Blowing Smoke (29 page)

“Do you carry a gun?” Edna asked me first thing when she greeted me in the main lobby, one that could have done a stand-in for the lobby of a three-star hotel.

She was wearing jeans, sneakers, and a maroon short-sleeved shirt. Her hair was cropped, and her eyes were dancing with excitement.

“Sorry. Are you disappointed?”

“A little,” she admitted. “My nephew promised to show me how to shoot his pistol, but he keeps on forgetting,” she added as she took me up to her apartment on the second floor.

“This is her,” she told a woman coming down the hall and pointing to me. “I'll talk to you later.” And she whisked me inside.

Her apartment was a small three-room affair that would have benefited from a color on the walls other than white, but the rooms were well proportioned, and there was enough light for the violets growing on the windowsills to flourish.

“Nice place,” I said to Edna as I followed her into the galley kitchen when she was making us tea.

“I like it.” She got some biscuits out of a tin, arranged them on a plate, and turned on the light under the kettle. “I admit I was full of trepidation at first. Giving up my house and all that. But it's really quite liberating. Now I don't have to worry about taking care of things. But the best part, as far as I'm concerned, is the communal dining hall. I don't think people are meant to eat alone, do you?”

“No,” I said, thinking back to all the meals I'd eaten in the last couple of weeks. Aside from the couple I'd had with Manuel, they'd all been catch-as-catch-can affairs on the run. “I don't.”

“I'm so excited you want to talk to me. I've told everyone on the floor. They can hardly wait to hear about our meeting. You're making me a celebrity.” The water boiled. Edna made tea, and I helped her carry the cups and the biscuits out into the living room.

“May I ask why you want to know about Rose?” she inquired as she sat on the sofa.

I explained about Pat Humphrey.

“That's simply ridiculous,” Edna said. “Rose wouldn't even let a boy touch her in high school, much less anything else.”

“She never had an affair?”

“Never.”

“There was no boy she was madly in love with?” I asked, repeating Rose's story.

“Don't be silly. I mean, she used to go out with someone—he was the captain of the football team—I forget his name. I can find it if you need it.” Edna gestured around her room. “I kept all the yearbooks.”

“That's okay.” I took another sip of my tea.

“But she never really cared for him.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“She told me.” Edna spooned sugar into her tea and stirred. “Listen, Rose and I lived across the street from one another almost all our lives when we were growing up, and if I can tell you anything, I can tell you this. She was never pregnant when she was in high school. I saw her every day. I would know. She was never passionate about anyone. If she had an affair, it was all in her head.”

“Maybe it happened a year or two later.”

“Nope,” Edna declared. “I used to go out with one of her cousins. I would have heard if anything like that had happened. She was what we called a cold fish back then. The only thing she liked about sex was that it gave her control. If she couldn't have control, she wasn't happy.”

“Then why would she say something like that?”

“Why does anyone make up stories? To get attention.”

“You don't like her much, do you?”

Edna put down her spoon and took a biscuit. “No. I don't. Rose wasn't nice then, and I don't expect she's gotten any better now. Contrary to what the books say, people don't get nicer when they age. They just become more of what they are.”

I
went directly from Edna's place out to Rose Taylor's estate. A few clouds had started massing in the sky to the west, but according to the weather reports, they were a tease. Promising rain but not delivering. On my way to Caz, I called George and told him I wanted to talk with him tonight, and we set a time. I could feel my stomach clenching as I hung up. I told myself I'd done the right thing. The adult thing. For a change.

We had problems. Our relationship wasn't going anywhere. According to Paul, it was already over. You were supposed to talk about things like that when you reached my age. But the problem was, where did I want us to go? I reached over and got my cigarettes out of my backpack and lit one.

The truth was, I decided as I slid a Willie Nelson tape into the tape deck, then swerved to avoid a squirrel that had darted out into the road, I didn't know. I admit I don't do introspection well. Never have. Even though I'm supposed to, being a woman and all. And then I decided, fuck it. Who the hell cared, anyway? I did. And that was the biggest problem of all.

When I drove through the pillars that demarcated the beginning of the Taylor estate, I was in for a little surprise. Something new had been added to the decor. Or rather two new things: a barricade and a guard to go with it. With his tight body, the opaque expression on his face, the reflective sunglasses, and the buzz cut, the guard looked like a moonlighting cop. When he spoke, he sounded like one, too.

He put the bottle of water he'd been drinking down on the ground, strode over, and stuck his head in my window. “Can I please have your name, ma'am?”

“How long has this been going on?” I indicated him and the barricade, a couple of D.P.W. sawhorses that a VW could have broken through.

“Please, ma'am.”

“Fine.” I fanned my face with the edge of my hand to get a little air circulating. “Robin Light to speak to Mrs. Taylor.”

I watched Rose's house shimmer in the sun while the guard walked back to the chair he'd been sitting in, picked up his cell phone off its arm, punched in some numbers, and talked into the receiver. He kept saying, “Yes, ma‘am,” and, “No, ma'am.” His face was expressionless when he hung up. Walk-ing back over to me, he'd hooked his thumbs into his belt loops, giving his gait a roll.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “But you can't go in. Mrs. Taylor doesn't want to speak to you at the present time.”

A bee flew into my car, buzzed around the windshield, and left. I was hoping it would fly down the guard's shirt, but it didn't.

“What if I have something important to tell her?”

The guard remained silent.

I tried again. “What if the fate of the free world depends on my talking to her?”

He didn't crack a smile.

“How much are you getting paid to stand out in this heat? I can pay you more.” Never let it be said I wasn't generous with other people's money.

The muscles on his lower jaw tightened. “I'm going to have to ask you to leave now.”

“And if I don't?”

“Please, ma'am. I'm asking you to be sensible.” A hint of pleading registered in his voice. I figured that the last thing he wanted to do right now was get into it with someone in this heat.

I agreed. It was too friggin' hot to argue. And I could be sensible. If necessary. In fact, I could be the poster child for that particular virtue.

“Fine.” I put the car into reverse and made a U-turn. “But when the world ends, remember it's going to be your fault.”

Somehow he didn't seem convinced.

I stopped about half a block away and parked my car along the opposite side of the road. The blacktop stuck to the soles of my shoes as I crossed. As I clambered over the stone wall that enclosed this part of Rose Taylor's property, I wondered why she had bothered with the barricade and the guard. It wasn't as if she were living in a secured facility complete with electric fencing and attack dogs. Anyone could get in if they wanted to. The wall was only waist-high. Maybe she figured the illusion was enough. Maybe she figured no one would look any further. But not this time.

Since I was closer to the cottage where Amy was being kept, I checked there first. It was cool in the grove. The piney smell of evergreens surrounded me as I moved through them. I touched the needles, and the sap stuck to my fingers, releasing its scent. Little flies buzzed around my head. I swatted at them, then absentmindedly wiped my hands off on my jeans. My skin felt taut and itchy from the sun and the needles. I wished I were inside as I focused my attention on the cottage. From my vantage point, I could see a man opening the fridge, taking out a carton, drinking from it, then replacing it and closing the door. He stood staring off into space for a few moments, then walked back into the living room, picked up the newspaper, and sat down on the sofa.

He was thinner than Tom, Amy's last nursemaid, and seemed to move a little easier. I shifted my gaze to the left and spied Amy. She was where I'd left her. In her bedroom. I could see the reflection of the TV screen through the window. I wondered if she did anything besides sleep and watch the screen. After a few minutes, I continued on.

The sun attacked me when I left the shelter of the trees. It scorched the top of my head and shoulders, making me remember I'd forgotten my hat in the car. No one was by the pool or the tennis courts. The only things moving were the sprays of water from the sprinklers. Their hiss followed me as I went toward the house.

I entered through the back way. The door was unlocked. I pushed it open and stepped inside. The first thing I spotted was the maid bent over the table, rolling out pie crust. She looked up when she saw me coming through the door. The color drained from her face. She put her hand to her chest, leaving the white imprint of her hand on her black uniform.

“It's okay,” I said. “Don't worry.” She started to say something, but I put my finger to my lips, and she stopped. “Is your mistress in?”

She nodded, her eyes looking behind me, wondering who else was coming through the door.

“Anyone else?”

“Tomás.”

Great. Tom. Amy's nurse. The one who looked as if he could pick me up, toss me across the room, and not even break a sweat.

“Where is he?”

Her eyes came back to my face. “In the shower.”

“Anyone else here?”

The maid shook her head. Her eyes strayed back to the door.

“There's no one with me, if that's what you're thinking.”

She looked down and spotted the flour on her uniform and brushed it off.

“Where is Mrs. Taylor?”

“In the sunroom.” The maid put her hands on her hips. “You leave her alone.”

“I just want to ask her something.”

“When I got sick and need an operation, she pay for the doctor,” the maid continued. Her hand strayed toward the phone.

“Calling her would be a mistake,” I warned. “Unless, that is, you want to get yourself in trouble. This is none of your business. It has nothing to do with you.”

I watched the hand flutter with indecision, then move back to the table.

“Go back to making your pie crust,” I advised. “Everything will be fine.”

The maid wiped her hands on her apron and muttered something about
gringa estúpida
to herself. Then she snapped, “Next time, you clean your shoes before you come in here. You tracking pine needles all over the floor.”

I looked down. She was right.

I found Rose Taylor in the place where I'd first met her. She was studying a delicate pale yellow orchid with a magnifying glass. When she saw me, she put down the glass and pushed her wheelchair away from the table.

“Nice little blossom,” I said. “Is that one of the thirty-thousand-dollar ones?”

“How did you get in here?” she demanded.

“I don't know how much you're paying for your security, but you're not getting good value for your money.”

Her eyes blazed. “I suggest you leave.”

“I will after you tell me why you lied about Pat Humphrey.”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“That's the same phrase Edna used when I asked her if you'd ever been pregnant.”

“Edna Busch is senile.”

“She doesn't seem that way to me.”

“She is. Anyway, what gives you the right to come in here and question me?”

“When someone uses me, I like to find out why.”

“I want you out of here. I want you out of here now.” Rose reached for the phone. “I'm going to have you arrested for trespassing.”

“By the way,” I said as I headed for the door, “congratulations on the marriage of your daughter and Sinclair. I'm sure they'll make a lovely couple.”

“Tom,” Rose yelled. “Tom. I need you.”

I was already out the front door when I heard him scream, “Stop.”

Yeah. Right.

The thing about being as bulky as Tom is that it slows you down.

Unfortunately, I couldn't say the same thing about the guy that had been guarding the front of the house. I was more than halfway to the stone wall when I looked to my left. The guard was coming toward me. And he wasn't slow. He was closing the distance between us way too fast for my liking.

By now I could feel the heat searing my lungs. Sweat was dripping into my eyes. It felt as if someone were sticking a knife through my ribs. For a couple of brief seconds I considered giving up. After all, what was the worst that could happen? They'd take me down to the station house, and I'd get a ticket. Big deal.

But then I heard Tom yell to the guard, “Hold the bitch.”

I turned and got a look at his face. His mouth was turned up in a tight little smile, relishing what he was sure was going to come next, and his eyes were flat, devoid of expression or emotion. That was all I needed to put on an extra burst of speed.

I was gasping as I got to the stone wall. I could hear stones falling behind me as I scrambled over them and ran for the car. I had the door open when the guard grabbed my shoulder. I spun around and kicked at him. I could feel a crunch as my foot connected with his knee cartilage. His grip loosened, and I slid in and slammed the door shut. I had my key in the ignition and was turning it when his arm snaked in through the window and grabbed my hair.

“Good try, but not good enough,” he said, pulling my head toward him. “Hey”—he turned and yelled to Tom—“I got her.”

“I'll be right there.”

I could see the expression on Tom's face in my mind's eye as I frantically felt for my keys.

“I knew there was a reason I always liked girls with long hair,” the guard said as he yanked harder.

My scalp felt as if it were on fire. I groped for my key chain. My fingers made contact. I grabbed it just as the guard opened the door and pulled me out.

“You owe me for making me run.”

“You forgot to mention my kicking you. What do I owe you for that?” And I brought the little canister of mace I have attached to my keys up and sprayed him in the face.

His hands went to his eyes. He screamed and doubled over. I hopped back in my car and started it up. Tom reached me as I peeled off, peppering him with the gravel from the side of the road.

By the time George dropped by that evening, I'd taken a long shower, downed four Tylenol to ease the aching in my head and neck, had a short, dreamless nap, and shared some take-out Mexican with Manuel, after which I'd informed him that I wanted him to vacate the premises for the evening.

“But where am I going to sleep?” he complained as we walked Zsa Zsa around the block.