Страница 37 из 61
Seven
The news of Dora's death rippled through the Spa like an unwelcome rainstorm at a family picnic. There was mild curiosity: "What ever was she doing wandering in that place?" A sense of mortality: "How old was she, did you say?" An attempt to place her-"Oh, you mean that prim little woman in the office?"-then a quick return to the pleasant activities of the Spa. This was, after all, an extremely expensive retreat. One came here to escape problems, not find them.
In mid-afternoon Ted had gone for a massage, hoping to obtain some relief from tension in the pounding hands of the Swedish masseur. He'd just returned to his bungalow when Craig told him the news. "They found her body in the bathhouse. She must have gotten dizzy and fallen."
Ted thought of the afternoon in New York when Sammy had had that first stroke. They were all in Leila's apartment, and in the middle of a sentence Sammy's voice had trailed off. It was he who had realized there was something seriously wrong.
"How is Elizabeth taking it?" he asked Craig.
"Pretty badly. I gather she fainted."
"She was close to Sammy. She…" Ted bit his lip and changed the subject. "Where's Bartlett?"
"On the golf course."
"I wasn't aware I brought him out here to play golf."
"Ted, come off it! He's been on the job since early this morning. Henry claims he can think better if he gets some exercise."
"Remind him that I go on trial next week. He'd better curtail his exercise." Ted shrugged. "It was crazy to come here. I don't know why I thought it would help me calm down; it's not working."
"Give it a chance. It wouldn't be any better in New York or Co
"Scott's here? Then they must think there's something peculiar about Sammy's death."
"I don't know about that. It's probably just routine for him to show up."
"Does he know I'm here?"
"Yes. As a matter of fact, he asked about you."
"Did he suggest that I call him?"
Craig's hesitation was barely perceptible. "Well, not exactly-but look, it wasn't a social conversation."
Another person avoiding me, Ted thought. Another person waiting to see the full evidence laid out in court. Restlessly he wandered around the living room of his bungalow. Suddenly it had become a cage to him. But all rooms had seemed like that since the indictment. It must be a psychological reaction. "I'm going for a walk," he said abruptly. Then, to forestall Craig's offer of company, he added, "I'll be back in time for di
As he passed the Pebble Beach Lodge, he wondered at the sense of isolation that made him feel so totally apart from the people who wandered along the paths, heading for the restaurants, the tourist shops, the golf courses. His grandfather had started bringing him to these courses when he was eight. His father had detested California, and so when they came it was just his mother and himself, and he'd seen her shed her nervous ma
Why hadn't she left his father? he wondered. Her family didn't have the Winters millions, but she would certainly have had enough money. Wasn't it because she was afraid of losing custody of him that she'd stayed in that cursed marriage? His father had never let her forget that first suicide attempt. And so she had stayed and endured his periodic drunken rages, his verbal abuse, his mimicking of her ma
Unseeingly, Ted walked along the Seventeen Mile Drive, unaware of the Pacific, glimmering and gleaming below the houses that rose above Stillwater Cove and Carmel Bay, unaware of the luxuriant bougainvillea, heedless of the expensive cars that sped past him.
Carmel was still crowded with summer tourists, college students getting in one last fling before the fall semester. When he and Leila walked through town, she'd stopped traffic. The thought made him pull his sunglasses from his pocket. In those days, men used to look at him with envy. Now he was aware of hostility on the faces of strangers who recognized him.
Hostility. Isolation. Fear.
These last seventeen months had disrupted his entire life, had forced him to do things he would not have believed possible. Now he accepted the fact that there was one more monumental hurdle he had to overcome before the trial.
Drenching perspiration soaked his body at the image of what that would be.
Eight
Alvirah sat at the dressing table in her bungalow, happily surveying the shiny rows of creams and cosmetics that had been presented to her in the makeup class that afternoon. As the instructor had told her, she had flat cheekbones that could be beautifully enhanced with a soft blush rather than the crimson rouge she favored. She also had been persuaded to try wearing a brown mascara instead of the jet black which she believed drew attention to her eyes. "Less is better," the makeup expert had assured her, and truth to tell, there was a difference. In fact, Alvirah decided, the new makeup, combined with the way they'd toned down her hair to a rich brown, made her look just like the way she remembered Aunt Agnes, and Agnes always was the beauty in the family. It also felt good that her hands were starting to lose their calluses. No more heavy cleaning for her. Ever. Period. "And if you think you look good now, wait till you see how glamorous you are when Baron von Schreiber is finished with you," the makeup lady had said. "His collagen injections will make those little lines around your mouth, nose and forehead disappear. It's almost miraculous."
Alvirah sighed. She was bursting with happiness. Willy had always claimed that she was the finest-looking woman in Queens and that he liked being able to put his arms around her and feel that he had something to hold on to. But these last years, she'd put on weight. Wouldn't it be good to really look classy when they were hunting for a new house? Not that she had any intention of trying to get in with the Rockefellers-just middle-class people like themselves who'd made good. And if she and Willy made out a lot better than most others, were luckier than just about anybody else, it was nice to know that they could do some good for other people.
After she finished the articles for the Globe, she really would write that book. Her mother had always said, "Alvirah, you've got such a lively imagination, you're going to be a writer someday." Maybe someday was here.
Alvirah pursed her lips and carefully applied coral lip gloss with her newly acquired brush. Years ago, in the belief that her lips were too narrow, she'd gotten into the habit of making a kind of Kewpie doll curve to accentuate them, but now she'd been persuaded that that wasn't necessary. She put down the brush and surveyed the results.
Somehow she really did feel a little guilty about being so happy and interested in everything when that nice little lady was stretched out somewhere in the morgue. But she was seventy-one, Alvirah comforted herself, and it must have been real quick. That's the way I want to go when it's my turn. Not that she expected it to be her turn for a long time to come. As her mother said, "Our women make old bones." Her mother was eighty-four and still went bowling every Wednesday night.
Her makeup adjusted to her satisfaction, Alvirah took her tape recorder from her suitcase and inserted the cassette from Sunday night's di