. Botero’s representatives cooperated, and it’s amazing what comes out of the woodwork when you dangle a major exhibition in front of a collector’s nose. In fact, we got such an enthusiastic response that we’re going to investigate doing it for real. We might as well get some mileage out of this one. Anyway, I’ll fax the specs to you when I get them, but I think what you want to know is that the piece has already been sold twice. The original seller was…let’s see, I’ve got the name here…oh, here it is—Livingston. Manhattan Beach. Hope this helps. Talk to you soon. Bye.”

  Jackpot.

  I wanted to carry my new knowledge to Scott like a trophy—“See how smart I am?”—but he wasn’t at his office. He wasn’t at home, either, and despite my recent bravado, I didn’t want to leave a blitz of “call me” messages on his voice mail in every locale. He’d probably tell me to calm down and stop jumping to conclusions, anyway, but I couldn’t help feeling that this was what we’d been waiting for. If Bruce Livingston—whether or not he was the one carrying on with Melanie Klein—had sold the sculpture that disappeared from Natasha’s office between the time Ramon broke in and the time the police photographed the crime scene, there was a very good chance that he was mixed up in her murder. At the very least, he was up to his boyish grin in ca-ca. There had to be some way to prove it.

  Mark was clearly entertaining. There was music playing, and a light shone from the upstairs. The living room lamps were turned so low, a bat would have felt right at home. In fact, Mark looked excessively comfortable himself. He came to the door in his socks, and his hair was rumpled. He didn’t invite me in.

  “It’s obviously a bad time,” I said reluctantly. “I’ll come back later.”

  He caught my arm. “Is everything all right?”

  “Sure, we’re okay. I just wanted to ask you something. I guess it can wait.” I turned to go.

  “Come back here,” he said. “Do you realize that you never come over here without announcing your intention at least a day in advance?”

  “That was the old me. I’ve loosened up considerably.”

  He surveyed me with interest. “What’s up? I’ve got a couple of minutes before the pot boils over.”

  “That’s a disgusting analogy,” I told him.

  “What do you mean? I’m cooking pasta.” He grinned. “So what did you want to ask me?”

  I tried to make it short. “Remember that patient you told me about? The one who was seriously upset because she thought her husband had married her just for her money?”

  The smile faded. He folded his arms, the classic posture of refusal. “Why do you ask?”

  I took a deep breath. “I need to know who it was,” I said.

  He stared at me. “No way can I tell you that. It’s a breach of ethics.”

  “I’m not asking about her medical condition.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” he said firmly.

  “Look, if you knew one of your patients was about to commit a murder, you’d have to turn him in, wouldn’t you? This is something like that. It could be a matter of life and death.” Okay, so maybe I was exaggerating a little, but it certainly wasn’t out of the realm of possibility.

  He looked amused. “My patient is planning to kill someone? If that’s your explanation, I have to tell you you’re way off base.”

  I shook my head. “That’s not it.” I gave him a quick, urgent explanation of the circumstances.

  He looked appalled. “Are you still carrying on about this Ivanova thing? I thought you gave that up.”

  “Why would you think that? I told you I wasn’t going to.”

  “Because after your abortive date the other night, that’s what any sane person would do. I hadn’t heard anything more about it, so I just assumed…”

  I was glad now that I hadn’t told him about the wine glasses. “No, I’m far from giving it up. As a matter of fact, Scott and I have made real progress on this thing. But I really need to know—”

  “Scott?” he inquired, in an arrested tone.

  Freud said there are no accidents, so I supposed I must have wanted him to find out. I was also glad it was too dark for him to see me blushing. “The abortive date,” I explained.

  He closed his eyes. “Oh, God. You’re actually interested in him, aren’t you? I can hear it in your voice.”

  “Actually, yes,” I told him. I felt very brave and forthright, admitting it out loud.

  “Look, Ellen, I’m glad you’re finally abandoning symbolic suttee, really I am. But I hope you’re being very, very careful about this.”

  “I’m trying to,” I said. “But the most important thing right now is this murder. This isn’t just about getting Ramon Garcia out of prison for something he didn’t do. I have a theory as to who your patient is, and if I’m right, it’s possible she could even be in danger. If you won’t tell me the name, at least let me know if I’m right in thinking it’s Julia Livingston.”

  He stared at me.

  “Okay,” I said desperately. “If it’s still impossible for you to say anything, just give me a sign if I’m right. Any sign.”

  I don’t know what might have happened next, because he was the one who got the sign instead. The door opened wider, pulled by a pink-nailed hand. “Mark? Honey?”

  Mark grinned at me. “Tracy, this is Ellen, my next-door neighbor,” he said, in a far-from-placating tone.

  Tracy stood there in cutoffs a
nd the briefest of halter tops glaring at me. I suppose I should have been flattered by her annoyance. Her perfect tan (natural) and shoulder-length blond hair (not) proclaimed her as another probable member of the Volleyball Set. Not that there’s anything wrong with volleyball, but you see what I mean.

  “Hi,” she said shortly. I couldn’t blame her. “Mark?” she inquired again.

  “I’m sorry,” I told them. “I was just going.”

  She all but grabbed his arm to haul him inside. Other women obviously didn’t share my reticence about rushing into things.

  Mark pushed the door open again. “Ellen?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you have any potato chips? I’m all out.”

  My mouth fell open. He’d rather have his tongue pierced than eat a potato chip, and Tracy didn’t look like the type to indulge, either. Between them they probably hadn’t consumed more than ten grams of excess fat since 1985.

  Then I had it. I’d asked for a sign if I was right about Julia. That had to be it. “Me, too,” I told him. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t mention it,” he said, and closed the door.

  29

  “I warned you,” Diana said, when I called her back.

  “You’re not serious,” I said, hoping she wasn’t but knowing she must be.

  “I’m afraid so,” she said. “I’ve had another complaint. Another potential client who doesn’t want to work with you.”

  My stomach plunged to my shoe tops. “Who?”

  She told me. It was Bad News.

  “What can I say?”

  “You could say that you aren’t still involved in this Ivanova case,” she suggested. “Then I’d be prepared to wait till it all blows over.”

  I took a deep breath. “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Oh, Ellen. I don’t believe this. This is totally self-destructive.”