Dead File (9 page)
“Oh,” Rose added, seemingly as an afterthought, “you’re invited. Gillian liked you.” With that, Carter Rose quickly exited the conference room.
Maxi stayed back with Lemke while he broke down and gathered up his gear.
Unbelievable,
she thought.
I just asked him on camera if he tried to kill an employee and he still wants to be my pal.
That question, and his answer, was the sound bite that she would use on the Six O’clock News. What he said was not important, she knew; what made an impact was the look on his face when he said it.
T
welve minutes to ten, Saturday morning. The private funeral service for Gillian Rose was being held at Saint John the Apostle Episcopal Church on Sunset Boulevard in Beverly Hills, where the Rose family worshiped, at least on major holy days. The church was stately, one of the oldest in the city, rectored by the Reverend Lillian White, who would be assisting today. According to the program, Bishop James Bartlett had come from the diocesan house to conduct the services.
The high-ceilinged church was already packed to overflowing with family, friends, and colleagues of the deceased, company employees, and civic leaders, both local and national. Dozens of towering lit candles, three feet tall, adorned the elaborate, gilded altar, and the air was heavily perfumed with the scent of cut flowers displayed throughout the church. Conspicuous by its absence, the lack of a coffin had some of the people in the assemblage perplexed.
Another memorial service for Gillian, which would be open to the public, was scheduled to be held in a few weeks at the Globe Theater on Wilshire. That one would be attended by the press, Maxi knew, and by a lot of fans who felt they owed their quality of life to the woman behind Rose International’s health-enhancing products, as well as the curious who had watched Gillian Rose ascend to celebrityhood over the last decade in Southern California.
Maxi was surprised to find her own name still on today’s guest list, given the fact that she had aired her stunning question to the deceased’s husband, along with the man’s somewhat abashed answer, on the news last night. That would most likely be her last exclusive with Carter Rose, she figured.
She stood in the back of the church, hovering behind the glacial Ms. Kendyl Scott, who was seated at a table presiding over a large, open guest book. Kendyl was somberly asking arrivees to sign the book as they filed in, and Maxi intermittently peered over the woman’s shoulder to read their names as they wrote. Kendyl more than once twisted around to level a sour look at Maxi, which Maxi returned with a tilt of her head and a sad, commiserative smile. In mourning, all. And she continued to steal glances at the names being written in the guest book.
No cameras were allowed in the church. The media gang were scattered outside, off the church grounds, on surrounding public streets and sidewalks, waiting to catch departing notables on tape and perhaps pick up an interview or two. Channel Six had Rodger Harbaugh out there.
It was Saturday; Maxi technically wasn’t working today. She was tempted to take notes, but that would be tacky, since she was there ostensibly not as a journalist, but as a guest of the family.
She watched as a man who looked to be in his sixties maneuvered an electric wheelchair into the vestibule. While his physique was reed thin, his countenance was strong: long, narrow face, weathered but ruddy skin tone, alert blue eyes behind black-rimmed glasses, a thick head of coarse white hair, heavy salt-and-pepper eyebrows that almost met in the middle, and a full mouth set with an aspect of determination. He was dressed in a black suit with a blue dress shirt, accented by a conservative navy and red rep tie. On the wheelchair footrest his black leather shoes gleamed.
“Good morning,” Kendyl Scott said to him. “Would you sign the guest book?”
Maxi watched the man divert his wheelchair over to Kendyl’s table as he removed a fountain pen from an inside breast pocket. He signed with a flourish,
William Sanders Schaeffer.
Without saying a word, he placed the pen back in his pocket, wheeled around toward the church entry, and went inside.
William Schaeffer, Maxi thought. Related to Sandie Schaeffer, probably. And if so, what was he doing here at Gillian Rose’s funeral while Sandie lay in the ICU at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center down the street, fighting for her life?
She walked over to the soaring entry doors and peered inside in time to see Schaeffer’s wheelchair being guided by an usher over to the far right of the congregation. He rolled down the side aisle and settled himself beside the fourth row of church benches, taking care, Maxi noted, to allow those in the pew ample access to enter and exit. Apart from a physical disability of some kind, she observed, this man was vigorous, agile, thoughtful, and quietly intelligent. Her guess was that he could be Sandie Schaeffer’s father, the pharmacist in Westwood who was mentioned in yesterday’s Associated Press wire story.
The music prelude began and the congregants stood while Bishop Bartlett, Reverend White, and a third minister filed into the altarium, all of them solemn in white vestments. Escorted to the pulpit by the other two, the bishop ascended the steps and began the funeral liturgy: “I am resurrection and I am life, sayeth the Lord. Whoever has faith in Me shall have life, even though he die, and everyone who has life, and has committed himself to me in faith, shall not die forever. . . .”
Maxi slipped into a spot on the middle aisle at the rear of the church and looked around at the gathered. In the front row, to the left of the center aisle, she saw Carter Rose, flanked by two well-dressed older women, family members, Maxi guessed. The mayor was there—she’d seen him come in—along with several Los Angeles city councilpersons. The governor of California and an aide were also somewhere in the crowd, she knew; she’d heard people talking about them. A few rows in front of her, a beautiful actress who had recently appeared in an infomercial with Gillian as a high-profile endorser of Rose International products was audibly weeping. Maxi had the names of many more luminaries etched in her mind, having seen them inscribed in the guest book.
The voice of the presider intoned the collect, finishing with the refrain, “The Lord be with you.”
“And also with you,” responded the congregation, and the people were seated, signaling the start of the “Remembrance of the Life of the Deceased,” the several scheduled eulogies.
One after another, friends and family of Gillian Rose stepped up to the microphone and spoke, extolling the woman’s business genius, her philanthropic work, her social world, her love of people and her love of life. The final speaker was the deceased’s husband, Carter Rose, who told of her beauty, inside and out, her front-and-center role in their global business, her loving kindness within their family—she was indispensable to him, he said, and he couldn’t imagine his life without her. … With that, his voice broke, and he stepped down.
The bishop and his acolytes concluded the service, whereupon the ushers walked up the middle aisle to guide the mourners out of the church, starting with the family members in the front rows and working their way toward the back.
From her aisle seat in the second-to-last row, Maxi observed the passing procession. Carter Rose looked stoic. The family women were teary. Some people fanned themselves with their programs, others acknowledged acquaintances they spotted as they made their way up the aisle toward the exits.
She watched the man in the wheelchair slowly navigate the distance up the far right aisle, then around the back of the church and out into the vestibule. She slipped out of her seat and caught up with him as he rolled down the handicapped ramp that ran along the east rail down over the wide front stairs and was proceeding toward the adjacent parking lot. Coming around to the front of his wheelchair, Maxi stood in the gentleman’s path and addressed him: “Excuse me, sir, are you related to Sandie Schaeffer?”
“I’m her father,” the man said matter-of-factly. “And you’re the newscaster Maxi Poole.”
“Yes. How is your daughter doing?”
“There’s been no change,” he answered, his eyes clouding. He made no move to continue to his car.
Maxi lowered herself to one knee at the side of his chair and said softly, “Would it be possible for me to talk to you, Mr. Schaeffer? About Sandie?”
A beat; then he spoke. “All right, Ms. Poole. The police don’t seem to be interested in what I have to say.”
“I’ll come to you. When’s a good time?”
“I’m going to the hospital now. Then I’m going to work. Can you come to my store at around one o’clock? Schaeffer Pharmacy. It’s in Westwood, on Glendon.”
“I’ll be there,” Maxi said, and she stood to let him pass.
C
arter Rose was pensive when he left the church. He steered his black Mercedes S500 sedan east on Sunset, heading for Cedars. He would check on Sandie, see what he could find out, then go home. To a weekend alone in the sprawling manse that he’d shared with his wife of fourteen years. His life was now forever changed; it would take some getting used to.
The service for Gillian had been everything it should be, but he certainly hadn’t taken away from it any sense of closure. After the near fatal attack on Sandie Schaeffer yesterday, the police rescinded the order to the coroner’s office to release Gillian’s body, pending further investigation, they’d said. By that time it was too late to cancel this morning’s service. Everything was scheduled, the invitations had been phoned, faxed, and e-mailed, the bishop had committed, and people were already en route from different parts of the country, some even coming from abroad. So he had gone ahead with her funeral this morning. Without her.
Next week he and Gillian had been scheduled to attend a worldwide anabolic biology conference in Maui. A paradise. He decided not to cancel—friends even told him it would do him good to get away. He had intended to bring his assistant Kendyl with them. It occurred to him that if the LAPD released Gillian’s body in time, he would immediately have her cremated, tuck the urn in his carry-on bag, and discreetly scatter her ashes somewhere off that beautiful Hawaiian island. No service, no ceremony, no checking in with authorities there. He would just drive out somewhere and do it. And that would be the end of his life with Gillian Sevier Rose.
He would sell the big house on Carolwood. No point rattling around in it anymore, along with the nine people on staff. He was actually looking forward to getting rid of it, and everything in it. He would buy himself a penthouse apartment in downtown Los Angeles and give it a touch of the style
he
liked, twenties retro.
The company was yet another consideration. He intended to unload it, too, before all the company skeletons seeped out of the closet and did a Mardi Gras dance on Wall Street and the stock plummeted even more. Sell off and get out. Take the profits and start another business. If everything went according to plan, he would be out from under the barely manageable structure of Rose International in a matter of months, with cash secretly amassed in several bank accounts in different parts of the world to get him launched again. His patsy was Goodman Penthe, an underhanded creep, but
his
underhanded creep. As long as he could control him. Not easy, but he seemed to have the upper hand: Penthe wanted the Rose company very badly.
Then there was Kendyl. She was meeting him at the hospital now. So much of his plan depended on her, he reflected. In the past few weeks, Kendyl had become even more indispensable to everything he was doing.
Too
indispensable, and that was a problem.
William Schaeffer wheeled into the waiting room outside the Intensive Care Unit at Cedars-Sinai, where Sandie’s primary-care doctor was to join him. Schaeffer had called ahead to the hospital; he had already been told by Dr. Stevens that his daughter was still comatose. But stable. Her vital signs were holding, the doctor said.
The card posted in Sandie Schaeffer’s chart said that only next of kin were allowed in to see the patient, and on the card only one name was typed in, his own. They had lost Sandie’s mother to cancer three years ago—this hospital brought back all those memories now. The couple had always wanted a big family, but Jo could never conceive after Sandie. And now his only daughter, all he had left of family in the world, was teetering between life and death within these walls.
He steered his wheelchair over to a corner table and picked up the phone to call Dr. Stevens. The duty nurse told him she would page the doctor and let him know that Mr. Schaeffer was in the waiting room.
As he put the phone down, the front door opened and Carter Rose came in. Rose walked right to him and offered his hand. Schaeffer took it, then said quietly, “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Rose. Gillian was wonderful.”
“And I’m so sorry about your Sandie.
Our
Sandie. How is she?”
“There’s been no change.”
The door opened again, and Kendyl Scott walked into the waiting area. Carter Rose introduced the two.
“We’ve talked on the phone,” Schaeffer said to her.
“We have? I don’t remember.”
Schaeffer remembered. He had called Kendyl Scott one afternoon looking for Sandie, thinking perhaps his daughter was on that side, or that Kendyl would know where to find her. He remembered that Ms. Scott had been distinctly unpleasant to him. And looking at her now, he was sure that Kendyl Scott remembered that conversation too.
Dr. Stevens entered the room from a side door. Schaeffer briefly introduced him to Carter Rose and Kendyl Scott. It was the doctor’s turn to say, to both of them, “We’ve talked on the phone.” And to Schaeffer, he said, “They’ve been calling to ask about Sandie.”
“And that’s why we’re here,” Rose said. “May we see Sandie, Doctor?”
“That’s up to her father,” Dr. Stevens said. “He’s the only person authorized in the ICU right now.”
Rose and Kendyl looked down at Schaeffer in his wheelchair. He looked back at them, paused for a beat, then said, “I think it’s too soon. There’s nothing to be gained—she’s in a coma.” With that, he wheeled around them toward the entrance to the Intensive Care Unit. Dr. Stevens gave the two a look that said
Sorry,
and followed Schaeffer through the doors.
