Guilt

by Jonathan Kellerman

  I said, “To paraphrase Persistent Kelly, what’s next?”

  “I look into Mr. Wedd and you go about your normal life.”

  “Whatever that means.”

  “It means have a nice day. Relatively speaking.”

  CHAPTER

  29

  Holly Ruche showed up six minutes late. Blanche and I greeted her at the door. She said, “I generally don’t like dogs. But I’ve been thinking of getting one. For the baby.”

  Worst reason in the world. I said, “I’m happy to keep her out of the office.”

  “She’s like a therapy dog?”

  “Not officially but she’s got enough credits for her own Ph.D.”

  She looked down at Blanche.

  Blanche beamed up at her.

  She said, “What’s her name?”

  “Blanche.”

  “She’s kind of cute … almost like she’s smiling. Okay, I guess she can be there.”

  “Up to you, Holly.”

  “It’s okay. Yes, it’s definitely okay, she’s well behaved.” She took in the living room. “Stylish. You’re into contemporary.”

  After a psychopath burns down your first house simplicity can be a tonic.

  I smiled.

  She said, “Have you been here long?”

  “A while.”

  “This neighborhood. Must’ve cost a fortune.”

  “Let’s go to my office.”

  Seated on the battered leather couch, she said, “Sorry. That crack about a fortune. No business of mine. I guess I’m just hyper about how much things cost. Especially real estate.”

  “The decorating’s at a standstill?”

  “Still in the talking stages.”

  “You and Matt.”

  She knitted her hands, gazed down. “Mostly me and me.”

  “Kind of a monologue.”

  She stroked her belly. She’d put on some girth and her face had grown fuller. Her hair was tied back functionally, tiny pimples paralleled her hairline. “I guess that’s part of why I’m here. He’s not available. Physically or emotionally. They go together, I guess. He works all the time.”

  “Is that something new?”

  Her lower lip curled. Tears seeped from under her lower lids and trickled onto her cheeks.

  “I guess not,” she finally said. “I guess that’s the real problem. Nothing’s changed.”

  I handed her a tissue. Kleenex should pay me a commission. “Matt’s always been work-oriented.”

  “I respect that, Dr. Delaware. He’s super-responsible, that’s a big deal, right? He could be a slacker.”

  “Sure.”

  “He thinks it’s manly. Taking care of business. I guess it is. I know it is.”

  I said, “It’s part of why you were attracted to him.”

  “Yes—how’d you know that?”

  “Educated guess.”

  “Well, you’re right, that was a big part of it. It’s just—I guess you need to know more about my father. Like the fact that I didn’t have one.”

  I waited.

  She said, “I never knew him. I’m not sure my mother knew him.” Her fingers closed over the tissue. “This is hard to talk about … but I need to be honest, right? I mean this is the place for that.”

  Her fingers relaxed. She dropped the tissue in a wastebasket. “Being pregnant has made me think about all sorts of things I told myself I’d never have to think about.”

  “Your own family.”

  “If you can call it that.”

  “There wasn’t much in the way of family.”

  “Just me and my mother and she was …”

  She sat for a while. “There’s no two ways about it, Mom was loose. Morally, I mean. Not to me, to me she was just Mom, but looking back … she was a cocktail waitress—I’m not saying that was bad, she worked incredibly hard, she took care of me, put food on the table. But she also … supplemented her income. By bringing men home, when I was little I thought it was normal. Locking me in my room with cookies and candies.”

  She bit her lip. “That didn’t stop me from seeing some of them. Hearing them. All kinds of men, different ages, races, it was like … she called them her friends. ‘Time for quiet time with these Oreos and Kit Kats, sweetie. I need to spend time with my friends.’ ”

  I said, “At some point you realized that wasn’t typical.”

  “I realized it when I started kindergarten and saw how other kids lived. My first years were kind of isolated, we lived in a trailer park. Don’t get me wrong, it was a nice trailer, Mom kept it up, planted flowers all around, there was a little birdbath where sparrows and finches would come. We were pretty close to a nice neighborhood, working class, solid people, lots of religious types. It didn’t take me long to catch on that other mothers didn’t do what mine did. I never said anything because Mom loved me, took care of me, I always had nice clothes and good food. The same things other kids had, who was I to be ungrateful?”

  More tears. “I shouldn’t have said that. Calling her loose, that was wrong, really mean.”

  Another tissue interlude.

  She said, “She’s gone, can’t defend herself … I just feel it’s time to be honest, you know? Confront reality. So I can understand myself.”

  “Now that you’re becoming a mom.”

  “I don’t want to be like her,” she said. “I mean in some ways I do, I want to be loving, to take care of my Aimee, to give her everything. That’s why I married Matt, he’s a totally great provider.”

  “When I talked to you at your house you said you’d worked most of your life, had a career until recently.”

  “That’s true.”

  “You set out to be independent.”

  “Yes. So?”

  “So even though Matt’s maturity and industriousness were qualities you found attractive, you never intended to rely upon him totally.”

  “I … yes, that’s true, I guess you’re right. You’re saying Mom made me tough?”

  “I’m saying you’re an obviously capable, thoughtful person. Does your mother get some of the credit? Sure, but in the end you made your own decisions.”

  “I guess I did … but I’m still sorry. For saying that about Mom. I miss her so much!”

  She burst out weeping, took a while to compose herself. “She passed three years ago, Doctor, she suffered so much. I guess I’ve been angry at her for leaving so young, she was fifty-four. Even though that’s not rational. I was being selfish, I’m too selfish, period, I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “Did you treat her unkindly when she was alive?”

  “No, of course not. When she had to go to hospice—she had ALS, Lou Gehrig’s disease—I was always there for her. It was terrible, she hung on for three years. I paid for whatever Medi-Cal and insurance didn’t cover. I was there all the time. Her mind was still working but nothing else was, that’s what made it so horrible. At the end, she could still move her eyes, I could see the love in them. So how could I say that?”

  “Your life’s in flux, Holly, it’s normal for old feelings to come back. You love your mother but some of the things she did frightened and embarrassed you. You’ve never expressed how you felt about it. It’s okay.”

  “You’re telling me it’s okay to say things like that? Calling her loose?”

  “It’s a word, Holly. Your actions spoke much louder.”

  Long silence. “You’re so nice. Your wife is lucky—are you married?”

  I smiled.

  “Sorry, sorry, I need to mind my own business.”

  “It’s not that, Holly. This is about you.”

  She smiled. “That’s sure different. Being the star. Though I guess I was the star to Mom. She never had any more kids. I guess one whoopsie baby was enough.”

  “You know for sure you were an accident.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Your mother sounds like an organized person.”

  “You’re saying she intended me?”


  “Did she make any other whoopsies?”

  She pulled at the tissue. Tugged at her ponytail. “I see what you mean. She always told me I was the best thing ever happened to her.”

  “I’m sure you were.”

  She glanced at Blanche. I gave the okay nod and Blanche waddled over to the couch.

  Holly said, “Is she allowed up here?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “If you want you can come up, cutie.” Blanche leaped effortlessly to her side, moved in close for a snuggle. Holly stroked the folds of her neck. “She’s so soft. Like a stuffed animal.”

  “As cute as a toy,” I said, “and a whole lot smarter.”

  “You’ve got it all, don’t you,” she said. “The house, the dog. Maybe a wife—sorry … so maybe that’s why you think I was a deliriously desired baby. Okay, I’ll go with that. My Aimee’s wanted, that’s what’s important. Let me ask you something: Do you think permissive’s the best way to go or keep up the discipline?”

  “Depends on the child.”

  “Some kids need more discipline.”

  I nodded.

  She said, “Matt sure doesn’t need any more, he’s the most self-disciplined person I’ve ever met.”

  “How about you?”

  “I’m okay … I guess I know how to take care of myself … I wonder what Aimee will be like. Not that I’m trying to box her in with expectations. I mean obviously I’d like her to be beautiful and brilliant—healthy, that’s the most important thing. Healthy. So you’re saying I need to get to know her before I work out my plan.”

  “You may not need a plan,” I said.

  “No?”

  “A lot of people have good instincts.”

  “But some don’t.”

  “How about your mother?”

  “She had excellent instincts,” she said. “The best.” Wide smile. “Now I feel better. Saying something nice to make up for the other thing.”

  She crossed her legs. “That was your plan, right? To guide me to say something nice.”

  “Like I said, Holly, sometimes a plan isn’t necessary.”

  “You knew me well enough to just let me go on.”

  “You know yourself.”

  “I guess I do, Dr. Delaware.” She placed a hand on her belly. “This is mine, I own it. I’m not saying Aimee’s not a separate person, I get that. I’m talking about the process. Carrying her, nurturing her with my body. A woman needs to feel she owns that … I feel much better now. If I need you can I call?”

  “Of course.”

  “I don’t care anymore about the house or the remodeling or any material crap,” she said. “That kind of ownership doesn’t matter.”

  CHAPTER

  30

  I made a couple of tuna sandwiches, brought them to Robin’s studio.

  She said, “The perfect man,” washed sawdust from her hands, gave me a kiss. We ate near the pond, talked about everything but work, returned to work. Blanche chose to stay with Robin but she licked my hand first.

  I said, “Master diplomat.”

  Robin held out the half sandwich she’d wrapped in a napkin. “More like I’ve got the goodies.”

  “Definition of diplomacy.”

  I sat wondering what Adriana Betts had done for money and lodging during the months between leaving La Jolla and showing up dead in the park.

  Maybe she’d saved up enough to coast. Or perhaps she’d resorted to what she knew best: taking care of other people’s offspring. I printed a list of every employment agency in L.A. County that advertised nannies, au pairs, governesses, any sort of in-house staff.

  For the next hour, my lie was glib and consistent: I was Adriana’s potential employer and she’d listed the agency as having handled her in the past. I must have been pretty convincing because I encountered a lot of outrage at the falsehood. Several people said I was lucky to learn about Adriana’s poor character early on. Most made sure to let me know they had far superior candidates.

  With a dozen calls to go, I took a coffee break and checked with my service. A family court judge had left a message thanking me for a “helpful” custody report, ditto one of the attorneys on the case. Third was Holly Ruche offering her gratitude, no specifics.

  The service operator, a woman I’d never talked to before, said, “You have teenagers by any chance, Doctor?”

  I said, “Why?”

  “Everyone seems to appreciate you. If you tell me your teenagers do, I may make an appointment, myself.”

  I laughed.

  She said, “You sound cheerful, so that’s my answer. You don’t have any.”

  I’d whittled the agency list to four companies when the man who answered at Gold Standard Professionals in Beverly Hills listened to my pitch but didn’t reply.

  I said, “You know Adriana?”

  He said, “Hold on for a moment, please.” Deep, mellifluous voice.

  As I waited, I examined the company’s Internet ad. The pitch featured twenties-style cartoons of butlers, footmen, chefs in toques, maids in lace uniforms, lettering in an angular art deco font. Boldface motto: The ultimate in classic service, beyond the ultimate in classic discretion.

  Maybe discretion was what kept me on hold for seven minutes before the connection was cut.

  I redialed, got voice mail. After fielding more indignation at the remaining three agencies, I gave Gold Standard another try.

  This time no one answered.

  I Googled the company. A single reference popped up, a piece from the Beverly Hills Clarion that could’ve been a paid ad or least-resistance journalism. Gold Standard’s owners were Jack and Daisy Weathers, “former performers, now entrepreneurs in the field of high-end service,” who’d parlayed their knowledge of “the unique demands of the industry with post-graduate training in human factors and development.”

  For Jack that meant a master’s degree from a “university” I knew to be a correspondence mill. No educational specs for Daisy. The accompanying photo showed the Weatherses to be white-haired, tan, wearing matching pink shirts and smiles crammed with post-graduate dental work.

  The smooth voice could easily have been that of an actor, so maybe I’d talked to the boss. Gold Standard’s address was a P.O.B. in Beverly Hills, 90211. South end of the city, maybe a mail drop.

  Was there no need for an office because clients of sufficient importance merited house calls? Or did one have to pass muster before being favored with private-club status? If the latter was the case, I’d flunked. Maybe that had nothing to do with Adriana, just disdain for an obviously undeserving plebe with no link to “the Industry.” But no other agency had reacted that way.

  I put in a call to Milo. He said, “I was just going to call you. Eat, yet?”

  “Had a sandwich.”

  “That’s a snack not a meal. The usual place.”

  “No reporter in tow, huh.”

  “Speaking of Lois Lane, I may have created a monster. I’m walking over right now, gonna start grub-festing without you. Seeing as you already had a sandwich.”

  I found him at his usual corner table at Café Moghul, perched like a potentate behind platters of lamb, chicken, lobster, and crab, some kind of meatball big enough to hurl at Dodger Stadium, the usual Himalaya of naan and vegetables, bowls of mystery sauce.

  Be nice if synchrony ruled the world and there was a master detective in Mumbai stuffing his face with burgers, fried chicken, and pizza.

  Unlike every other time I’d been in the restaurant, the dining room was nearly full. The new patrons were uniformed cops and plainclothes detectives. Everyone chowing down on generous portions but none of the wretched excess left at the Altar of Milo.

  I sat down. “Looks like the world’s caught on.”

  “What they caught on to is a special lunch deal, half price on everything.”

  A detective I recognized waved and brandished a lobster claw. Milo muttered, “Bargain-hunting vulgarians.”

  The bespectacled wo
man brought me iced tea and a clean plate. She looked exhausted.

  I said, “Busy.”

  She beamed at Milo. “They listen to him.”

  He said, “You’ve got to believe me, it was the flyer you left at the station.”

  Her smile widened. Knowing she’d encountered a deity and figuring humility was one of his divine attributes.

  I said, “What’s up, Mahatma?”

  He leaned in close, lowered his voice. “Ol’ Kelly’s digging like a gopher. So far I’ve received about fifty pages of attachments on infanticides, none of which is relevant. Meanwhile, zip on Adriana, Wedd, or Charlene Chambers as herself or as Qeesha D’Embo. And none of the cult sites I’ve found seems to fit. Including their photos.”

  “Cults post publicity photos?”

  “You better believe it, they’re proud of themselves. Basically, it’s a party scene, Alex, lots of nudity and naughty groping. Weirdest thing I found was a Beelzebub-worshipping bunch that gets off by smearing themselves with food, the prime sacramental offering being baked beans. Vegetarian, of course.”

  I said, “Someone’s engaged in truly ugly behavior, why advertise?”

  Nodding, he downed half a plate of lamb, wiped his hands and mouth, scanned the room, switched to a low-volume leprechaun brogue. “I was a wee bit impish, laddy. Gave Ms. LeMasters the name and number of one Maria Thomas and told her it wouldn’t displease me if she harassed the brass about going public on selective info.”

  “Selective as in what you decide.”

  “Is there another definition?”

  “Maria’s not going to make the connection to you?”

  “The story Kelly’s telling her is she’s fed up with me because I keep stonewalling her so she’s decided to go over my head. If Maria gives her the okay, no problem. If Maria tells her no, she’ll publish a follow-up piece on the park murders, anyway. To my great apparent chagrin.”

  I said, “Impressively devious.”

  “When in Nome, do as the Ice Queen does. Meanwhile, no cult link to Wedd but I have learned a few things about him, most of it disappointing. Not only does he lack a criminal record, according to his landlord he’s a model tenant, pays on time, never complains. As opposed to Surf-Boy Sommers who’s chronically late with his rent and bitches about everything and who the landlord sees as a druggie. So I’m not sure he’s gonna work as a witness. I also found out that an A.C. company was in Wedd’s place to install new thermostats two weeks ago, landlord let them in, the place was neat, clean, nothing out of the ordinary.”