Silent Partner

Hope Blalock sat on a wicker divan. Within her reach was a bar on wheels holding an assortment of decanters and a crystal pitcher frosted opaque.

She didn’t look nearly as robust as her plants, wore a black silk dress and black shoes, no makeup or jewelry. She’d drawn her hair back in a chestnut bun that gleamed like polished hardwood, and she stroked it absently as she sat at the very edge of the divan- barely lowering rump to fabric, as if daring gravity.

She ignored my arrival, continued staring out through one of the glass walls. Ankles crossed, one hand in her lap, the other gripping a cocktail glass half-filled with something clear in which an olive floated.

“Madam,” said the butler.

“Thank you, Ramey.” Her voice was throaty, tinged with brass. She waved the butler away, waved me toward a chair.

I sat opposite her. She met my gaze. Her complexion was the color of overcooked spaghetti, overlaid with a fine mesh of wrinkles. Her aqua-blue eyes could have been beautiful but for sparse lashes and deep, gray sockets that made them stand out like gems in dirty silver. Frown lines tugged at her mouth. A halo of post-menopausal down encircled her unpowdered face.

I gazed at her glass. “Martini?”

“Would you care for a splash, Doctor?”

“Thank you.”

The wrong answer. She frowned, touched one finger to the pitcher and dotted the frost. “These are vodka martinis,” she said.

“That will be fine.”

The drink was strong and very dry and made the roof of my mouth ache. She waited until I’d swallowed before taking a sip, but took a long one.

I said, “Nice sun-room. Have them in all your homes?”

“Just what kind of doctor are you?”

“Psychologist.”

I might have said witch doctor. “But of course. And just what is it you want?”

“I want you to confirm some theories I have about your family history.”

The skin around her lips turned white. “My family history? What concern is that of yours?”

“I just got back from Willow Glen.”

She put her glass down. Her unsteadiness made it rattle against the tabletop.

“Willow Glen,” she said. “I believe we used to own land there, but not any longer. I fail to see-”

“While I was there I ran into Shirlee and Jasper Ransom.”

Her eyes widened, squeezed shut, and reopened. She gave a hard, forced blink, as if she hoped she could make me disappear. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then why did you agree to see me?”

“The lesser of two evils. You mention my daughter, make vulgar threats about going to the press. People of our station are constantly subjected to harassment. It behooves us to know what kind of baseless rumors are being circulated.”

“Baseless?” I said.

“And vulgar.”

I sat back, crossed my legs, and sipped. “It must have been hard for you,” I said. “Covering for her all these years. Palm Beach. Rome. Here.”

Her lips formed an O. She started to say something, shook her head, favored me with another hand wave, and gave a look that said I was something the maid had neglected to sweep up. “Psychologists. Keepers of secrets.” Brassy laugh. “How much do you want? Doctor.”

“I’m not interested in your money.”

A louder laugh. “Oh, everyone’s interested in my money. I’m like some bag of blood crusted with leeches. The only question is how much blood each of them gets.”

“Hard to think of Shirlee and Jasper as leeches,” I said. “Though I suppose, over time, you’ve been able to turn things around and see yourself as the victim.”

I got up, inspected one of the bromeliads. Gray-green striped leaves. Pink flowers. I touched a petal. Silk. I realized all the plants were.

“Actually,” I said, “the two of them have done quite well for themselves. Much better than you ever expected. How long did you figure they’d last, living out there in the dirt?”

She didn’t reply.

I said, “Cash in an envelope for people who didn’t know how to make change. A dirt lot, two shacks, and let’s-hope-for-the-best? Very generous. As was the other gift you gave them. Though at the time, I imagine, you didn’t view it as a gift. More of a throwaway. Like old clothes to your favorite charity.”

She shot to her feet, shook a fist that trembled so violently she had to restrain it with her other hand. “Who the hell are you! And what do you want!”

“I’m an old friend of Sharon Ransom’s. Also known as Jewel Rae Johnson. Sharon Jean Blalock. Take your pick.”

She sank back down. “Oh, God.”

“A close friend,” I said. “Close enough to care about her, to want to understand how and why.”

She hung her head. “This can’t be happening. Not again.”

“It isn’t. I’m not Kruse. I’m not interested in exploiting your problems, Mrs. Blalock. All I want is the truth. From the begi

A shake of the gleaming head. “No. I… It’s impossible- wrong of you to do this.”

I got up, took hold of the pitcher and filled her glass.

“I’ll start,” I said. “You fill in the blanks.”

“Please,” she said, looking up, suddenly no more than a pale old woman. “It’s over. Done with. You obviously know enough to understand how I’ve suffered.”

“You haven’t a patent on suffering. Even Kruse suffered-”

“Oh, spare me! Some people reap what they sow!”

A spasm of hatred passed across her face, then settled on it, changing it, damaging it, like some palsy of the spirit.

“What about Lourdes Escobar, Mrs. Blalock? What did she sow?”

“I’m not familiar with that name.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to be. She was the Kruses’ maid. Twenty-two years old. She just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and ended up looking like dog food.”

“That’s disgusting! I had nothing to do with anyone’s death.”

“You set wheels in motion. Trying to solve your little problem. Now, it’s finally solved. Thirty years too late.”

“Stop!” She was gasping, hands pressed to her chest.

I looked the other way, fingered a silk palm frond. She breathed theatrically for a while, saw it wasn’t working, and settled down to a silent smolder.

“You have no right,” she said. “I’m not strong.”

“The truth,” I said.

“The truth! The truth- and then what?”

“And then nothing. Then I’m gone.”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Oh, yes, of course, just like your… trainer. With your pockets empty. And fairy tales come true.”

I came closer, stared down at her. “No one trained me,” I said. “Not Kruse or anyone else. And let me tell you a fairy tale.

“Once upon a time there was a young woman, beautiful and rich- a veritable princess. And like a princess in a fairy tale she had everything except the thing she wanted the most.”

Another hard, forced blink. When her eyes opened, something behind them had died. She needed both hands to bring her glass to her lips, put it down empty. Another refill. Down the hatch.

I said, “The princess prayed and prayed, but nothing helped. Finally, one day, her prayers were answered. Just like magic. But things didn’t turn out the way she thought they would. She couldn’t handle her good fortune. Had to make arrangements.”

She said, “He told you everything, the monster… He promised me… Damn him to hell!”

I shook my head. “No one told me anything. The information was there for the looking. Your husband’s obituary in 1953 listed no children. Neither do any of your Blue Book entries- until the following year. Then two new entries: Sharon Jean. Sherry Marie.”

Hands back on chest. “Oh my God.”

I said, “It must have frustrated a man like him, having no heirs.”

“Him! A man’s man, but his seed was all water!” She took a long swallow of martini. “Not that it stopped him from blaming me.”

“Why didn’t the two of you adopt?”

“Henry wouldn’t hear of it! ‘A Blalock by blood, m’girl!’ Nothing else would do!”