Bad Love (13 page)

“Did Dr. Stoumen leave a widow?”

“His wife died several years ago and they had no children. Now I really do have to get going.”

“Thanks for your time, Dr. Wolf.”

“Yes . . . hmm. Good luck on . . . working this through.”

I got my car keys, left a lot of lights on in the house, and turned on the stereo to loud jazz. The dog was sleeping noisily on his towel bed, but he roused himself and followed me to the door.

“Stay and guard the home front,” I said, and he harrumphed, stared for a moment, finally sat down.

I walked out, closed the door, listened for a protest, and when I didn’t hear any, went down to the carport. The night had cooled, massaged by sea current. The waterfall seemed deafening and I drove away listening to it diminish.

As I coasted down toward the Glen, a sense of dread dropped over me, dark and smothering, like a condemned man’s hood.

I paused at the bottom of the road, looking at black treetops and slate sky. A faint bit of light from a distant house blinked through the foliage like an earthbound star.

No way to gauge its distance. I had no real neighbors because an acre-wide strip of county land, unbuildable due to a quirky water table, cut through this section of the Glen. Mine was the only buildable site on the plot plan.

Years ago the isolation had been just what I wanted. Now a nosy streetmate didn’t seem half bad.

A car sped down the Glen from the north, appearing suddenly around a blind curve, going too fast, its engine flatulent with power.

I tensed as it passed, took another look backward, and hooked right, toward the Sunset on-ramp of the 405 south. By the time I got on the freeway, I was thinking of Robin’s smile and pretending nothing else mattered.

Slow night at the airport. Cabbies circled the terminals and skycaps looked at their watches. I found a space in the passenger loading zone and managed to stay there until Robin came out, toting her carry-on.

I kissed her and hugged her, took the suitcase, and put it in the trunk of the Seville. A man in a Hawaiian shirt was looking at her over cigarette smoke. So were a couple of kids with backpacks and surfer hair.

She had on a black silk T-shirt and black jeans, and over that a purple and red kimono-type shirt tied around her waist. The jeans were tucked into black boots with tooled silver toes. Her hair was loose and longer than ever — well past her shoulder blades, the auburn curls bronzed by the light from the baggage claim area. Her skin gleamed and her dark eyes were clear and peaceful. It had been five days since I’d seen her, but it seemed like a long separation.

She touched my cheek and smiled. I leaned in for a longer kiss.

“Whoa,” she said, when we stopped, “I’ll go away more often.”

“Not necessary,” I said. “Sometimes there is gain without pain.”

She laughed and hugged me and put her arm around my waist. I held the door open as she got in the car. The man in the Hawaiian shirt had turned his back on us.

As I drove away she put her hand on my knee and looked over at the back seat. “Where’s the dog?”

“Guarding hearth and home. How was your talk?”

“Fine. Plus I may have sold that archtop guitar I did last summer — the one Joey Shah defaulted on. I met a jazz musician from Dublin who wants it.”

“Great,” I said. “You put a lot of time into that one.”

“Five hundred hours, but who’s counting.”

She stifled a yawn and put her head on my shoulder. I drove all the way to Sunset before she woke up, shaking her curls. “Boy . . . must have hit me all of a sudden.” Sitting up, she blinked at the streets of Bel Air.

“Home sweet home,” she said softly.

I waited until she’d roused herself before telling her the bad news.

She took it well.

“Okay,” she said, “I guess it goes with the territory. Maybe we should move out for a while and stay at the shop.”

“Move out?”

“At least till you know what’s going on.”

I thought of her studio, separated from the mean streets of Venice by a thin veneer of white windows and locks. Saws and drills and wood shavings on the ground floor. The sleeping loft in which we’d made love so many times . . .

“Thanks,” I said, “but I can’t stay away indefinitely — the house needs maintenance. Not to mention the fish that’re left.”

That
sounded trivial, but she said, “That poor fish. And you worked so hard to keep them alive.”

She touched my cheek.

“Welcome home,” I said glumly.

“Don’t worry about
that
, Alex. Let’s just figure out how to deal with this stupidity until it’s resolved.”

“I don’t want to put you in any danger. Maybe
you
should move to the shop—”

“And leave you alone in the middle of this?”

“I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“How okay do you think I’m going to be, worrying every minute about you? I mean, the fish are wonderful, Alex, but you can hire someone to feed them. Hire someone to look after the whole house, for that matter.”

“Pack up the wagons and head out?”

“What’s wrong with being a little cautious, honey?”

“I don’t know . . . it just seems awfully drastic — all that’s really happened is malicious mischief.”

“So why were you so upset when you told me about it?”

“Sorry. I didn’t want to upset you.”

“Of
course
it upsets me,” she said. “Someone sending you weird tapes, sneaking in and . . .” She put her arm around my shoulder. The light changed to green and I turned left.

“Goes with the territory,” she repeated. “All those troubled people you’ve worked with over the years. All that misdirected passion. The surprising thing isn’t that it happened. It’s how long it took.”

“You never said it worried you.”

“It wasn’t a matter of worry — I didn’t obsess on it. Just thought about it from time to time.”

“You never said anything.”

“What would have been the point? I didn’t want to upset
you
.”

I lifted her hand from my shoulder and kissed it.

“Okay,” she said, “so we protect each other, Curly. Ain’t that what true love’s all about?”

I pulled up in front of the house. No obvious signs of intrusion.

I said, “Just let me check around for a sec before you get out.”

“Oh, really,” she said. But she stayed in the car.

I gave the pond a quick inspection. The fish moved with nighttime languor, and none was missing.

I jogged up the stairs to the landing, checked the front door, peered in through the living room window. Something moved as the drapes parted. The dog’s face pressed against the glass, wetting it. I raised my hand in greeting. He pawed the window. I could hear the jazz through the redwood walls.

By the time I got back down, Robin was lifting her valise from the trunk. When I tried to take it from her, she said, “I’ve got it,” and headed for the steps.

As I unlocked the front door, she said, “We could at least get an alarm. Everyone else has one.”

“Never been a slave to fashion,” I said, but when she didn’t smile, I added, “Okay. I’ll call a company tomorrow.”

We walked in and almost tripped over the bulldog, who’d positioned himself on the welcome mat. He stared from Robin to me, then back to her, where he lingered with Churchillian dignity.

Robin said, “My God.”

“What?” I said.

“He
invented
cute, Alex. Come here, sweetie.” She bent down to his level with one hand extended, palm down.

He trotted forward without hesitation, jumped up, put his paws on her shoulders, and embarked on a lick-fest.

“Ooh!” She laughed. “What a
handsome
boy you are — what a
cutie —
look at those
muscles
!”

She stood, wiping her face, still laughing. The dog continued to nuzzle and paw her legs. His tongue was out and he was panting.

She placed a hand on my shoulder and gave me a grave look. “Sorry, Alex. There is now another man in my life.” Bending, she rubbed him behind the ears.

“Crushed,” I said, placing a hand over my heart. “And you might reconsider — he doesn’t have gonads.”

“Them’s the breaks,” she said, smiling. “Look at that
face
!”

“Also, he snores.”

“So do you, once in a while.”

“You never told me.”

She shrugged. “I kick you and usually you stop — well, just look at
you
, you little hunk. Apathy’s not
your
problem,
is
it?”

She knelt back down and got her face rebathed. “What a doll!”

“Think of the ramifications on your social life,” I said. “Meatloaf and kibble by candlelight.”

She laughed again and roughed the dog’s fur.

As the two of them played, I picked up the suitcase and carried it into the bedroom, checking rooms as I passed, trying not to be obvious. Everything looked fine. I took Robin’s clothes out and arranged them on the bed.

When I got back, she was on the leather couch, the dog’s head in her lap. “I know this is heartless, Alex, but I hope his owner never calls. How long, legally, do you have to run the ad?”

“I’m not sure.”

“There’s got to be a limit, right? Some sort of statute of limitations?”

“Probably.”

Her smile disappeared. “With my luck someone’ll show up tomorrow and cart him off.”

She covered another yawn. The dog looked at her, fascinated.

“Tired?” I said.

“A little. Everything okay around here? I’m sure you looked.”

“Perfect.”

“I’ll get unpacked.”

“Did it,” I said. “Why don’t you run a bath? I’ll put your stuff away, then join you.”

“That’s sweet of you, thanks.” She looked at the dog. “See, he really is a nice guy, our Dr. D. How ’bout you — you like baths, too?”

“As a matter of fact, he hates the water. Won’t even get near it. So it’s just you and me, kid.”

“How Machiavellian of you — where does he sleep?”

“Last night he slept in the bed. Tonight he moves back into the kitchen.”

She pouted.

I shook my head. “Uh-uh, no way.”

“Oh, c’mon, Alex. It’s just temporary.”

“Do you want those eyes watching us?”

“Watching us do what?”

“The crossword puzzle.”

“He’ll be lonely out there, Alex.”

“All of a sudden we’re into voyeurism?”

“I’m sure he’s a gentleman. And as you so unkindly pointed out, he has no . . .”

“Balls or no balls, he’s a
nudist
, Robin. And he’s got the hots for you. The kitchen.”

She tried a bigger pout.

I said, “Put it out of your mind.”

“Cruel,” she said. “Heartless and cruel.”

“Sounds like a law firm. Heartless, Cruel, and Horny — think I’ll put ’em on retainer.”

The dog posted himself at the bathroom door as Robin stepped into the suds. She soaped up, and I picked him up and carried him, grumbling, to his towel bed. The moment I put him down, he tried to escape. I closed the kitchen doors and gave him a Milk-Bone and as he began chewing, I snuck out.

He fussed for a while, attempting a sonorous rendition of the old-man-choking bit, but I applied sound behavior theory principles and ignored him, while trying to suppress my guilt. After a minute or so he calmed down and soon I heard him snoring in two-four time.

When I got back, Robin looked at me reproachfully. Her hair was up and the water’s soapy surface reached just below her nipples.

“He’s fine.” I got out of my clothes. “Enjoying the slumber of the truly virtuous.”

“Well,” she said, putting her arms behind her head and watching, “I suppose it’s best.”

“Forgiven?” I said, sinking into the heat of the bath.

She contemplated. Breathed in. Smiled.

“I don’t know . . .”

I kissed her. She kissed back. I touched one breast, kissed a soapy nipple.

“Umm,” she said, breaking away. “Well . . .”

“Well, what?”

“You can forget Mr. Cruel and Mr. Heartless, but I think it’s time to take a meeting with their partner — what’s his name?”

Thursday morning she was up and out of the shower by six-fifteen. When I got to the kitchen I expected to see her dressed for work, that restless look in her eyes.

But she was still in her robe, drinking coffee and reading
ArtForum
. She’d set out food for the dog and only a few bits remained. He was at her feet and looked up at me only briefly before returning his head to the side of her leg.

She put the magazine down and smiled up at me.

I kissed her and said, “You can get going, I’ll be fine.”

“What if I just want to be with you?”

“That would be great.”

“Of course, if
you
have other plans . . .”

“Nothing till the afternoon.”

“What’s then?”

“Patient appointment out in Sun Valley at three-thirty.”

“Making a house call?”

I nodded. “Custody case. Some resistance and I want to see the kids in their natural environment.”

“Three-thirty? That’s good. We can hang out together till then.”

“Terrific.” I poured myself a cup, sat down, and pointed to the magazine. “What’s new in the art world?”

“The usual foolishness.” She closed it and pushed it aside. “Actually I have no idea what’s going on in the art world or anywhere else. I can’t concentrate, Alex. Woke up in the middle of the night, thinking about everything that’s been happening to you and that poor psychiatrist up in Seattle. Do you really think there is a connection?”

“I don’t know. It was a hit-and-run, but he was eighty-nine and couldn’t see or hear well. Like Freud said, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar — did you get any sleep?”

“A bit.”

“Was I snoring?”

“No.”

“Would you tell me if I was?”

“Yes!” She gave my hand a gentle cuff.

“Why didn’t you wake me to talk?” I said.

“You were deep asleep. I didn’t have the heart.”

“Next time wake me.”

“We can talk right now, if you want. This whole thing’s giving me very definite creeps the more I think about it. I’m worried about you — what will the next call or mail delivery bring?”