by Susan Kandel
“Back so soon?”
I turned around and was face-to-face with a tall man wearing torn jeans. He had the weather-beaten skin of someone who spends his days outdoors.
“Oh, excuse me,” he said quickly. He ducked his head and kicked some gravel. “I thought you were someone else.”
He reminded me of a bashful cowboy. “I’ll bet you’re talking about my sister.”
He straightened up, studied my face for a minute, then grinned. “I don’t know. She didn’t look all that much like you.”
“Just this crazy red hair,” I said, touching my wig, “right?”
“Yeah, just the hair. Maybe the eyes, a little bit. Same shape.”
“That’s what everybody says.”
The air in the greenhouse felt thick, heavy with moisture. I could feel the sweat beading on my upper lip. My heart was pounding.
“She okay, your sister?” he asked.
“Fine.”
“Good.” He nodded a couple of times.
“Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know. She seemed kind of edgy the other day. In a hurry. No big deal.”
“Let me ask you something about orchids,” I said, changing the subject. I was going to take it slowly. Rushing him wouldn’t accomplish anything. I reached out to touch a dark fuchsia flower poised at the end of a long, curving stalk. Its petals were translucent, like stained glass. “Are there any orchids that will grow outdoors?”
“Sure,” he said. “We got the climate for it here. Mild nights and all. I’d recommend this one.” He took me over to a cattleya in full bloom. Canary green with fringed petals. “Smell,” he said.
I bent down. It was crisp, tart, like lemons.
“Biggest mistake people make with orchids is overwatering. You know the trick, don’t you?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head.
He stuck his hands in his pockets. “Sharpen a pencil so you get fresh wood on the tip. Then stick it deep into the pot and twist a couple of times. If the wood gets dark, don’t water. Wait. You gotta be patient with orchids.”
“I love flowers,” I said. “I don’t have much luck with them, though.”
“You gotta start small. If you’re not an experienced gardener, you might be better off with some daylilies, maybe. We’ve got Stella de Oros. Very easy to cultivate. But not for cutting, if that’s what you’re looking for.”
“My sister chose some lovely flowers,” I said. “You helped her, right?”
“Sure did.”
My armpits were soaked now. My knees were trembling. “Foxglove, wasn’t it?”
“That’s right.”
Jesus.
“Can you show me the ones you sold her?”
“Sure.”
We walked back to the front of the nursery, ducking now and then to avoid running into jade vines and kangaroo paws.
Foxglove.
How beautiful they were.
I studied the flowers in silence, hoping he’d say something more.
After a minute, he did. “Your sister is a lot more decisive than you are.”
“Oh, I know,” I said. “Everybody always says that. She decides what she wants and she goes out and gets it. No looking back. How many plants did she buy, do you remember?”
“Seven—she about cleaned me out.”
“Who do you think is taller,” I said suddenly. “Me or my sister?” I had to be sure.
He laughed. “I’ve got two sisters myself. They’re very competitive, like you guys. All right.” He stepped back, looked me up and down. “You are. But only by a hair.”
I was almost six feet tall.
Liz was just about my size.
Wren was a slip of a thing.
I was sure.
“Oh, man, I almost forgot,” the guy said, running into the little shed up front. “Your sister left this here. I’m sure she needs it.”
He came out of the office and handed me an inhaler.
Liz’s inhaler. Another thing she’d lost.
On the way out I stopped in front of the herb garden. I needed to catch my breath. I bent over for a minute, my hands on my knees. I must’ve looked dazed because an elderly woman picking out some heirloom tomatoes put her hand on my shoulder and said, “It’s the angel’s trumpet. The smell is very strong. I always need a glass of water after I’ve been here.”
I thanked her for her kindness, then got into my car and checked the messages on my cell.
Lou had returned my call.
I was about to call him back when I saw the hollow-battery emblem indicating that my phone was out of juice. Of course, I couldn’t find the charger anywhere. I went back into the nursery to see if I could use their phone, but the guy was nowhere in sight and the office was locked up. So I ran into Oki Dog and pleaded my case to the kid at the counter, who said he wasn’t supposed to let people use the phone except in dire emergencies.
I said this was a dire emergency.
Lou picked up on the first ring.
I told him I needed to see him, that it was urgent.
He didn’t sound surprised.
CHAPTER 46
’d have to go down to the dance studio, though. Lou was in
the middle of something and couldn’t get away.
I looked at the clock on my dashboard. Three fifteen. Wren’s preliminary hearing was just two hours away. It would take me thirty minutes to get to Santa Monica, another forty to get to the courthouse downtown. I did the math, then told Lou I’d be there as fast as I could.
Which apparently wasn’t fast enough.
By the time I got there, the blinds had been drawn, the door bolted, the blinking PALAIS DE DANSE sign turned off. I rapped on the window but there was no reply. The stoop was awash in soggy take-out menus, one of which had caught on the heel of my boot. It came off in shreds, which I deposited in the trash can at the corner. I didn’t have time for this.
Putting my hands up to the glass, I peered through the gap in the blinds. Last time there had been two people embracing behind the screen: Lou and Liz—or so I’d thought, married twenty-two years and still in love. This time there was nothing to see. The lights were off. I wanted to call Lou. I wanted to find out where he’d gone in such a hurry, but there was no pay phone in sight. I couldn’t wait much longer. I didn’t want to be late. There might be traffic.
Then I remembered the back door.
The alleyway smelled like rotting food. Looming parking structures on either side meant no air, no light. Near the Dumpster, half a dozen homeless men were sitting on pieces of wet cardboard, playing cards. Their perfunctory request for spare change made me sad, like they’d given up twice over.
I smiled. “When I come out, okay?”
“Whoa,” said the oldest, also the grimiest. “Pretty lady like you. We should pay you for brightening our day.”
“Thanks.” The back door had a sign on it reading EMPLOYEE ENTRANCE. I banged on it, then stepped back. Nothing. I turned around at the sound of an approaching car. As it rumbled past, I tried to peer inside but the windshield was too fogged up.
“Something wrong?” the old man asked.
I reached into my purse and pulled out a dollar. “Just looking for a friend. Have you seen anybody go in or out of here today?”
“You got a dollar for me, too, lady?” asked one of the others.
“Shut up,” said the first man. Then, turning to me, “Mr. Slick, is all. Came in this morning, been sitting in there all day in the dark.”
At that, I started banging for real. “Let me in, Lou. Right now!”
“That ain’t no job for a lady,” said the second man.
When I nodded, he and his friends clambered to their feet and made a tremendous racket, yelling, pounding, hooting. After a couple of minutes, the heavy fire door creaked open.
The old guy said with a bow, “I give you Mr. Slick.”
Lou ushered me inside as the door swung closed behind us. He’d cleaned up a little since
the last time, but he still looked like hell.
“Why were you hiding from me?” I asked.
We passed through the narrow corridor leading into the studio, Lou kicking a couple of empty cardboard boxes out of the way. “No reason.”
“You knew I was on my way here.”
“Sorry.”
The light switch was by the music. I clicked it up and down a few times, but the room stayed dark.
“Don’t bother,” Lou said, tugging nervously on his lips. “City turned off the lights.”
“Why?”
“I told them to. I’m not paying for something I’m not using.”
In front of the screen was a large red suitcase. I looked at Lou and asked, “What were you in the middle of before, when you were so busy?”
“Just what it looks like. Packing up, getting out of here.”
“So that’s it? You’re leaving? Closing up shop?”
“There’s nothing more for me here,” he said. “Not without Liz.”
I went over to Liz’s desk and sat down in her chair. “We need to talk, Lou.”
“Okay.” He hesitated for a minute, then pulled up a folding chair. He sat on the other side of the desk, drumming his fingers on the cluttered surface. “Mind if I smoke?”
“Go ahead.”
He reached for the pack on the desk. There was one cigarette left. He put it in his mouth, then got up to look for
matches.
“I found out something today,” I said.
He sat down and pulled the brimming ashtray closer to him. His long, thin fingers were twitching in anticipation.
“Wren didn’t kill Liz,” I said.
“I knew that.” He lit his cigarette, closing his eyes as the nicotine flowed into his bloodstream.
“The fact of the matter is, nobody killed Liz. But then, you knew that, too.”
He took another long drag, then exhaled. The sound reverberated in the empty space. “I’m an idiot. I don’t know anything.”
“Don’t make me say it, Lou.”
He looked at me. It was dark, but I could see his eyes. They were glittering. “Why don’t you say it, Cece?”
I didn’t want to.
He tipped the ash onto the floor. “C’mon. I dare you.”
I wasn’t one to back down on a dare. “Liz killed herself.”
“Go to hell!” He leapt to his feet and his chair went crashing to the floor. “She wouldn’t do that. She wouldn’t leave me behind.” He made a low sound in his throat.
I got up and walked over to where he was standing, his face turned to the wall. “She didn’t want to,” I said. “Leaving you was the last thing she wanted to do. But she found out about you and Wren.”
“I loved her. We were supposed to grow old together.” He was crying now, pounding his fist against the wall. Chips of old paint fluttered to the floor.
“You slept with another woman,” I said. “You betrayed your wife. What did you expect?”
“Not this,” he said, turning around. “I wanted a chance to explain.”
“The thing is, her dying wasn’t the worst of it, was it?”
“Shut up,” he said, wiping away a tear. “Just go now.”
“The worst of it,” I pressed on, “was that she didn’t mean for it to happen.”
“I need another cigarette.” He started rooting around the room, pulling things apart, tearing the calendar off the wall, tossing plastic cups onto the floor.
“She wanted you to find her in time. She wanted you to bring her back home.”
He went around to the other side of the desk and yanked open the drawers like a wild man. “What is all this? Stupid books!” He threw the drawers onto the floor. Yellowed paperbacks, old bills, tissues, sticks of gum went flying. He knelt down to sort through the chaos. “Where are the damn cigarettes?” In a fury, he grabbed one of the books and threw it across the room. It hit the wall with a smack.
Postern of Fate.
Tommy and Tuppence have acquired a lovely house in the small English village of Hollowquay. They are content. They’ve grown old together.
If Agatha didn’t have it in real life, she’d be damned if she didn’t have it in fiction.
If Liz didn’t have it, what then? How far had she been willing to go? I knew. Lou knew.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he cried. “She read them all so carefully. She was so diligent. Learned her lessons. All about poisons and faking your own death and punishing the people you think needed punishing.”
Liz had been a good student, but she’d learned all the wrong lessons.
“It was such a waste, Cece,” he whispered.
A terrible waste.
Liz was going to make everyone think that Wren wanted her out of the way, badly enough to poison her. Wren would be caught. She’d go to jail. She’d be out of their lives forever. And Liz, well, Liz would survive. She could survive anything with Lou at her side. He’d come charging to her rescue, like a knight in shining armor. Liz had worked so hard. She’d looked so beautiful. She wasn’t going to take any chances. She wanted her husband to know exactly what he was giving up. And maybe—just maybe, if the stars were on her side—he’d change his mind.
Her big mistake had been consulting Javier. What a wonderful coincidence to have a new friend who was a gardener. Pretending to be Wren, she’d chat with him about foxglove and get the information she needed, incriminating Wren in the process. But Javier knew plants, not poisons. He’d thought it took months to kill somebody with foxglove. Liz must have figured out how to distill the leaves and mixed up enough to kill anybody—even a survivor like herself— within minutes. When I’d talked to Javier this morning, he was despondent. The last thing he meant to do was cause any harm.
The truth is like fiction, only badly constructed.
Ariadne Oliver, Agatha Christie’s alter ego, a mystery novelist and friend of Hercule Poirot, once said that.
“You’ve known about this for a long time, haven’t you?” I asked Lou.
“Yes.”
“You could’ve saved Wren a lot of anguish.”
“That’s not true. How could I save Wren when she won’t save herself?”
“What you couldn’t do was admit you’d failed your wife,” I said. “So you failed both of them.”
He knew it was true. But was he ready to accept the responsibility for it? Until he did, I had nothing. He had all the missing pieces.
“There’s no going back now,” he said.
“It’s too late for Liz,” I said. “But not for Wren.”
“She can tell them the truth herself.”
“She won’t. She’s afraid.” The words I didn’t want to say were the words he needed to hear. What choice did I have? None. “Wren is where she is because she loves you,” I said. “Do for her what you can’t do for Liz.”
And with that, the wall he’d so painstakingly erected crumbled, like the ash at the end of his cigarette. He rose to his feet, walked back over to the suitcase, unzipped it, and pulled out a red wig—the same one I’d bought at Lola’s.
“Here,” he said, pushing it toward me. He was looking down at his feet. “I found it mixed up with the dancing costumes. That’s where Liz must have hidden it.”
I checked the clock on the wall. It was 4:30 now.
“Will you come with me, Lou?”
I held out my hand and he grabbed for it, like a drowning man grabs for a lifeline.
CHAPTER 47
e exited the freeway at Temple, entering the evil maze of
one-way streets that is downtown Los Angeles.
Looming skyscrapers, sterile subterranean concourses, deserted private plazas, Skid Row to your left, loft conversions to your right. I prayed for clarity. One wrong turn and I’d have to go all the way to Little Tokyo before I could pull a U-turn.
“We’re not going to make it,” said Lou, tossing his cigarette out the window. “Look at the clock.”
It was 5:12. He was righ
t.
“Call McAllister,” I said, handing Lou the detective’s card. “Tell him we’re on our way with urgent information.”
Lou punched the number into his phone, waited, shook his head. “Machine.”
Wren would be stuck in jail for another night. I slapped my hands against the steering wheel.
If only I’d found Lola’s sooner.
If only Lou had opened up the door when I’d first arrived.
If only.
But then we drove past a street called Hope (between Grand and Spring), and I felt something jolt through my veins.
“Oh, yes, we’re going to make it,” I said to Lou. “Today is your lucky day. I feel it in my bones.”
The Clara Shortridge Foltz Criminal Justice Center is a cement monolith on the corner of Temple and Spring, named for the suffragette from Indiana who’d become the first practicing female lawyer. Lou and I gave each other high fives as we pulled into the parking lot next door with less than ten minutes to spare.
“Sixteen bucks,” said the attendant, not looking up from the TV. I studied the sign. Three dollars every fifteen minutes; sixteen dollars maximum. No in-and-out privileges. Lost ticket results in death and dismemberment.
“Do I have to pay in advance?” I asked. “We’re not going to be long.”
“Sixteen bucks,” he repeated.
I riffled through my purse, but could find only nine dollars.
The attendant ripped open a bag of chips. “This is a place of business. You parking or not?”
“Do you have any money, Lou?”
He went through his wallet and handed me a five and a one.
“Can you live with fifteen?” I asked, putting the car into Drive. I’d meant it as a rhetorical question.
The attendant shook his head.
I put the car back into Park and turned my purse upside down. I came up with thirty cents and some cracker crumbs. There was somebody behind us now, honking impatiently. “I gotta get to court!” he yelled.
