“I’d like her to come,” Ashley said, uttering five full syllables. Progress, but I wasn’t throwing a victory party.
At the house, the girls scurried off to Ashley’s room while I hung out in the hallway, straightening towels in the linen closet and listening to the gentle drone of their chatter. Once in a while I caught a distinct word or two, but I didn’t want to get caught eavesdropping, and when I heard footsteps (one of the girls coming?) I left quickly. The conundrum of every mom: you’re desperate for information, but even more desperate for your kid’s trust. No reading diaries or checking email messages. Unless you were sure nobody would ever know.
After about an hour, I poked my head in the room. From the wet cotton balls, streaked tissues, and colorful bottles scattered on the floor, I realized they’d been having a pedicure party.
“You two need anything?” I asked.
“Nope, I’m gonna go,” Mandy said, unfolding herself from the floor. “My boyfriend has been waiting for me, like, all afternoon.” The nails on her bare feet gleamed a shiny shade of Petulant Pink, and she wiggled her toes.
Ashley stayed on the bed, and when Mandy scooted out, she stared down at her own peachy-pink toenails. At least the punk/Goth phase had been short-lived.
I hesitated for a moment, then sat down on the Aeron desk chair and scooted it closer.
“Want to talk about what’s going on?” I asked, forgetting that you never ask a teenager a yes-no question unless you want to hear…
“No.” Ashley sat back and crossed her arms in front of her chest.
I tried again. “Your teachers said they’d meet with you if you need any help catching up.”
“Tell them not to bother,” Ashley said, flopping down on her pillow. “I’m never going back. I hate everything about that school. All my classes suck. The kids are the worst. I hate all of them — even the ones who are supposed to be my friends. The teachers are awful. Mr. Morland’s a jerk. I can’t stand my swim coach. Or his assistant. Or the secretaries. Or even the lunchroom ladies.” She somehow skipped over the custodial staff.
“Then we’ll get you out of there,” I said, trying reverse psychology. “You can get a fresh start. We’ll switch schools. I bet we can do it by next week.”
“I’m not switching schools!” Ashley shrieked, flipping her position faster than Olga Korbut on a balance beam. “How can you suggest that? Daddy’s a killer, my life is shit, and now you want to take me away from my friends at school? Why not just kill me right now?”
“What would you like to do?” I asked, still thinking I could reason with a fourteen-year-old whose mood was swinging like the trapeze at Cirque du Soleil. “You know the circumstances, and those aren’t changing right now. How can we make the best of them?”
“We can’t,” she said.
“I’ve been trying to make the best of them,” I said, standing up. “You were right the other morning, so after I dropped you at school, I got up some courage. I went shopping and then back to work. I got highlights in my hair and a new client in my business. I probably wouldn’t have ventured out if you hadn’t convinced me, so thank you. It turned out not to be so bad.”
Ashley looked at me in surprise.
“By the way, do you like the color?” I asked, running my fingers through my hair.
“Not bad,” she said. “It’s blonder than usual. Shiny. Kind of stands out.”
“Nah, around this town, blond is the best way to blend in.”
For the first time, Ashley gave a little smile.
At dinnertime, Dan wasn’t home. I took some leftover cold sesame noodles from the refrigerator and stood at the counter eating with chopsticks out of the white cardboard box. So this is what family life had come to. Ashley had taken crackers and cheese to her room, Grant was running late at tennis practice, and Jimmy had a stomachache from eating too much pepperoni pizza at a birthday party. Time to talk to him. I finished my noodles, loaded a tray with treats, and went to his room.
“Surprise,” I said, putting a glass of milk on Jimmy’s night table. “Bedtime snack.”
“I have a bellyache,” he said, putting his thin arms around his middle.
“I know. I get them, too. Want to know when I had a bellyache?”
Jimmy looked at me uncertainly.
“I had a bellyache the night the policemen came to our house. My tummy did more flips than Jimmy Fields on a Slip ’n Slide.”
Jimmy nodded solemnly. “My tummy hurt then, too. I saw a gun.”
I put two Double-Stuff Oreos next to the milk. “Usually policemen use guns to protect us. But that night they scared us.”
“Were you scared?” asked Jimmy, looking at me wide-eyed.
I nodded. “Yup. But not anymore. Sometimes people make mistakes. Even policemen. I think the policemen made a mistake that night.”
“That’s what I think, too,” Jimmy said firmly.
“Plus Daddy’s home with us, and he didn’t get hurt. We love Daddy, and Daddy loves us.”
“I love Daddy,” agreed Jimmy. He dipped the cookie into the milk and took a big bite.
I lay down next to him so we could read together, and we were barely halfway through Frog and Toad when he fell asleep. For a few minutes I stayed very still, holding my sweet, vulnerable child in my arms. His cheek was sweaty against my neck, and I inhaled the intoxicating little-boy scent of soap, fresh linens, and dirty sneakers.
I finally slipped out of his room, blinking hard as my eyes adjusted back to the light, and peeked in on Ashley. She was lying on her furry bedspread, a bright orange sixties remnant that she’d clearly bought to torture me, reading To Kill a Mockingbird.
“Learning about injustice,” she said snidely when she saw me. “At least it’s relevant to my life.”
“On many levels,” I agreed.
Finishing my rounds, I checked in on Grant, who’d made it home from tennis in time to settle down with math homework.
“Mom, listen to this problem,” he said when I came in. Typical Grant — just like his father, he could block out everything else and bring his laser focus to the problem of the moment. Which for him wasn’t murder.
He looked up at me and tried again to get my attention. “Listen, Mom, ready? You have a normal page from a newspaper. You know how thin that is. On top of that you put two pages. Then four pages. Then eight. Then sixteen. Get it? You double it every time. How high is the pile when you’ve done that sixty-four times?”
I ran my fingers through my hair. I hadn’t been able to help Grant with math problems since about sixth grade. “I have no idea.”
“Try.”
I looked at the sheet where he’d been scribbling notes and took a wild stab. “Okay, six feet. As tall as you.”
He grinned. “Try again.”
“Bigger or smaller?”
“Much bigger.”
“A hundred feet.”
“You’re not in the ballpark.”
“As tall as the Empire State Building.”
He pushed the paper toward me. “Want some help?”
“Yup.”
“The pile would go well past the sun. Roughly one hundred twenty-five million miles high. Cool, huh?”
“I don’t get it,” I said.
“It’s a geometric progression. You’re doubling every time and that gets big really fast.”
“Cool,” I agreed, even though I still didn’t get it. How could piling up paper get you to the sun?
“Double it one more time and you come right back from the sun,” Grant offered. “Want me to show you the calculations?”
I laughed. “I’ll trust you.” I couldn’t do the math, but I was starting to grasp the concept: Small things could balloon out of hand pretty quickly. Keep doubling your troubles and pretty soon your whole world could burn up. Is that where our family was headed?
I kissed Grant on the top of the head, a good-night ritual that he didn’t mind, and headed — finally — to my own bedroom. Dan was sitting on
the bed in his soft gray Loro Piana robe, reading an issue of JAMA. So he’d come home at some point and hadn’t bothered to say hello. I hesitated for a minute, then pulled on a peach silk nightgown and sat down on the edge of the bed next to him. Since his arrest, Dan stayed out late most nights or worked in his study, coming to bed long after I was asleep. This was as close as we’d come to intimacy.
“What are you reading?” I asked, looking for a neutral subject.
“Another article about stabilized hyaluronic acid for augmentation of facial rhytid ablation,” he said, turning a page.
“Which means what?” My house seemed to have been taken over by pod people. I couldn’t understand what anybody said anymore.
“Oh, it’s just about reducing wrinkles. This study says some of the injectables — like Hyloform — actually work. Particularly on filling in the nasolabial fold.”
Unwittingly, I traced a finger along the line between my nose and mouth.
“Think I should try?” I asked my plastic surgeon husband. Given his usual bias against vanity procedures, I’d resisted joining the Botox-and-filler flock, but maybe the time had come.
Dan peered at me over his rimless reading glasses. “You look good to me,” he said.
I made a face. What woman can ever accept a compliment without challenging it? “Thanks. But I’ve got worry lines everywhere, and they’re only getting worse.”
“I don’t see any.”
Well, he would. Someone who read medical journals should know that cops, killers, and callous headlines were prime causes of crow’s-feet.
Dan put down his journal and ran a finger along my arm. “Any headlines today?” he asked, the shorthand we’d used for years when we needed to catch up.
I sighed. “Let’s see. Today’s crisis was that Ashley’s been skipping school. Mr. Morland called and we talked to Mandy, who said she didn’t know anything about Ashley. Mandy is so good at playing clueless she could give Alicia Silverstone a run for her money. But she knew about Ashley’s black nail polish, and that gave her away. Honestly, I was proud of myself for figuring it out.”
“Oh.” Dan hesitated, obviously not sure he’d completely followed my story. Or followed it at all. But then, satisfied that he didn’t have to get further involved, he added, “I’m proud of you, too. As long as you took care of it. Thanks.”
Took care of it? Back in the days B.A.— Before the Arrest — Ashley’s behavior would have shaken the family to the core. We’d have consulted teen therapists and family counselors. I’d have called Dr. Laura, Dr. Phil, and Dr. Joy Browne. But now teen angst could barely compete for our attention. We had bigger problems and more absorbing mysteries that even the finest Midnight Red nail shine from Chanel couldn’t solve.
Dan took off his robe and lay back, pulling the pillows away from the hard-edged rim of the steel bed. I carefully got under the covers next to him, tucking back the silky pale ivory sheets and longing for the days when I actually cared that 600-count Yves Delorme linens felt softer than Frette. The two of us lay stiffly on our backs, staring at the ceiling, like an old married couple in a New Yorker cartoon.
Finally Dan rolled over and touched my arm again.
“Lacy, I never saw that Tasha woman before,” he said softly, almost whispering into my ear. “I don’t know who she is. I went through all my records at work, and her name doesn’t mean anything to me. No matter where I try to place her, I come up empty.”
His voice was plaintive, quietly pleading. He needed me to believe him, and of course I did. Dan was my husband, the man I loved and admired. Together, we had made love and made children and made a whole life. If I didn’t trust Dan now, what did the last eighteen years add up to?
“We’ll solve this,” I whispered. “I know we will. I’m going to help.”
Dan stroked my shoulder. “Please. I need you on my side,” he said.
“There’s no place else I want to be,” I said.
Dan draped his arm around me, and I felt his body relaxing into mine, but I was too tense to respond. I closed my eyes and in a few minutes I started breathing rhythmically, pretending sleep. Before long, Dan dozed off, his chest rising and falling against mine. I lay still for a while, then slid gently away to the other side of the bed. I glanced at Dan over my shoulder, but he didn’t stir and I felt a tinge of relief. No way I wanted Dan to wake and think I was trying to escape from him. No way I wanted to think that myself.
I tiptoed across the hall to my own little office, convincing myself that eleven thirty at night was the perfect time to catch up on paperwork. If only I had some to do. Fortunately, the light was blinking on my answering machine, and I congratulated myself on having been responsible enough to check. Sammie, the assistant to Julie Boden, had called earlier, suggesting I come to Ms. Boden’s office at 9:00 A.M. Thursday morning. She left an address and phone number, and the information that if the time wasn’t convenient, I could call anytime. They worked late.
I fiddled at the desk for a few minutes, then went back to bed. Dan wanted me at his side, and here I was. I tried not to think about Dan and Tasha as I put a hand on my sleeping husband’s chest. In the old days, when we could never get enough of each other, we used to joke that sex was always the solution. Now I didn’t even want to wonder if sex was also the problem.
Chapter Five
Julie Boden’s office was in a large glass tower on Westwood Boulevard. I pulled into the underground parking lot, gave my car to the valet, and took an elevator directly to the Briggs & Briggs advertising agency on the eighteenth floor. Ushered into Julie’s office, I felt like I’d dropped into her country house. She had an antique pine desk, a soft white muslin sofa, flowered down pillows, and a coffee table made from an old trunk. Then I got it. Julie didn’t need the usual trappings to exude power.
“I love what you’ve done here,” I said after Julie and I had shaken hands. Looking again at the sweet pine desk, I realized it was English, circa 1890, and the coffee table was a British steamer trunk with authentic decals from Her Majesty’s Navy. “These are fabulous. So original. Where did you ever get them?”
“Here and there,” she said with a shrug, glancing around the room. “Some at antique stores on Melrose, I think.” Then in case I’d guessed that her decorator had found the rare pieces and simply sent them over, she added, “I buy what I like.”
“Oh.” Just what I’d told Roy — the best designers let you forget all about them.
Done discussing decorating, Julie gave a loud bark for her assistant.
“Sammie!”
The young woman hurried into the room, dressed in slim khaki slacks and a pretty white shirt. She seemed friendly and energetic, with light brown hair and tortoiseshell glasses. I’d noticed a decal on her cubicle from Vassar, which probably meant she’d come to California with her BA in English, in search of a glamorous job. Someone should have told her it might have been more glamorous staying in Poughkeepsie.
“Get me a green tea with fresh mint, no sugar, and lemon on the side. And I want it from the Healthy Drinks on the corner,” snapped Julie, who apparently didn’t know that Jamba Juice had more antioxidants.
“What about your guest?” asked Sammie.
“Nothing, thanks. Maybe just some water,” I said.
“Ice or room temperature?” she asked, turning to me.
“Room temperature.” Why was getting a liquid in L.A. always so complicated?
Sammie stepped into the hall and came back quickly with a small bottle of Evian, then left on her errand. Julie gestured for me to sit down. I immediately sank into the extra-soft sofa cushion and felt myself engulfed by the pillowy material. Bad choice for an office since all I could do was gaze up at Julie, who, perched in a firm, straight chair behind her desk, peered down at me imperiously. Come to think of it, maybe not a bad choice. Probably just the way Julie wanted it.
As an executive at one of L.A.’s hottest ad agencies, Julie Boden knew all about image. Her black, elegantly cu
t Versace suit announced her powerful position, and the funky Dolce & Gabbana red leather boots with four-inch needle-thin heels worn underneath established her as a creative type. Once she knew I’d taken it all in, she pulled off her jacket, and her sleeveless camisole revealed firm, tanned, Nautilus-sculpted arms. One framed photo behind her desk showed Julie in a low-cut sweeping gown posed on a red carpet outside the Kodak Theatre. Another had her in white martial arts garb, her lean leg raised against an opponent in an impressive kick. The complete woman.
“I got a call from Alain about you,” Julie said. Unwittingly, she glanced at my hair. “He said you need information about Roy Evans.”
“Roy’s a new client. I’m going to do some decorating for him.”
“Really.” Julie’s inflection was flat. “I’m impressed you do this much research on your clients. Alain also mentioned something about a murder, but I didn’t catch the connection.”
“There may not be one,” I admitted honestly. “My husband’s being investigated for a murder. It turns out Roy knew the victim.”
Julie raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. “Who was it?”
“A makeup girl who’d worked with him.”
Julie looked at me in vague disbelief, scanning my face as if trying to decide whether I was joking. When she realized I wasn’t, she gave a loud guffaw that ricocheted across the desk.
“A makeup girl? That’s perfect,” she said.
“Why?”
Julie waved her hand dismissively. Her fingernails were short, round, and shiny, and a large topaz ring — the kind a woman buys for herself — flashed on her finger. “Doesn’t matter. Just fits his personality. Roy thinks he likes strong, interesting women, but they end up being too much for him.” She shook her head. “A fawning makeup artist. Perfect. What was her name?”
“Tasha Barlow.”
Julie looked up sharply, the amusement on her face at Roy’s dalliance now more like shock. She grabbed for an unopened Diet Coke on her desk and swirled it in her hands. I noticed three empty cans already in the wastebasket. In another era, tensely coiled Julie Boden would have been a chain-smoker, but in post-millennium Los Angeles, swigging serial sodas would have to do.
Looks to Die For Page 10
