Blowing Smoke (10 page)

“So? The door was open.”

Moss Ryan put his hands up. “Don't get me wrong. I'm not accusing you of anything.”

“Then what are you saying? Exactly.”

“Rose is concerned. She still can't reach her. That's most unlike Pat.” Moss Ryan dabbed at the beads of sweat on his forehead.

I closed the cash drawer. “If she's that concerned, she should go to the police and file a missing person's report.”

Moss Ryan stuffed his handkerchief back in his suit pocket. “It's a little more complicated than that. Mrs. Taylor will explain.”

“What if I don't care to speak to her?”

“I'm hoping you will. She's extremely upset,” Moss told me while Geoff strolled over and began looking at the fish tanks. “I'm hoping that speaking to you will make her feel better.”

“Why?”

Moss Ryan's brittle smile flashed on and off. “Just come.”

By now Zsa Zsa had retreated to my legs and was whining the way she did when she wanted to go out.

Moss Ryan shot his cuffs. “I think you'll find Mrs. Taylor is a most generous employer. From what I've found out, you could stand to benefit from her largesse. Shall we say you'll be there in an hour to an hour and a half?”

“And if I'm not?”

He pursed his lips. “She'll hire someone else. But I think you'll find that you've missed a good opportunity.” And he gestured to Geoff to follow him out the door.

 

 

In the end my curiosity got the better of me, and I loaded Zsa Zsa into the car and drove out to the Taylor estate. As I rounded the curve where I'd found Raul, a picture of him flashed through my mind. I should have gone to the hospital sooner. I tried not to picture him lying in a drawer, covered with a sheet, waiting for someone to claim him and no one coming. Where did they bury people like that? I reached for my cell. I needed to speak to someone. I called Manuel, George, and Calli. But no one was home. I didn't leave any messages.

Rose Taylor's maid was waiting for me. She didn't say anything about the ketchup stain I'd just gotten on my shirt from the two Big Macs and fries I'd eaten in the car on my way over. She didn't comment on the fact that I'd fixed the thong of my left sandal with duct tape or the fact that the make-up I'd started the day with had long since worn away. She didn't even say anything about Zsa Zsa. In fact, she didn't say anything at all. Just opened the door before I'd even rung the bell and motioned for me to follow her.

She looked weary, as if the day had eaten away at her reserves of strength. The wrinkles in her face were deeper. Her uniform was creased. Her gait was slower. She'd developed a slight limp in her leg from when I'd last seen her. As we walked through the hall, the noises our shoes made on the marble floor echoed in the dim light.

The maid led me to a room off the main hall. Looking around it, I had the feeling that this was where Rose Taylor actually lived. Relatively small, maybe twelve by twenty, it was furnished with a comfortable-looking light brown sofa and two club chairs, a desk piled high with correspondence, and a large wall unit containing a television and stereo. The walls were hung with pen-and-ink drawings. An assortment of magazines sat on the coffee table next to a box of tissues, a cup, and a tray filled with pills.

Rose Taylor was reclining on the sofa. One side of her mouth had a definite tremble to it, but other than that, she looked the way she had when I'd last seen her. Geoff and Moss Ryan were clustered next to her. Geoff was sitting in one of the club chairs, stroking her hand, while Moss Ryan was saying something to her that I couldn't hear. Rose made an imperceptible movement with her shoulders when she saw me, and the two men moved back slightly.

“You shouldn't have brought the dog,” she told me. “Sheba doesn't like them.”

“I can leave if you want,” I replied, looking around for the cat. It was nowhere in sight. Maybe it had taken off along with Pat Humphrey. “I shouldn't be here, anyway.”

“No. Sit down.” Rose Taylor rang for the maid while I sat in the free club chair. When she came in, she told her to keep the cat in the kitchen until further notice and ordered coffee to be brought. “Now, then.” She turned to me after the maid left. “Hillary told me everything you told her.”

“Is that what you called me here to tell me?”

“Partly. I wanted you to know that Pat had already shared that information with me, so Hillary wasn't telling me anything I didn't already know. But you did a good job, which is why I want you to find Pat Humphrey for me. I know you know she's disappeared.”

“I'll repeat what I told your lawyer. Go to the police. They're better equipped than I am to find someone who has gone missing.”

“That's your advice?”

“Yes.”

“I see.” Rose Taylor carefully rearranged a fold of the caftan she was wearing. Bright blue with gold threads, it looked as if it were worth more than everything I had in my closet. “Have you ever made a mistake?” she asked me when she was done.

“Frequently.” Out of the corner of my eye I watched Zsa Zsa sniffing around the corner of the desk.

“I think I might have made one.”

“Just one? That would make you a fairly unusual person.”

She frowned. When I didn't say anything else, she continued. “You've met my children.”

I nodded at the rhetorical question.

Rose Taylor stopped talking when the maid came back in with the coffee. “Consuela, put the tray down here.” She gestured to the coffee table. Consuela did as told and left. Geoff got up and served both Rose and myself. Rose took a sip of her coffee, then continued. “A couple of days ago I got a call from Pat. She was furious. She said my children had offered to buy her off.”

“Like parent, like child,” I murmured below Rose Taylor's hearing. “How much were they offering?” I'd been under the impression the three of them didn't have a spare nickel between them.

“Twenty thousand dollars if she left town. Naturally, she told them no.” Rose Taylor stirred her coffee. The teaspoon clinked on the edge of the china cup.

“Naturally,” I said. Why settle for a little when you could get a lot more.

Rose Taylor went on as if I hadn't spoken. “I was so angry ... so mortified that my children ...” Her voice drifted away. She fluttered her hands in the air. “I ... I told Hillary I was changing my will ... that I was going to include Pat Humphrey in it ... and that I was thinking of allowing her to use one of our country houses.”

“She must have loved that.”

“She became extremely angry. Abusive, really,” Rose Taylor admitted. “I would never have talked to my mother the way she talked to me.”

“Did you say anything else?”

“I told her that if she didn't leave Pat alone and stop bothering her, I'd take more drastic steps.”

I folded my arms across my chest and watched Zsa Zsa meander over to where I was. “In short,” I told Rose after a minute of silence had gone by, “you're afraid that one of your children has something to do with Pat Humphrey's disappearance?”

Rose nodded slightly. If I hadn't been watching, I would have missed it.

“I still don't get what you want from me.”

Moss Ryan gently interrupted. “What Rose is saying is that we want you to find Pat Humphrey and make sure that she's all right.”

I thought about the running water and the uneaten toast in Pat Humphrey's backyard. I thought about the opened back door. “And if she's not?”

Moss Ryan bit his lip. “If something has happened to her, the police will naturally come to Rose's children first. We would like a chance to prepare for that eventuality.”

“I'm glad Sanford isn't alive to see this.” Rose's voice quavered. She rubbed one hand on top of the other. They were covered with liver spots. Suddenly, she looked old. “His heart wouldn't be able to take this. I'm not sure mine will, either.”

Geoff leaned over again and patted her hand again.

“Of course, we'll be willing to compensate you for your time,” Moss Ryan said to me.

“Of course.”

“Please,” Rose Taylor said. Her lower lip quavered. Tears began trickling down her cheeks.

I told her I'd take the job. For three reasons. One: God knows why, but I felt sorry for her. Two: I could use the money. Three: I wanted to nail Pat Humphrey.

I went to look for Shana Driscoll. We had a few things to discuss.

I
t was still hot outside. The air was thick with the smell of honeysuckle and the promise of rain to come. Little pinpricks of light flickered on and off. Fireflies. The grunks of croaking frogs floated back from the lake. Moored sailboats, looking like toys, bobbed in the water. Over by the hills, a flash of lightning lit up the sky. Fairy lights marked the path that led to the cottage Shana was living in. I followed it while Zsa Zsa ran ahead and to the side of me, chasing moths with translucent wings.

The pool was a still oval of transparent water. The chairs around looked bereft, as if they were waiting for a party. Someone had lit two citronella candles. The smell, a mixture of lemon and wax, wafted over me, reminding me of summers spent at my aunt's camp near Saratoga Springs. A glass, half-filled with a dark liquid, sat on a small round table. As I got closer, I noticed someone treading water in the deep end of the pool. It was Shana Driscoll, out for her evening swim.

I walked over and hunkered down at the edge of the pool while Zsa Zsa pawed at a bug crawling along the edge of the concrete apren.

Shana's face was tipped up, a white oval in the shadows. “What do you want?” she asked.

“To talk to you.”

“That's fairly obvious.” But she climbed out, water streaming off her body, and toweled herself off in a slow, deliberate fashion just as Zsa Zsa nosed the bug over the edge and into the pool.

“Where's your dog?” I asked Shana as I watched the beetle frantically try to paddle its way back to the side.

She flung the towel on one of the chairs, then plopped on its arm, her left foot swinging like a metronome. “Maurice is back in the cottage.”

“You're not on duty, I take it?”

“I go off at seven.”

I took my cigarettes out of my backpack and lit one.

“You should quit.”

I acknowledged the suggestion with a grunt, then swatted at a moth that had come too close to my face. “So you must have had a pretty rough day today, what with the state Mrs. Taylor was in.”

Shana ran a hand through her hair, tugging and patting the strands into place. “Poor, dear lady. Don't you know that all stroke patients tend to become overemotional? It's one of the side effects.”

“No, I didn't know that.” I exhaled and watched the puff of smoke drift upward. A plane flew overhead, its wing lights winking red and blue.

“It's the truth.”

“So you think Mrs. Taylor is overreacting to Pat Humphrey's disappearance.”

“Disappearance is a strong word.”

“You think she'll show up?”

“That I couldn't say.”

“And why not?”

Shana blew out her breath in irritation. “Because I don't know. And now if you'll excuse me ...” And she picked up her towel and hung it around her neck.

“So you haven't heard from her, either?”

“Mrs. Taylor's friend? No. Why should I have?” Shana took a step to the side and nearly tripped over Zsa Zsa, who had planted herself next to her feet.

“I just thought...”

“What?”

“Given your phone call.”

“Call?” She'd turned her face into the shadows, making it difficult to see her expression.

“To Pat Humphrey. I was in her house. I played her answering machine back.”

“What right did you have to do that?”

“The door was open. I walked in.”

“You just go around doing things like that?”

“When it's justified. Yes.”

“Does Mrs. Taylor know you did that?”

“She hired me to investigate her disappearance.”

Shana's eyes widened. She pointed a finger at herself. “And based on that message, you think that I had something to do with that. Is that why you're here?”

“Did you?”

“Don't be absurd,” Shana scoffed.

I dropped my cigarette on the concrete and stubbed it out with the heel of my sandal. I must have had too many today, because this one was making my throat sore. “I thought you didn't know her well.”

“Of course I know her. Whatever gave you the idea I didn't?”

“Probably because you referred to her as Mrs. Taylor's friend.”

“What's the harm in doin' that?” Shana demanded, her brogue kicking in again. “She is.”

“Nothing. It just gives a certain impression.” I changed subjects. “So what did you want to talk to her about?”

“Maurice. What else?” Shana idly ran a finger up and down one of her bathing suit straps. A high-cut maillot, it contrived to be even more revealing than the bikini she'd been wearing earlier in the day. “Patricia really does know things, you know. Sometimes even vets ask her to help them out.”

“I know. I spoke to two of them.”

“Then you're aware of what I'm talking about.”

“I still think there's another explanation.”

“Like what?”

“I'm not sure,” I admitted. “Yet.”

“Well, for your information, Patricia told me things about my dog, things none of the vets, not even the ones down at Cornell, picked up. The poor dear was sick—dying—until she came along.”

“And he told Patricia”—I emphasized the name—“what he needed, and she told you?”

“Yes,” Shana said, squaring her shoulders. “That's exactly what happened.”

“It's nice your dog is so smart that he can diagnose himself.” I pointed to Zsa Zsa, who was chasing another moth. “I must have gotten the dummy of the litter.”

“Have you any other questions for me, then?”

“Not at the moment.”

She looked me up and down. “You're doing well for yourself, aren't you? Being hired by Mrs. Taylor.”

“I think you may be doing better.”

She smiled.

“How did you get this job, anyway?”

“Through an agency. You can check if you want.” And she gave me the name.

“Are you really from Ireland?”

“Indeed I am. A little town up in the north.”

“Because your brogue comes and goes.”

“People here seem to like it, so I put it on a bit. That's not a crime, is it?”

“Not at all.”

“Good. And now I really have to leave. My dog is waiting for me.”

“Fine.” I put out my hand. “But if you're hurrying on Geoff's account, don't bother. It's going to be a while before he shows up at your cottage. He has his hands full right now at the house.”

“You leave him out of this.”

“You know, I saw him at the country club today with a rather attractive older lady. He seems to have a thing for them, don't you think?”

“You don't understand.”

Now it was my turn to shrug. “What's there not to understand? It's an old story. Not the oldest but old enough. The old lady and the handsome young man she keeps around for entertainment. What do you think Mrs. Taylor would say if she knew you were screwing her husband?”

“Who's to say she doesn't?” Shana spat back.

“Shall I go back up to the house and ask her?”

Shana folded her arms across her chest. “You do whatever it is you like. It's a matter of little difference to me.”

“A matter of little difference,” I repeated. “Very poetic. Is that how you see your relation with Geoff?”

“Geoff and I are none of your business.” Shana took a deep breath. “And I'll tell you something else. It's not me you should be looking at if you want to find Patricia Humphrey,” she told me, her brogue having made a miraculous recovery. “It's Mrs. Taylor's darlin' boy you should be talking to.”

“Are you referring to Louis?”

“Does she have another one?”

“Boy is hardly the way I'd describe him.”

“Ask him what he and Patricia were yellin' about out on the driveway.”

“When was this?”

“Ask him yourself. I'm not earning your money for you.” Shana turned to go, reconsidered, and turned back. “And another thing. Bother me anymore and I'll call the police and have you arrested for harassment.” Then she left.

I whistled to Zsa Zsa and walked back to the house. I was mulling over my conversation with Shana, as I opened the door of my car, when I heard the rattle of tires on churning gravel. I looked around and saw headlights coming toward me. A few seconds later, a car screeched to a halt in back of me, and Hillary got out. She was dressed all in black. Black short skirt. Black rayon boat-neck shirt. Black heels. Silver jewelry. Performance clothes. I wondered what had happened to her gig downtown. Why she wasn't there singing.

“I should have known,” she said, putting her hands on her hips and jutting her chin out when she spied me.

“About what?” I asked, even though I knew what she was going to say.

“You're working for my mother.”

“Because I'm here?”

“Am I wrong?”

“No,” I admitted.

“Exactly. You told me—”

“She asked me to come by after I'd spoken to you.”

“You didn't have to, though.” Hillary took a step closer to me. She looked like a wraith—it was the black clothes, I decided—and sounded like a disappointed child. “See. I knew you'd end up working for her.”

I made a lame joke about coming out for a cocktail, but the hurt expression on Hillary's face embarrassed me. She shook her head from side to side. Now that she had come closer, I could see that she had smears of mascara below her eyes. I wondered if she'd been crying or if it was the heat or she was using cheap makeup.

“Sooner or later everyone does,” Hillary said to me. “No one says no to her. Ever. What did she say to you? I have a right to know.”

But before I could answer, the front door swung open, revealing a rectangle of white light, and Geoff walked out onto the upper step. “Hillary,” he said. “Do us all a favor and go home.”

“Fuck you,” she flung back at him, her hands now balling up into fists.

“She's in no state to see you.”

“I have to see her,” Hillary insisted, her voice rising.

“Well, you can't.” Geoff rendered the verdict in a lofty voice, the kind a judge might use. “We're waiting for the doctor to come now.”

“Why won't you let me speak to her?” There were tears in Hillary's voice. “She's my mother, for God's sake.”

“And she's my wife, and her well-being is my responsibility. Now get out of here. And don't try to phone tonight, either. I won't have her disturbed by you or anyone else.”

Hillary took another step forward. “Let me in. I need to talk to her.”

“How much money do you need this time?”

“It's not about money, you fuckhead.”

Geoff moistened his lips with his tongue. “Don't make me call the police.”

“You're going to pay for this,” Hillary yelled. “You really are.”

She flashed me a look that said, What do you think now, traitor? Then she whirled around, jumped back into her car, and gunned the motor.

“Sweet Jesus,” Geoff said as he watched her turn right and ride straight over the lawn until she got on the road. “I don't believe her.” He ran over and surveyed the damage the tires of Hillary's car had inflicted on the grass. “We're going to have to get the whole thing resodded,” he told me when he came back. “I don't even want to think of the money that's going to cost.” He pointed at the path Hillary had taken. “She really is crazy, you know. Absolutely nuts. I'm talking clinical here. For a while she was on some drug. Obviously it didn't help.”

“How do you know she wanted money?”

Geoff snorted and kicked a piece of gravel out of the way. “Because that's all she ever wants. The only time she ever comes here is when she needs something. Every time she speaks to Rose, Rose gets upset. And that's not good for her. Especially now. After the stroke. In fact...” Geoff paused and straightened the collar of his polo shirt.

“In fact what?” I prompted.

“If it wasn't for her, Rose wouldn't have had a stroke.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I didn't say it.”

“Who did?”

“The doctor. She and Hillary had an enormous fight. Hillary ran out, and I came in. Rose was crying hysterically. I tried to calm her down, but I couldn't. Finally, I went into the other room to call her doctor. I was dialing when I heard a crash and ran back inside. There was Rose on the floor.”

“What had they been fighting about?”

“I didn't ask. At that point, I had other things to do. Like save my wife's life.” And he turned and slammed the door behind him, leaving me standing alone in the dark, wondering why Hillary had come.