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Henry pulled up beside us in his five-window coupe. It's a 1932 Chevrolet that he's had since it was new. It's been meticulously maintained, boasting the original paint, headliner, and upholstery. If William were driving it, I suspect the car would seem prissy. With Henry at the wheel, there was something rakish and sexy about the vehicle. You have to keep an eye on Henry as he's still very appealing to 'babes' of all ages, including me. I could see people turning to admire the car, checking him out afterward to see if he was someone famous. Because Santa Teresa is less than two hours away from Hollywood, a number of movie stars live in town. We all know this, but it's still disconcerting when some guy at the car wash who looks just like John Travolta turns out to be John Travolta. I saw Steve Martin driving through Montebello once and nearly rammed into a tree trying to get a good look at him. He's Technicolor handsome, in case you're wondering.
William got into Henry's car and the two rumbled off. There was still not a hint about the trap Rosie meant to spring. Whatever her intention, it was still early in the game. William did seem less self-absorbed today. We'd actually made it through a three-minute conversation without reference to his health.
I drove back into town, taking the freeway south on 101. I got off at the Missile off-ramp and headed east until I reached State Street, where I hung a right. The Axminster Gallery, where Rhe Parsons's show would be opening that night, was located in a complex that included the Axminster Theater and numerous small businesses. The gallery itself was located along a walkway that ran behind the shops. I parked on a side street and cut through a public lot. The entrance was marked by a hand-forged iron sign. A panel truck had been backed in close to the door and I could see two guys unloading blocks wrapped in heavily quilted moving pads. The door was standing open and I followed the workmen in. The entry was narrow, probably scaled down for effect, because I quickly passed into a large room with a thirty-foot ceiling. The walls were a stark white and light cascaded down through wide skylights, currently cranked open to admit fresh air. A complicated arrangement of canvas, cording, and pulleys was affixed at ceiling height so that the fabric shades could be drawn across the opening if the light needed to be cut. The floors were gray concrete carpeted with Oriental rugs, the walls hung with batiks and framed watercolor abstracts.
Rhe Parsons was consulting with a woman in a smock, the two of them apparently discussing the placement of two final pieces the workmen were bringing in. I circled the room while the discussion continued. Tippy was perched on a stool near the back wall, commenting on the overall effect from her vantage point. Rhe's show consisted of sixteen pieces arranged on pedestals of varying heights. She was working in resins, casting large polished pieces-maybe eighteen inches on a side -which at first seemed identical. I inspected five in range of me. I could see that the translucent material was formed into subtly tinted layers, with sometimes an object buried at the heart-a perfectly preserved insect, a safety pin, a locket on a chain, a ring of brass keys. With the light shining through, the effect was of peering through blocks of ice, except that the resin looked solid and indestructible. It wasn't hard to imagine these totems being dug up at some point in the future, along with bleach bottles, pull tabs, and disposable diapers.
Rhe must have seen me, but she gave no sign of recognition. She was wearing jeans and a heavy mohair sweater in shades of pale blue and mauve. Her dark hair was banded at the nape of her neck, a long silky tassel reaching almost to her waist. Tippy wore a jumpsuit in a lightweight denim. Unseen by her mother, she greeted me with a wiggle of her fingers, which I took to mean "Hi." It was heartening to realize that the person whose life I'd allegedly ruined was alive and well and still speaking to me.
Rhe murmured something to her companion, who turned to stare at me. The woman picked up a clipboard and clopped off across the room, stack heels resounding on the concrete floor.
"Hello, Rhe."
"What the hell do you want?"
"I thought we should talk. I didn't mean to cause you any trouble."
"Wonderful. That's great. I'll tell my attorney you said so."
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tippy hop down from the stool and cross the room toward us. Rhe made the kind of gesture an owner uses with a dog. She snapped her fingers and held her hand flat, meaning "Stay" or "Lie down."
Tippy wasn't that well trained. She said "Mom…" in a tone that embraced both outrage and insult.
"This doesn't concern you."
"It does too!"
"Wait for me in the car, baby. I'll be there in a minute."
"Can't I even listen to the conversation?"
"Just do as I tell you!"
"Well, God!" Tippy said. She rolled her eyes and sighed hard, but she did as her mother asked.
As soon as she'd left, Rhe turned on me with a chill fury. "Do you have any idea the damage you've done?"
"Hey, I came here to discuss the situation, not to take abuse. What did I do?"
"Tippy just got herself squared away. She's finally on track and now you come along with this trumped-up allegation."
"I wouldn't call it trumped up…"
"Let's not get into semantics. The point is, even if it's true, which I greatly doubt, you didn't have to turn it into a big deal-"
"What big deal?"
"Besides which, if you're convinced she's guilty of some kind of criminal behavior, she's entitled to an attorney. You had no right to confront her without my being present."
"She's twenty-two, Rhe. In the eyes of the law, she's an adult. I don't want to see her charged with anything. There might have been an explanation, and if so, I wanted to hear it. All I did was talk to her, trying to get information, and I did that without going to the cops first, which I could easily have done. If I'm aware a crime's been committed, I can't look the other way. The minute I cover for her, I become an accessory."
"You intimidated her. You were threatening and manipulative. By the time I got home, she was hysterical. I really don't know what your story is, but you had better take a good hard look at yourself. You are not judge and jury here-"
I raised my hands. "Wait a minute. Just wait. This isn't about me. This is about Tippy, who seems to be dealing with reality a lot better than you are. I understand you feel protective-I would, too-but let's not lose sight of the facts."
"What facts? There aren't any facts!"
"Let's skip it. Never mind. Discussion isn't possible. I can see that now. I'll have Lo
"Good. You do that. And you better be prepared for the worst."
Trying to get the last word in was almost irresistible, but I closed my mouth and removed myself from the room before I said something I might regret later. As I left the gallery, Tippy approached and fell into step with me. "I wouldn't let your mother see us together if I were you."
"What'd she say?"
"Just about what you'd expect."
"Don't worry, okay? I know she was really mad, but she'll get over it. She's been under a lot of pressure lately, but she'll come around."
"Let's hope so for your sake," I said. "Listen, Tip, I'm really sorry this had to happen. I feel like a dog, but I didn't see a way around it."
"It's not your fault. I'm the one who fucked up. I'm the one who should feel bad about it, not you."
"How are you doing?"
"Pretty good," she said. "I talked to one of my AA counselors last night and she was really great. As soon as we finish here I'll go talk to her, and then later this afternoon I'll talk to the police."