Staying Cool

by Catherine Todd

  “What happened?”

  She twisted her wedding ring. “He became very interested in collecting art. You were clever and figured out why he wanted to do that. But to me it seemed the perfect thing we could do together. I gave him the Botero I showed you, as a wedding present. I bankrolled a number of other acquisitions.” She looked away. “Then I found out—quite by accident—that there are some things in his past that are rather…unsavory. I’m not going to tell you what they are. Anyway, I had him followed. And then I found out he was having an affair.”

  With Melanie Klein, presumably. “I’m so very sorry,” I told her.

  “Yes.” She sounded utterly weary. “So now you understand.”

  “No, I don’t. Especially now. If you know he deceived you in all those ways, why are you still married to him?”

  She folded her arms across her body and shivered. “And have everyone know? After they’d warned me? That would be…intolerable. I’d rather die than endure such humiliation.”

  “So what will you do, then?” I asked incredulously. “Stay married to him forever?”

  She gave me a thin smile. “I don’t have forever.”

  “But—”

  She held up her hand. “He doesn’t know that I know anything. That keeps him a very attentive husband, as I’m sure you observed at the Jensens’ party,” she said with a bitter laugh. “The affair has been…terminated, and as long as I am aware of the true circumstances, I can protect myself. I can bring him to heel at any time.” She glanced at me. “You look appalled,” she said. “Do you think everyone in the world is as lucky as you?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, for the umpteenth time. There were no adequate words for the conflicting emotions I was feeling.

  She leaned back against the cushions. “If I live long enough, I might divorce him,” she said. “But on my terms, and very quietly. I won’t be shown to be a fool.” She paused. “Of course, then I’d be alone again.” Her mouth formed a ghastly, twisted smile. “Somehow, I don’t think I’ll want to give Ivanova Associates a shot at finding me another husband.”

  “Julia—”

  She put her hand on my wrist. “So now you see why it’s absolutely imperative that nothing negative comes out about Bruce. It’s all in the past, and I can’t be hurt by it, so there isn’t any point, is there?”

  I pulled my hand away gently. “I’m afraid that’s not possible,” I told her.

  Her eyes widened. “Why not?”

  “Because,” I said carefully, “there is a boy sitting in prison for something Bruce may have done. I have an obligation—”

  “The murder? You think Bruce committed the murder?” She sounded as if she were on the verge of hysteria.

  “I’m not sure. But there is evidence to suggest that he was there that night.”

  “Nonsense,” she said in a distracted tone. “The police arrested that Mexican boy.”

  “They didn’t know about this,” I told her.

  “What? What evidence is there?”

  “There was a sculpture in Natasha Ivanova’s office—possibly a Botero—the night she died. It disappeared before the police got there, so the killer or someone with him had to have taken it. It was…it was…” Now that I got right down to it, I was having trouble getting the words out. I wondered if, when she realized that her husband might be implicated in Natasha’s death, it would occur to her that his motive might have been to keep Julia from finding out what she in fact already knew.

  “Yes?” After her panic of a moment before, the word sounded unnaturally calm.

  “It was traced to Bruce,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Ah.” Her hand stroked the soft leather of her purse, as if the expensive material could give her comfort. “Is there no way I can persuade you to forget about this whole thing?” she asked me sorrowfully.

  I shook my head. “You don’t mean that. That boy would spend years in jail.”

  “A Mexican,” she said contemptuously.

  I felt a spasm of irritation at the way she said it. “Latino.”

  “What?”

  “A Latino. You should say ‘Latino.’ And anyway, what difference does that make?”

  She shrugged. “A burglar, then. A common thief. What future does he have? Against that, weigh—”

  I didn’t want to hear any more. “I’m sorry. I can’t possibly consider what you’re asking.”

  She reached into her handbag. She was going to offer me the money again. “I—”

  Someone knocked at my door in three sharp raps. “Excuse me just a minute,” I told her. Relieved, I started to stand.

  “Please don’t answer that,” she said, very softly.

  I looked at her.

  She was holding a gun.

  32

  Despite all the bad press about violence in Southern California, I had never before found myself looking down the business end of a loaded weapon. My brain told me the gun had to be purse-sized, but the emotions that were fueling an incredible surge of blood through my heart were signaling “Bazooka.” I stared at it with a horrid fascination, with no eyes for anything else. My mouth dropped open. “Wha?” I inquired. A less than articulate response.

  Julia raised a finger to her lips.

  Whoever was at my door knocked a couple more times and then disappeared into silence. Even if I’d screamed to raise the rafters, the front door was dead-bolted, to keep out intruders. At the moment, I didn’t find the irony even faintly amusing. In fact, when the first seconds of terror had passed, I began to feel angry.

  “What are you doing?” I asked her, after a few moments. “I don’t seriously believe for one minute that you’d shoot me just to protect yourself from the embarrassment of having the Junior League or somebody learn about Bruce’s misdeeds. Put that thing away.”

  She ignored me. “That’s what I meant about Fate,” she said, in a conversational tone.

  I looked at her. Her eyes were unfocused, but she had the gun propped up in her lap, pointed straight at my heart.

  “What about it?” I asked her. Maybe if I humored her for a while, she might regain her reason.

  “If someone hadn’t knocked on the door just then, I might have been able to convince you.”

  Fat chance. “You were getting the gun out before he knocked,” I pointed out.

  She shook her head firmly. “No, I was just thinking about it. But when you got up to answer the door, I had to decide what I would do. Once I took this out, it would be irrevocable, don’t you see?”

  I didn’t want to ask her what she had decided. It seemed unlikely to be happy news. “It’s not irrevocable,” I told her. “You’re upset. Just put it away, and we’ll forget the whole thing.”

  She gave me a look that said “what kind of fool do you take me for?” “You don’t mean that. Don’t patronize me.” She looked away. “I don’t like to be patronized.”

  I eyed the gun in her lap and wondered if I could grab it from her while she was distracted. It was a challenge. If I risked it, the finger she was resting on the trigger might recoil, and then…

  “She was patronizing, too,” she said.

  “Who?” I asked.

  Her attention swung back to me. I’d missed my chance. “Natasha Ivanova.”

  “I don’t understand,” I told her.

  “She took me for a fool,” she said bitterly. “She denied the whole thing.” She saw my blank look. “The affair. With Bruce. I told you.”

  “Um—” I wasn’t sure what this was leading up to, but I was getting a very bad feeling about the general direction.

  “She was going to force him to move away, or she would expose him. She said she couldn’t afford what it would do to her business if it ever got out that Bruce had been convicted of embezzlement and she didn’t do anything about it. She was utterly heartless, I can tell you.”

  My mouth was agape in disbelief. “Um, when exactly did you have this conversation?”

  She gave a tight s
mile. “You know when it was, Ellen. The night she died. I asked her to meet me very early in the morning so there would be no chance of being overheard. Since I’d had Bruce watched, I knew he had a key to the office. He used to meet her there, you see. I wanted to look through the files first, in case she wouldn’t cooperate, so I took his key and let myself in…” She gave a delicate laugh. “I was there when that boy—that Mexican—broke in. I hid in the bathroom. He never knew I was there.”

  I felt dizzy. “Don’t say it like that,” I corrected her, my mouth dry.

  “Say what?”

  “Mexican. As if it’s something bad. Why don’t you just say ‘Latino’?”

  She looked amused. “Why do you keep insisting on that?” she asked. “What difference does it make?”

  It seemed very important to be precise. “You’re not respectful,” I told her.

  She snorted. “So what?”

  I took a breath. “I’m Latina, too,” I said. It was the first time in my life that I’d ever said it without qualification. It felt good, even if it was only partially accurate. I hoped it wouldn’t be the last time.

  “What?” She seemed confused.

  “My father was Mexican,” I explained. “From Mexico,” I emphasized.

  She looked at me as if I’d confessed to something embarrassingly personal. “It doesn’t show,” she said. She might have been talking about cold sores.

  “Nevertheless, it’s true.”

  She shrugged.

  “What about the Botero sculpture?” I asked her.

  “How did you know about that?” she countered. “I’ve been wondering.”

  “Ramon told me about it.”

  “Who?”

  “The burglar,” I said. “The one who’s in jail for something you did.”

  “He deserves to be there anyway,” she said. “Although I must admit, I’m amazed he could recognize fine art.”

  I didn’t tell her he was struck by its resemblance to his aunt’s naked torso. “Please continue,” I said, in the most unpatronizing tone I could muster.

  “I brought the Botero back. She’d acquired it for us, but after I found out…I couldn’t bear to have it in the house. I offered to give it to her, in exchange for her silence. I offered her money, too.” She shook her head sadly at Natasha’s folly. “It was so easy. She was very upset when she learned she’d been burglarized. I told her that I’d found the door open and just walked in. She believed me.”

  “But she wouldn’t take the bribe,” I suggested. I didn’t tell Julia that Natasha had probably skimmed a healthy chunk off the alleged purchase price already. I wondered if she had enjoyed the irony of the offer, or if she was too worried about what the burglar might have made off with to think about it. It was probably the missing files that concerned her most. “What did you do with the files?” I asked Julia.

  “I destroyed them,” she said. She looked very pale. “I want you to know, I didn’t go there with the idea of killing her.”

  “I’m sure Natasha found that very comforting.”

  “Don’t be snide, Ellen. It doesn’t become you. I’m trying to explain something important. Of course, I had my gun. I’ve carried one for years. My father insisted on it. But I never even thought about using it. You see,” she said, with sickening earnestness, “that’s what I meant about Fate. Just like the person coming to the door. If that boy hadn’t broken into the offices, if I hadn’t seen him pick up that Erté, I never would have thought of killing her. But it all seemed so inevitable. Don’t you see?” She sighed. “She should have taken the money.”

  It was all Natasha’s fault, obviously. “You hit her with the Erté?” I asked.

  “No, with the Botero. It was right on the desk. But I’d seen him touch the Erté, so I knew he would be blamed if I switched the statues. It was so easy,” she said again. “As if it was meant to be.” She was in love with the idea of Kismet. It let her off the hook. She choked a little. “Well, except for having to hit her again with the Erté, after she was dead. That was distasteful.” She sounded as if she expected me to feel sorry for her. In her own mind, she’d become the victim.

  “And you called the police yourself to help Fate a little, right?”

  “It was the only way,” she said.

  I was feeling more than a little uncomfortable about the fateful parallels between me and Natasha. I wanted to keep her talking, until I could seize the opportunity to jump her. Talking her out of her plans looked to be impossible. There were some vital pieces of information that she didn’t know, and I had to think how best to use them.

  “There is one thing I’d like to know.”

  She seemed appreciative of my interest. “What’s that?”

  “Why did you break into my townhouse?”

  She drew back in distaste. “I didn’t break in. You invited me.”

  Don’t remind me. “I don’t mean tonight,” I told her. “I mean earlier.” I looked at her. “You mean you didn’t leave the filled wine glasses over there on the countertop?”

  Her nose wrinkled. “Why on earth would I do that? That would have the opposite effect of what I intended. Didn’t it make you more determined and suspicious?”

  “Well, yes, as a matter of fact.”

  “There, you see. I couldn’t have done it. All I did was get you to agree to let me know if you found out anything.” Her tone was self-congratulatory, and I suppose it deserved to be. I’d been so busy feeling sorry for her that I’d never suspected her.

  “What about planting little hints about not working with me?” I asked her.

  She smiled. “Well, I let Bruce do that. I told him about your interest in Ivanova Associates, and naturally he didn’t like your poking around there. I believe he enlisted the help of that decorator, Valentin. He doesn’t like you. I was surprised.”

  She sounded genuinely taken aback by my lack of popularity. The conversation had a surreal quality. She was so perfectly correct. It was as if Miss Manners had stumbled onto the set of Natural Born Killers. “I didn’t dream you’d go to such lengths, or…” She shrugged. “Of course, Bruce has no idea that the boy didn’t kill her. No one does.” She looked at me. “And no one will.”

  I had no enthusiasm for pursuing this line of thought. “Why did you sell the Botero?” I asked, to distract her.

  She looked horrified. “Well, I couldn’t keep it. Not after that.”

  She used exactly the same tone my mother had adopted when I’d once let a stray dog lick me. “Who knows where it’s been?” she’d said.

  “But the sale was traceable to you,” I pointed out. I’d been so obsessed by Bruce’s involvement that I’d failed to note that Karin’s message had merely identified “Livingston” as the seller. Some detective I was.

  “So what? I owned it. No one knew it was there that night. Well, the boy did, but, frankly, I didn’t think he’d noticed. And who would believe him if he did?”

  We both knew who had, though. “What did you tell Bruce?” I asked her hurriedly.

  “That I’d changed my mind about keeping it. He was surprised because, up till then, I’d let him be in charge of all the art investments, but he could hardly object.”

  “No, but—”

  The phone rang. I was certainly having a busy day. I considered making a dash for it, but she waved the gun at me. “Please don’t answer that,” she said, for the second time in the conversation.

  I wondered if she thought the “please” would make it more palatable. Probably not; more likely, it was just habit or noblesse oblige. Something they taught in finishing school: Always say “please” before you press the trigger.

  We sat listening to my tape announcement as if it were the overture to some well-loved symphony.

  It was Diana.

  “Ellen, are you there? Ellen, pick up.” She sighed so gustily that I could hear it all the way across the room. “This is the limit, Ellen. I got a call from Bruce Livingston. You are fired, as of this instant. I
’ll send the paperwork to you as soon as I get it ready. Don’t bother to call me back,” she said and slammed down the phone.

  Julia looked at me as if she expected me to react. I couldn’t; I had too many other problems to worry about, to give it any consideration.

  Julia had other ideas. “How incredibly tacky,” she said indignantly.

  “Excuse me?”

  “At least she could have fired you to your face,” she said. I looked at her; she was perfectly serious.

  I didn’t like to point out that current circumstances made that impossible. I shifted on the couch. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the Mad Squirrel circling the food bar. “I have to go to the bathroom,” I told Julia.

  Bad suggestion. She moved the gun into her right hand. “We could do it in the bathroom,” she said. “I don’t want to distress you, but it will make less of a mess that way.” She looked genuinely upset. “I’m thinking of your daughter,” she said.

  I was thinking of her, too. I was thinking that she’d be an orphan, just when she was getting over the loss of her father. I was also thinking about Scott. I even thought about the squirrel, coming in vain for peanuts after I was gone. It was supremely ironic that the case that had brought me to life again was going to bring about my death.

  I couldn’t let that happen.

  Think of something, my mind prompted itself. Don’t just sit there and do nothing.

  “You won’t get away with it,” I told her. “Other people know.”

  “You’ve already been threatened,” she pointed out. “You’ve been meeting strange men for dates. What do you think people will believe?” She stood up. “Come. There’s no point in delaying it any further.” She looked at me with moist eyes. “I’m a good shot. I won’t let you suffer.”

  “The police, an attorney. Lots of people,” I insisted.

  “I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Ellen, but if there were any kind of official investigation into this affair, no one would let you near it. Besides, the police have their killer in jail. They won’t thank anyone who says otherwise.”