Staying Cool

by Catherine Todd

  She laughed. “Family is not a matter of deserving, Ellen. If it were, nobody would have any.”

  “Well, I don’t want it to be a matter of guilt, either. I don’t want to push either of you. Whatever you want to give will be enough.”

  “For the time being,” she said.

  “For the time being,” I agreed.

  Inspired by all these fresh starts, I vacillated momentarily between taking my final drive in the Beemer and putting new bug-proof shelf paper in my kitchen drawers. I needed to think, and activity always spurred my brain cells. Besides, I didn’t want to proceed until I talked to my brother about whatever he’d found out about Bruce Livingston. As Scott said, it didn’t pay to go blundering around without all the facts.

  I opened the pasta drawer and found a box of spaghetti with several embalmed-looking moth larvae inside. The old me would have launched into an orgy of cleaning. The new me opted for the drive.

  I took the path alongside the stream and fishpond, and turned left into the parking structure. My spaces were in the middle of a long row of cars, next to a Mercedes convertible on the right and an ancient Datsun on the left. The complex was a very democratic place. I waited a second for my eyes to adjust to the darker interior after the brightness of out-of-doors. Then I reached into my purse for the keys.

  Someone grabbed my arm.

  “Eeeek!” I cried and whirled, my right hand still caught inside my bag. I am sorry to say it was not a sound that would have frightened off a dragonfly, much less a potential mugger.

  Except it was much worse than a mugger. It was Bruce Livingston.

  “Eeeek!” I cried again, more loudly.

  He tugged on my arm. “Be quiet,” he said. “Please.”

  “Let go of me,” I said. My hand was fumbling in my purse for the pepper spray.

  His grip tightened. “My car’s back there. I just want to—”

  Pow! I zapped him right in the face with a blast of spray. I was so close that some of it made my eyes tear, too. The canister fell from my hand. Bruce dropped my arm, of course, and bent over, cupping his hands over his face. “Shit!” he yowled.

  For good measure, I swung my purse around and hit him on the side of the head as he stooped. The blow knocked him into the side of the car. He collapsed onto his knees.

  I didn’t feel like waiting around for him to recover. My feet took me flying back down the path until I arrived, panting, at my own front door. I had the key out a hundred yards in advance. Once inside, I bolted the door and raced up the stairs to Andy’s bedroom, where the window faced the front. From there, I could see anyone walking down the path toward my door. I hurriedly splashed some water into my eyes and then took up my observation post, cordless phone in hand. If he came anywhere near, I was ready to dial 911.

  When I finally stopped gulping for air, I tried to decide what was the best thing to do next. I should have realized that Bruce might impute some reason other than a round-the-world tour or whatever cover story Diana had concocted to explain my replacement as their art consultant. If he hadn’t killed Natasha, why would he be here threatening me? Could I prove it? Should I call the police? If he didn’t realize I suspected him before, he certainly would now. For the first time since I was eight years old and totally enamored of Little Joe on Bonanza, I wished I owned a gun.

  My hand was slick on the phone. Andy was visiting my mother, and I called to warn her not to come home for any reason till she heard from me. I got my address book and left a message on Scott’s voice mail, saying that Bruce had threatened me and I thought we should move as quickly as possible to put our case together. I called Dorie back and asked her to have Tommy get in touch with me right away.

  After fifteen minutes or so of staring down at the path without seeing anything more frightening than a couple of very fit female joggers, I decided that the danger was not so immediate that I could not afford a quick trip to the bathroom. My muscles were so clenched and tense that I could barely rise from my chair, but I could hardly maintain this vigil forever. If he were determined enough, when night came, he could hide behind the bushes or along the walk without being detected. It was a less-than-reassuring thought. I took the phone into the bathroom, just in case.

  It rang as I was picking it up from the countertop, startling me so much I almost dropped it into the sink. So much for nerves of steel. My heart was pounding in my throat.

  “Hello,” I croaked.

  It was the last person I expected to hear from.

  31

  Unmatchable clients eventually become a problem.

  —Attributed to Natasha Ivanova

  “Ellen, it’s Julia Livingston,” she said. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’d really like to talk.” There was all kinds of static and an occasional roar in the background. It sounded as if she were calling from a phone booth, but that seemed a touch too plebeian for Julia.

  “I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” I said, mindful of Diana’s instructions. That might have been a tad overscrupulous, since I’d just attacked Bruce with pepper spray. I couldn’t even begin to imagine what Diana was going to say about that.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I can barely hear you. I’m calling from a phone booth. Please, Ellen, I need your help.”

  She sounded desperate, and I did feel sorry for her, but not sorry enough to venture into Bruce’s domain. “I can’t come to your house, Julia. I’m sorry.” I hoped I sounded calm in the face of this magnificent understatement.

  “I don’t want you to,” she said. “It isn’t…we can’t talk there. Could I possibly come to where you live? It’s really important, or I wouldn’t ask.”

  “Well, I…Have you seen Bruce?” I had to know if she knew what had happened.

  “No, why? Have you?”

  “He, um, dropped by a while ago.”

  She sounded surprised. “Really? Whatever for?”

  “Um, I’m not sure,” I told her. “We didn’t get a chance to talk.”

  “That makes it all the more urgent that we talk,” she said. “But, Ellen,” she said very quietly, “I’d prefer that he not know anything about it.”

  I decided that was an encouraging sign. Thanks to Mark’s “potato chip” confirmation, I knew she suspected something about Bruce’s background, and she was apparently willing to confide in me. I gave her my address. “If you park at the pier, there’s a back way you can walk up to the complex,” I said. “There’s a locked gate, but I can let you in. You could just walk in off the street, but then everyone can see you.”

  “I know where it is,” she said. “I’m close to there now. Could you meet me at the gate in ten minutes?”

  “Fine,” I said.

  I hoped I was doing the right thing. On the one hand, while I was literally honoring my promise to Diana (I’d only promised not to call the Livingstons; I never said anything about their calling me.), from a professional point of view, I ought to have told Julia that I couldn’t see her. I mean, how willing would she have been to confide in me if she’d known I was going to wage an all-out campaign to put Bruce behind bars? For her, “The Big House” no doubt had other, less sinister, connotations.

  On the other hand, this was definitely the fast-track way to inside information. As I had nothing much in the way of concrete evidence, anything she told me could be very helpful. It was probably worth a little ethical slipperiness. Besides, Bruce had come after me first.

  A few minutes later, I went round the ocean side of my townhouse to meet Julia. I debated putting one of my excellent utility knives (five inches and serrated) into my pocket for insurance, but I had to admit that Bruce’s jumping me in front of his wife seemed fairly unlikely. Not only that, but I didn’t have any pockets deep enough to contain it invisibly, and it was far too hot for a jacket. I opted for vigilance instead.

  There was no one lurking, except a seagull looking for the Early Bird Special. Julia was already waiting, leaning against the chain-link fence. She looked
overdressed for the beach in a long-sleeved rose-colored Fuji silk shirt and white slacks. Her eyes were closed, and she was clutching her purse tightly against her stomach.

  I unlocked the gate with my key. “Hi,” I said softly.

  She turned toward me, and I saw dark circles under her eyes. She looked even more unwell than the last time I’d seen her. I put my hand under her arm to guide her up the steps, as if she were an elderly lady. She didn’t protest.

  “This is nice,” she said, when we had gone inside. “The view is lovely.”

  My entire condo could have fit into her family room/kitchen, but I appreciated her graciousness. “Thank you,” I said. “Can I get you something? Some iced tea? Soft drink? Wine?”

  “Just some water, if you don’t mind.”

  I got it for her, and she took some pills out of a bottle in her bag. She swallowed them and sank back against the cushions.

  “Are you all right?” I asked her.

  She smiled bleakly. “That depends, I suppose. For the moment, the answer is ‘yes.’ In the long run, the answer is probably ‘no.’”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, appalled.

  She shrugged. “I’m fine, Ellen. I’m sorry to involve you in my troubles.” She hesitated. “Ms. Tolbert called this morning. She said you would not be working as our art consultant any longer. Is that true?”

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  “May I ask why?”

  I took a deep breath. “I’m not sure I should go into it, Julia,” I said.

  She looked at her hands. “I see. Do you believe in Fate?”

  I thought it was an odd question. “Do you mean some preordained order of events?”

  She nodded.

  “No,” I told her. “But I believe in accidents.”

  She smiled. “Maybe what you think are accidents is really Fate. Inevitable, I mean.”

  I wondered where this was leading. “I still don’t think so. The way I see it, you just make the best of the events that come along and hope to alter things in your favor to the extent possible. I don’t have any more philosophy than that.”

  She shifted on the couch. “Well, perhaps you’re right.” She looked at me. “Let me make this as easy for you as possible. I think you found out something in the course of asking questions about Natasha Ivanova’s matchmaking service. I’d like to know what it was.”

  “I—”

  “You assured me that you would let me know what you learned,” she reminded me.

  “Are you sure you want to know?” I asked her.

  “I’m not a fool, Ellen. I may be old-fashioned and somewhat naive, but I have figured out that there’s some connection between your interest in Ms. Ivanova and your sudden refusal to continue working with us.”

  “I didn’t refuse. Diana—Ms. Tolbert—thought it would be best.”

  “Because you’ve learned something that will be embarrassing to us, I presume.”

  To put it mildly. “There is some suggestion,” I said very carefully, picking my words, “that not all of the people who have met through the matchmaking service are what they represent themselves to be. In some cases, a man might even represent himself as well-off in order to find a wealthy wife.”

  She blinked. “People who signed up with the service, you mean?”

  I looked away. “Not necessarily,” I said, hoping she would understand me. “They might have been introduced by someone connected with it. Officially or unofficially.”

  “I see,” she said finally. “And what if such a woman were protected by a prenuptial agreement? How could he be said to be taking advantage of her then?”

  “Hypothetically speaking?”

  “Of course.”

  “She might be induced to give him expensive gifts or make investments in his name. Or he could inflate the value of the…investment, and he could pocket the difference. She wouldn’t necessarily know about it.”

  “He’d have to have help in making these investments.”

  It didn’t sound like a question, but I answered anyway. “Probably,” I told her.

  She passed a hand over her eyes. “Why are you pursuing this? Why does it matter to you?”

  “Apart from the fact that I don’t think people should be taken advantage of that way, I told you, I was on the jury that convicted Ramon Garcia of Natasha’s murder.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t see the connection,” she said.

  She didn’t appear to know that Bruce might be involved in Natasha’s death, although she clearly had a pretty good idea about the fraud he was putting over on her. In that case, I wondered why she hadn’t given him the old heave-ho. Maybe she was planning some truly perfect First Wives Club–style revenge. I hoped so, but I wasn’t eager to volunteer any more. I’d hoped she’d be telling me what she knew, but instead, I’d been doing all the talking.

  “You haven’t made it clear to me how I can help you,” I told her.

  She gave me the same direct, steady gaze that had impressed me when I first met her at the Jensens’ party. She seemed to be considering her next move. I waited, hoping she would decide to tell me the truth. She reached into her leather bag and pulled out a fat envelope, which she handed to me.

  “What’s this?” I asked her.

  “Please look inside,” she said in a constricted voice.

  I did. There was at least fifty thousand dollars in large bills. I almost dropped it into my iced tea. I looked at her.

  “It’s your consultancy fee,” she said, but this time she couldn’t meet my eyes.

  I reached out to hand it back to her, and when she didn’t put out her hand, I set it in her lap. “You already paid me, remember?”

  “I think we both know this is for something a little more than that,” she said gruffly.

  I couldn’t believe this was happening. Things like this happened to movie characters, not to middle-aged art consultants with more or less humdrum lives. Well, not so humdrum lately, but still.

  I tried to stay calm. “It’s a bribe, then,” I said. “But the thing is, Julia, I’m not sure for what.”

  She studied her wedding ring with intense interest, then slipped the envelope of money back into her purse. “I would like nothing…embarrassing…to be made public about Bruce,” she said.

  “I’m so sorry, Julia,” I said, meaning it. She must really have loved him to make such a humiliating gesture. “Please don’t go any further with this. Whatever the truth about your husband, it will have to come out.”

  She looked at me. “I am in a position to purchase some very expensive artwork through you,” she reminded me.

  “I know you are, and I could have used the business,” I said frankly. I wanted to make her understand that I was not indifferent to her pain, however impossible her request might be. “Listen, Julia, since I’ve been investigating this case, Diana’s received a number of phone calls warning me off. Someone even broke into my apartment. I—”

  “What do you mean, ‘investigating this case’?” she interrupted sharply.

  I told her a little about posing as an Ivanova Associates client, without mentioning the article for City of Angels.

  “So,” she said, very quietly, “you went to that matchmaking service. You must know what it’s like to be lonely.”

  “Of course I know,” I told her. “I’m a widow. But what I was going to say just now is that someone is clearly trying to intimidate me. It might be your husband.” I couldn’t bring myself to mention the pepper spray. I somehow thought it might put a damper on further confessions.

  “Preposterous. It could be anyone. Particularly if you’ve been getting matched up with strange men.”

  I let that one pass. “The point is, if I wouldn’t give up the investigation when my career and maybe even my life were threatened, I certainly won’t do it for money. I’m sorry,” I told her. “I know you must love your husband, and it’s natural to want to protect him, but…”

  She snorted. It startled me to hear
such a sound coming out of her ladylike nose. “Love him? I don’t love him. I loathe him.”

  I stared at her, openmouthed. “I don’t understand.”

  “You don’t understand how I could loathe someone who married me only for my money?”

  I shook my head. “No, I mean, in that case, why don’t you just throw him out? Why do you want to protect him?”

  She looked at me as if I were a simpleton. “Your naïveté is not without its charms, my dear, but I can’t believe you’re serious.” She sighed. “Of course, you can’t possibly understand. You have to come from a certain background.”

  “I see,” I told her, although I didn’t. “I would have thought that having money would free you from having to endure humiliation, rather than the reverse, but as you say, I can’t possibly understand.”

  She closed her eyes. “I’ve offended you. I’m sorry. It was unpardonably rude. I’m upset. Let me try to explain.”

  “Please,” I said.

  She rubbed her temple with thin fingers. “When you have a lot of money,” she said in a sorrowful tone, as if she were talking about some fatal disease, “it’s either very easy or very difficult to find someone to marry. It’s easy because there are always a lot of candidates, but it’s difficult if you want to be sure you are wanted for yourself and not your wealth. Particularly if you are plain and rather quiet, as I was. It takes so much energy to try to find the right person, and after a while, you just get so tired of fighting it, of being alone…”

  She looked at me. “People have always been there to protect me—my family, my attorneys, my friends. But no one ever quite measured up to my expectations, and the end result was that I was still alone. I got tired of being protected.”

  I nodded. I could understand that feeling.

  “I knew Bruce was quite a bit younger, and that my money had to be a great part of the attraction,” she continued. “I’m not foolish. But he seemed to genuinely care, and on the surface, at least, he had a successful career. I thought that would be enough. And, of course, if worse came to worst, my lawyers had prepared a prenuptial agreement, which protected my assets.” She pronounced “assets” as if it were a dirty word.