21

Friday, September 22, 1989

On my way through town after I left Margaret Seay, I stopped off at a bookstore, thinking a book was the perfect gift for Rosie, whose birthday celebration was coming up that night. A book has no unwanted calories and you don’t have to worry about sizes as long as the subject matter appeals to the recipient. Rosie’s life was about cooking. Also, bossing people around, but I didn’t think a book on bullies would be appropriate. I spotted a cookbook devoted to Hungarian cuisine and a quick riffling through the pages revealed recipes every bit as repulsive as the dishes she favored. I pulled out my credit card and gladly paid two dollars extra for the gift wrapping.

After that, I drove to the office, where I let myself in, locked the door, and armed the periphery. As was so often the case, my sense of progress was ever so faintly undermined by murmurings of another sort. At some point during the past couple of days, something had come into my consciousness that I hadn’t properly registered. I couldn’t for the life of me recall where I was at the time. I remembered a dim sensation of recognition, but my attention had been fixed elsewhere and I hadn’t grasped the significance. I knew the revelation wasn’t connected to Margaret Seay or to Sloan. An echo had reverberated in my brain without my catching the implications. I sat down at my desk, swiveling in my swivel chair, which made wonderful squeaking sounds. I closed my eyes, hoping to quiet the chatter in my head. It’s difficult to tune into that sixth sense with all that babbling that goes on.

What had I heard that I hadn’t taken in at the time?

In moments of doubt, my strategy is to go back and review my notes, which is what I did now. Information is odd. Facts can look different according to how you line them up. Sometimes I shuffle my index cards and then place them in a random sequence, unrelated to the order in which I’ve collected them. Sometimes I lay them out like a hand of solitaire or pretend I’m telling my own fortune with a Tarot deck. This time, I reorganized the cards according to subject matter, making one pile for the notes I’d taken about the tape, another pile for my notes about the cheating scandal, and a third pile about the shooting.

I picked up the stack of cards that pertained to the tape, which was the crux of my investigation. Then I sorted them according to the principal players: Iris Lehmann, Fritz McCabe, Troy Rademaker, and Bayard Montgomery. I turned them over one by one, letting my eyes drift down through the material I’d recorded in my self-generated shorthand after each of the conversations.

I sat up, embarrassed by my belated appreciation of what should have been obvious at the time. In describing the motivation for the tape, they’d all used the same words and phrases. It was a lark. We were laughing our asses off. Who the hell uses the word “lark” unless the discussion is about birds? I didn’t think any of the four realized they were echoing each other’s comments or they’d have paid greater heed to their accounts.

I checked my watch, wondering where the day had gone. It was close to five and I’d hoped to grab a bite to eat, shower, and change clothes before the birthday party. I gathered up my cards and rubber-banded them together. I grabbed my shoulder bag and shoved the cards into the depths while I searched for my keys. I went through the ritual of arming the system and locking the door, and then I headed for my car, thinking what a pain in the ass my security measures had become.

I could have initiated the upcoming conversation with any of the four, but Troy had been the most amenable. Besides which, he and Kerry were not far away, a stone’s throw from Sea Shore Park, which sits on a bluff overlooking the Pacific. The proximity to the ocean should have made the location desirable, but the houses were built in the 1950s and mirrored one another with a depressing similarity. Exteriors were stucco, painted Easter egg colors that had long since grown dingy. The roofs were shake and the trim was plain, peeling paint in most cases. Aluminum window and sliding glass door frames were pitted by the salt-laden sea air, which also wreaked havoc on the condenser coils in ancient air-conditioning units I could hear from two doors away. The front yards were small and flat. In most cases, the drought had left them bald, with sparse tufts of grass here and there.

It crossed my mind that Camilla and Jonah lived in the same area, but I let that slide.

I parked my car and as I approached the Rademakers’ front door, I picked up the cooking scents of half a dozen dinners wafting from nearby houses. I stood on the porch and knocked. There was a brief wait and then Troy answered the door. He’d showered and changed from his navy work coveralls into a T-shirt and shorts. He was barefoot.

His look was blank, not exactly welcoming. “Oh. You.”

“Sorry. I know it’s not an ideal time to stop by, but I have a question that will only take a minute.”

He stepped out on the porch and pulled the door shut behind him. “What’s this about?”

“The tape.”

He said, “Shit.”

Bored or annoyed, I couldn’t tell which.

“Mind if we sit?”

He didn’t seem happy about it, but he gestured to two white molded plastic chairs of the sort I’d seen sold in drugstores.

Once settled, I reached into my bag and pulled out my cards. “I’ve been going over my notes and came up with something that struck me as odd.”

“You couldn’t have called to tell me about this—whatever the fuck it is?”

“I thought talking face-to-face was a better idea,” I said, inwardly wincing at his use of the F-word. Ordinarily, I don’t object to it, but this was jarring, given his former friendliness. I couldn’t understand what had changed. This was not the same Troy I’d spoken with two days before. That guy seemed open, honest, and decent. Obviously, I was treading on dangerous ground, but now that I was here, I didn’t have much choice but to plunge ahead. I turned over the first card.

“At the McCabes’ Tuesday night when Fritz talked about the tape, he referred to it as a hoot and a game. To quote him, you guys were just ‘horsing around.’ Interview with Iris, you guys were just messing around. Wednesday when you and I talked, you called it a hoax, a spoof, and a mockumentary.”

Troy glanced at his watch.

“When I talked to Bayard, he said the tape was essentially a practical joke.”

“Okay.”

I held up the cards. “Three of you used identical phrases. You said ‘it was a lark.’ And, ‘we were laughing our asses off.’”

He stared at me. “So what?”

I studied him as I spoke. “It was a cover story, wasn’t it?”

I waited and when he said nothing, I went on. “I don’t know which of you came up with the idea, but it’s clear you coached each other so if a question was ever raised, you could all claim you were goofing around. I think you talked Iris into the idea as well. Back then, she was drunk, stoned, or both, but now—by some miracle—she’s singing the same tune you are.”

He was silent, staring at the porch paint. I waited, thinking he was wrestling with his conscience. He finally raised his eyes to mine. “You know what? I’m done talking to you.”

“Why is this suddenly a problem? If I’m wrong, just tell me I’m wrong.”

“We will not have this conversation. I told Kerry you’d stopped by the shop and she didn’t like it. At all. She says you don’t have any right to question me about this stuff.”

“I’m sorry she feels that way. Lauren McCabe thought you might be helpful.”

“Helpful to Fritz maybe, but she doesn’t give a shit about me. She’d throw me to the wolves if she thought it would prove useful to that sniveling son of hers. You can tell her to shove ‘help’ up her ass. In the meantime, I’d like you to get the hell off my property.”

His tone was dead and the look in his eyes was cold. I was paralyzed by embarrassment. The last thing in the world I’d expected him to do was give me the boot. Clearly, it was naïve of me to think he’d confirm my theory and confess everything with relief.

I don’t remember how I managed my exit, but my departure wasn’t graceful. Troy stood on the porch, staring pointedly, until I started my car and pulled away from the curb. The shirt at the small of my back was damp with flop sweat as I drove off.

•   •   •

Thus far my day had been a strange mix of enlightenment and mortification and I looked forward to Rosie’s birthday party for the comic relief. I reached home with just enough time to shower and change clothes. As I came out of my studio, wearing a turtleneck, tights, and a skirt, I was surprised to find Lucky standing at my door. He’d cleaned himself up, taking advantage of Henry’s largess. He stood freshly showered, shaved, and radiating the scent of Henry’s aftershave. In front of him, Pearl sat in her wheelchair in jeans and a peasant shirt I’d never seen before. Killer sat near the tent flap, his gaze fixed on me.

“You two look festive.”

Pearl said, “Thanks. I think we can tart ourself up pretty good.”

Lucky seemed self-conscious, shifting from one foot to the other. “Honor of Rosie’s birthday, I been sober six hours.”

“Good for you,” I said. “I hope you can keep it up.”

“Trouble is I keep thinking I should have a drink to celebrate.”

Time to stop talking about alcohol, I thought. “Where’s Henry?”

“He went to the party early to help set up,” Pearl said. “We decided to wait for you.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Look what I done,” she said. In her lap she held a loaf of homemade bread that peeked out of an aluminum foil wrap. The crust was a golden brown and the top listed only slightly to one side. It smelled heavenly, as though she’d pulled it from the oven just a short time before.

I realized then that Lucky held a parcel in one hand. “Made Rosie a present as well,” he said shyly.

“I didn’t realize you were friends.”

“Oh sure. Pearl and me stop over there every couple of days. She’s always good to us, even if we’ve had a nip. Yesterday she give us each a bowl of this new recipe she found for Veseporkolt. Pork kidney stew over dumplings.”

“Delish,” Pearl said enthusiastically. “Lot of chewy bits.”

I looked at Lucky. “What’d you make?”

“It’s kind of a secret.”

“Well, I can hardly wait. What about Killer? Is he going?”

Lucky shook his head. “Health Department don’t allow it. I took him over a couple of times, but Rosie said she’d get in big trouble if she let him stay. He’ll be fine where he is. We’ll put him to bed early; zip him in the tent with his dolly and one of Henry’s soup bones.”

I waited until Lucky herded Killer into the tent, which took some pushing from behind, and then the three of us covered the half block to Rosie’s, a small mismatched processional, bearing our gifts.

When we arrived, the preliminaries were already underway. William was back on his feet after his bout of what he swore was bacterial dysentery. “Not the tropical sort,” he was quick to point out.

For the celebration, he’d suggested posting a sign on the door saying “Closed for a private party,” but Rosie wouldn’t hear of it. Opinion was divided on whether she was intent on encouraging business or eager to have an enthusiastic assembly on hand to generate good cheer on her behalf. Since the party didn’t start until after dinner, she’d been relieved of the need to cook for the celebrants, which gave us all cause to rejoice.

Henry’s Michigan siblings had decided not to make the trip, as it would have been both arduous and expensive. His sister, Nell, was still convalescing from her hip replacement surgery, and her brothers, Charlie and Lewis, wouldn’t travel without her. Everyone else was there: Anna Dace and Cheney Phillips, Moza Lowenstein, Jonah Robb and his two teenaged daughters, Courtney and Ashley. Camilla wasn’t in evidence, which I thought was cause for celebration in itself. Neighbors and day-drinkers had mobbed the place on the assumption the champagne would flow freely, which it did. A number of police department personnel were also on hand, some in uniform and some in civilian clothes. Rosie was wearing a new muumuu, a solid lavender shade that for some reason softened her face.

Henry had made two gallons of vanilla ice cream, along with a sheet cake large enough to feed the multitudes. Everyone had piled their wrapped gifts on the bar, and after the cake and ice cream disappeared, William had Rosie perch on her usual stool so she could open them. In addition to the Hungarian cookbook I gave her, she received a dark red cashmere shawl, a paperweight with a daffodil embedded in its center, and a lily-of-the-valley cologne and talcum powder set. William bought her a pale blue nightgown and matching robe, which elicited whistles and applause. He’d also purchased a gift certificate for a dinner for two at the Edgewater Hotel, complete with limousine transportation to and from. In a show of optimism, Henry gave her a rain gauge, a rain hat, and a matching umbrella. Ed, the cat, contributed a pair of oversize plush slippers shaped like calico cats. We were seldom treated to Rosie’s playful side, but she basked in the attention, blushing like a maiden, which undermined her usual drill sergeant air. She opened Lucky’s gift last, and I found myself on tiptoe trying to see what he’d done. She held up a necklace of cloth strands, beautiful soft shades of rust, navy, and lavender intermixed with white.

She turned to him with surprise. “You make?”

Pearl interceded, saying, “He’s a regular artist. Harbor House has this bin where they collect old T-shirts for anybody that needs a little wardrobe pick-me-up.”

“I warsh ’em first,” Lucky hastened to add. “Then I work my special magic. Every necklace is one of a kind. What I do is cut acrost the T-shirt bottoms and stretch the loops until the sides curl up like that. Those are colors I seen you wear and I thought they’d go good with your hair.”

He settled the necklace over her head with such pride that Rosie was forced to fling a napkin over her face and use the edges to mop her eyes.

This, then, was the tender scene into which Camilla Robb appeared like the evil fairy at Sleeping Beauty’s christening. I was vaguely aware that the outside door had opened and closed behind me, letting in a gust of chilly air. I assumed it was a late guest, so I didn’t even turn to look. Henry was facing me and it was his quizzical reaction that suggested something was amiss. Anger is like a sneeze. If you sense someone’s on the verge of letting loose and you’re standing within a six-foot radius, you better make a move to protect yourself. I was blissfully unaware, not realizing a threat was imminent.

When Camilla materialized on my right, I was surprised, but not alarmed. I remember noting how much shorter she was than I’d realized. Also noted was the fact that her shapeless peach wool coat added a good twenty pounds to her frame. She had her three-year-old son affixed to one hip. She’d hooked her purse over the shoulder opposite, but the strap was too short and the bag slid off when she least expected it. Banner was too big to be carried and his legs dangled almost to her knees. Between supporting his weight and hitching up the errant pocketbook, she was distracted, but not sufficiently so to mitigate her wrath.

Here’s how dumb I was on this occasion. Even when she planted herself directly in front of me, it didn’t occur to me a confrontation was in the wind. At first, it didn’t seem to occur to anyone else, either. Henry was alert—I could see his brow furrowing—but with Rosie at stage center, the good-natured banter among party guests continued without pause. When Camilla finally launched her shriek-fest, her voice was so laden with fury her speech was barely audible. As the volume and timbre rose, the general hubbub diminished to a hush. The effect was the same as the house lights in a theater dimming before the curtains open for act one.

She wielded a crumpled piece of paper that she shook in my face. “You did this on purpose, you bitch! Don’t think you’re going to get away with it . . .”

I shot a glance over my shoulder, wondering who she was screeching at. Everyone else was looking right at me.

Her voice dropped. “I know your type. Pretending to be so innocent. Well, guess again, sweetheart, because you don’t fool me. I knew you were still screwing him. I KNEW it.”

I tuned her out. I couldn’t help myself. It was like a clear glass window sliding up between us. I watched her lips move. I absorbed her verbal assault without comprehension. I felt heat wash up along my spine and settle at the base of my neck. I was rooted in place and the net effect was to sharpen my perception.

I’d never seen Camilla at close range. On the few occasions when our paths had crossed, she was always at some remove, usually in the company of Jonah and the kids. Given her emotional chokehold on him, I’d assumed she was a beauty, imbued with an irresistible combination of charisma and sex appeal. This was not the case. Her body was thick, a residual effect of her last pregnancy. Beyond that (except for the slightly bulging blue eyes) she was plain. Dissatisfaction had sketched lines between her eyes and created a bracket on either side of her mouth. I could tell she’d once been pretty—seventh grade perhaps, when she and Jonah met and bonded like termites. It’s a little-known fact that in a termite colony, several species form lifelong attachments, the female “queen” and a single male “king” giving birth to an entire kingdom.

Oddly, the moment between us felt intimate. Every other conversation had fallen away as though a spell had been cast. Camilla and I might as well have been alone. I focused on the crumpled fistful of paper, which appeared to be a bill. This was an instance where my ability to read upside down was far better than being clairvoyant. The letterhead was that of the Santa Teresa Women’s Health Collective, whose many practicing physicians specialized in gynecology and obstetrics. I blinked as sound returned.

She was saying, “. . . oldest trick in the book and shame on you. Jonah’s a married man, in case you hadn’t heard. He has a family of his own that he adores, so you will never compete with this. Never.” Her last reference was to Banner. I was certainly willing to agree with her on that. We were all aware of the cherished place Jonah’s youngest child held in his heart.

Hold on a minute. Obstetrics?

“You think I’m pregnant?” I yelped.

If she’d had a hand free, she’d have slapped my face. As luck would have it, in order for her to land a blow, she’d have had to park her purse or drop the child, and either action would have spoiled the effect.

My consternation, while sincere, seemed to shift her into high gear. The hot pink in her cheeks made the color of her coat seem more flattering.

“Don’t play dumb with me, missy,” she said. “The minute I saw this, I called the clinic and told the woman the bill wasn’t mine. I said I wasn’t a patient and I’d never been in the damn place. She swore I was there on the tenth of August and again Wednesday of this week! I said I certainly was not and what the hell was she talking about? She got all snippy about it and guess what? Pregnancy test, office consultation, prenatal vitamins. That’s when she caught the mistake. Oops. They weren’t supposed to send a bill because the visit had been paid for at the time services were rendered . . .”

I couldn’t think of a thing to say to her. I wasn’t pregnant. The charge was preposterous, but I couldn’t refute the accusation without offering the following lame-ass excuse: I hadn’t been sexually active for more than a year! Ha ha ha! That irrefutable fact wasn’t any of her business and I didn’t feel I should announce the news to all and sundry by way of a defense.

Banner had had as much of his mother’s hysteria as he could take. His face crumpled and then he opened his mouth and wailed, his sobs accompanied by big theatrical tears. Courtney pushed through the crowd and took him from her mother’s arms. She patted him briskly, set the child on his feet, and walked him to the far end of the bar, where one of the three television sets was tuned to a football game. She picked up the remote and began to cycle through stations, finally settling on an ancient episode of I Love Lucy. Banner was instantly more interested in Lucy’s antics than he was in the drama playing out nearby. His sister lifted him onto a stool and then perched on the bar stool next to his. She placed a basket of popcorn in front of him and his cares were erased.

Meanwhile, Camilla, gearing up for another round, had lost track of her point. What could she do with a four-word response from me? Not much, which meant she was forced to repeat herself. Clearly, the weeping child had broken her verbal stride. It’s difficult to sustain an outburst when your timing’s off.

Jonah said, “Camilla, that’s enough.”

I turned with a flash of gratitude, thinking it was about time someone came to my defense.

He moved to her side, took her by the elbow, and propelled her toward the door. She jerked her arm from his grasp as the two stepped outside, but he was clearly the one in charge. I thought she might resume screaming once they reached the street, but the minute the door closed behind them all was quiet.

Inside, the moment of stunned silence stretched to the breaking point. Moza Lowenstein was deaf and had no idea what was going on. Bewildered, she looked from face to face, hoping someone would explain. Ruthie stared at me in disbelief. She was a registered nurse. If I’d told her I had a medical condition, she’d have offered her professional advice. Henry refused to meet my gaze, perhaps imagining a scarlet A now emblazoned on my chest. He and William were raised in an era where adultery wasn’t spoken of in polite society and a verbal rampage like Camilla’s would have been considered low class. Even the mention of pregnancy was too personal for mixed company. We all stood there awkwardly, wondering what came next.

Given the brevity of our collective attention span, the revelers sparked to life again a scant fifteen seconds later. We were there to eat cake and ice cream, drink, and celebrate. No one gave a rip about Camilla’s sordid complaints, especially since I was the designated slut. Every crowd has a mind of its own. Someone could have choked on a shrimp, necessitating an ineffectual Heimlich maneuver, followed by an impromptu tracheotomy achieved by means of a ballpoint pen, and the reaction would have been the same. Once the patient was taken away in the ambulance, there would have been the same silence and the same collective shrug. Then the party would have picked up right where it was before the unpleasantness erupted.

Camilla’s diatribe had been cut short and she was now off the scene. Jonah’s stepping into the fray must have been as surprising to her as it was to me. I hadn’t given him credit for sufficient backbone to stand up to her. In the time I’d known him, he’d endured so much humiliation, it was a wonder he’d survived. Evidently, the man had untapped reserves of strength and I was filled with admiration. Seconds later, I was pulled up short.

Wait a minute!

If I wasn’t pregnant, who was?

My first thought was of Jonah’s voluptuous daughters. Both were gorgeous, boy-crazy, and no doubt the subject of the crotch-pinching fantasies of their horny high school classmates. At the ages of fifteen and seventeen, they were prime candidates for unwanted pregnancies, STDs, and other unsavory consequences of libidos in overdrive. I stole a quick look at Courtney and then Ashley in turn, but neither seemed stricken with shame or embarrassment. Courtney was preoccupied with Banner and Ashley had decided her ponytail would look better in a French braid, which she was plaiting with her head bent and her arms raised above her head.

I caught sight of Cheney and my focus jumped from his troubled expression to Anna’s. Now she looked like someone stricken with shame and embarrassment, which made perfect sense. She and Cheney had been an item for months. I wasn’t sure how long, but apparently long enough. She had followed me to Santa Teresa from Bakersfield the year before. A short time later the cops had migrated from the Caliente Café to Rosie’s place and that’s where their paths had crossed. Anna’s recent emotional upheaval suddenly made sense. It also explained why Cheney was hovering. I rearranged my mindset. Anna’s baggy sweater wasn’t a fashion statement; she was disguising her baby bump. Jonah must have taken her to the clinic. Maybe Cheney was tied up and Jonah had stepped in as a personal favor. What I couldn’t fathom was Jonah’s doing something as idiotic as listing his home address on Anna’s paperwork. Why put himself in the line of fire when Cheney was rolling in dough and could have taken her anywhere?

I thought, Oh my, and the truth opened up before me like a miry pit.

Anna and Cheney weren’t having an affair; Anna and Jonah were. Cheney was the “beard,” running cover for the two. The three of them had created an optical illusion and I’d bought into it. How had I missed the obvious? Naturally, Jonah was drawn to her. I’d never seen a man who wasn’t. Even Henry and William became a bit giddy in her presence. Poor Jonah was starved for affection and desperate for companionship.

At the time Anna entered our lives, Camilla (the skank) was still off somewhere, taking advantage of the “open marriage” she’d thought was such a keen idea, as long as it applied solely to her. Jonah wasn’t actually allowed to participate. His brief fling with me had come to nothing except to fill him with guilt. Then along came Anna, who had no interest whatever in a relationship. What could be more perfect? She didn’t intend to marry and she abhorred the idea of having kids. I remembered quite clearly how she’d likened the prospect of motherhood to Virginia Woolf’s suicide, which she’d accomplished by filling her pockets with heavy stones and wading into a river. Essentially, Anna had proclaimed she’d rather drown herself than give birth. I had no doubt she’d made clear to Jonah that her desire for freedom was paramount. She wanted to travel. She yearned for a life of adventure. She was saving her money so she could move to New York City, where she hoped to launch a career in modeling or acting, assuming she ever learned to act. What now?

I couldn’t imagine how she’d slipped up, but I was certain I’d hear about it. The larger question, of course, was how she intended to remedy the situation.

More to the point, had she already done so?