Dr. Death (21 page)

Stacy was easy to spot. Little white Mustang coupe facing the water, one of the few cars stationed in the city lot that paralleled the beach. Low tide, miles of beige kissing Wedgwood-blue water, all of it topped by the same clear sky as inland. The ocean was pretty but roiling. As I hooked across the highway and pulled onto the asphalt beside her, I saw the man with the metal detector, a hundred feet past Stacy's car, knees bent, hunched over a find.

Stacy's windows were closed. As I got out of the Seville, the driver's panel rolled down. She glanced at me, both hands on the steering wheel. Her face was thinner than six months ago. Deepened hollows around the cheeks, darkened flesh beneath the eyes, a few more pimples. No makeup. Her black hair was tied back in a ponytail, bound by a red rubber band.

"Didn't know doctors still did house calls." Weak smile. "Beach calls. I must have sounded pretty screwed up for you to drive all the way here. I'm sorry."

The man with the metal detector straightened, turned and faced us. As if he could hear our conversation. But of course he couldn't. Too far away and the ocean was roaring.

Before I could answer, Stacy said, "Why'd you come, Dr. Delaware? Especially after I snotted off to you like that."

"I wanted to make sure you were okay."

"You thought I'd do something stupid?"

"No," I said. "You sounded worried about Eric. You're by yourself. If there's some way I can help, I want to."

Her eyes faced forward and her hands whitened around the wheel. "That's . . . very sweet, but I'm fine. . . . No, I'm not. I'm screwed up, aren't I? Even our dog was screwed up."

"Helen."

She nodded. "Two legs that couldn't move, and Eric pulled her around. That's why you drove all the way— you think I'm cracking up."

"No," I said. "I think you've got good insights."

She whipped around, stared at me. Laughed. "Maybe I should be a psychologist, then. Like Becky— not that she'd ever get to be one. Talk is, she's barely passing. That's got to be making Dr. Manitow and the judge real happy. . . ."

"You sound angry at them," I said.

"I do? No, not at all. I'm a little resentful of
Becky
, turning into a total snob, never even saying hello. Maybe she's getting back at me for Eric. He and Allison Manitow were dating and Eric dumped her . . . but that was a long time ago. . . . Why am I talking about this?"

"Maybe it's on your mind."

"No it's not. Helen is. After I told you about her on the phone, I started thinking about her." Laughter. "She had to be the dumbest mutt ever put on this earth, Dr. Delaware. Thirteen years old and she was never completely housebroken. When you gave her a command, she just sat there and stared at you with her tongue hanging out. Eric called her the Ultimate Canine Moron Alien from the Vortex of Idiocy. She used to jump on him and paw him and lick him and he'd say, Get a brain, bitch. But he ended up feeding her, walking her, cleaning up her poop. 'Cause Dad was too busy and Mom was too passive. . . . That stupid little wagon he rigged up, it kept her alive. My father wanted to put her to sleep, but Eric wouldn't hear of it. Eventually, even with the wagon, she started failing. Toward the end, he was carrying her outside to poop, cursing the whole time. Then one night, he took her with him on one of his overnights. She looked awful— rotting gums, her hair was falling out in clumps. Even so, when Eric wheeled her out she looked thrilled— like, Oh boy, another adventure. They were out all night. The next morning Eric came home by himself."

She turned to me. "No one talked about it. A few weeks later, Mom died."

Her fingers snapped away from the steering wheel, as if shoved by an unseen demon, flew to her face, grabbing, concealing. She bent forward, touched her brow to the steering wheel. The ponytail bounced, black curls fibrillating. She shook like a wet puppy, and when she cried out the ocean blocked nearly all the sound. The man with the metal detector had moved fifty yards up the beach, back in his own world, hunched, probing.

When I reached through the window and placed a hand on Stacy's shoulder, she shivered, as if repulsed, and I withdrew.

All those years listening to people in pain and I can do it like a pro, but I've never stopped hating it. I stood there and waited as she sobbed and shuddered, voice tightening and rising in pitch until she was letting out the raw keen of a startled gull.

Then she stopped shaking, went silent. Her hands flipped upward, like visors, exposing her face, but she kept her head low, mumbled at the steering wheel.

I bent forward, heard her say, "Disappearing."

"What is?"

She shut her eyes, opened them, turned toward me. Heavy, labored movements.

"What?" she said sleepily.

"What's disappearing, Stacy?"

She gave a casual shrug. "Everything."

I didn't like the sound of her laughter.

• • •

Eventually, I convinced her to get out of the car and we strolled north on the asphalt, following the shoreline, not talking. The man with the metal detector was a pulsating speck.

"Buried treasure," she said. "That guy believes in it. I saw him up close, he's got to be seventy, but he's digging for nickels— Listen, I'm sorry for making you come all the way out here. Sorry for being bratty over the phone. For hassling you because you're working with the cops. You're entitled to do whatever work you want."

"It had to be confusing," I said. "Your father okayed it, but he didn't tell you. If he changed his mind, he didn't tell me."

"I don't know that he did. He was just getting peevy because the cop came to question him and he doesn't like not being in charge."

"Still," I said, "I think it's best that I drop off the—"

"No," she said. "Don't do it on my account. I don't care— it really doesn't matter. Who am I to take away your income?"

"It's no big deal, Stacy—"

"No. I insist. Someone killed that man and we should be doing everything we can to find out who it was."

We.

"For justice," she said. "For society's sake. No matter who he was. People can't get away with that kind of thing."

"How do you feel about Dr. Mate?"

"Don't feel much, one way or the other. Dr. Delaware, all those other times we talked, I was never really honest with you. Never talked about how screwed up our family is. But we are— no one really communicates. It's like we live together— exist together. But we don't . . . connect."

"Since your mother got sick?"

"Even before then. When I was young and she was healthy, we must have had fun together, but I don't remember. I'm not saying she wasn't a good mother. She did all the right things. But I never felt she . . . I don't know, it's hard to express. It's like she was made of air— you couldn't get hold of it. . . . I just can't resolve what she did, Dr. Delaware. My dad and Eric blamed Mate, it was this big topic in our house, what a monster he was. But that's not true, they just can't deal with the truth: it was
her
decision, wasn't it?"

Turning to me. Wanting a real answer, not therapeutic reflection.

"Ultimately it was," I said.

"Mate was just the vehicle— she could have chosen anyone. She left because she just didn't care enough to keep trying. She made a
decision
to leave us, without saying good-bye."

Snapping her arms across her bust, she drew her shoulders forward, as if bound by the straps on a straitjacket.

"Of course," she said, "there was the pain, but . . ." She chewed her lip. Shook her head.

"But what?" I said.

"With all that pain, she kept eating— she used to have such a good figure. That was always a big thing in the house— her figure, my father's physique. They both used to wear the skimpiest bathing suits. It was embarrassing. I remember once, the Manitows were over for a swim party and Mom and Dad were in the pool . . . groping each other. And Dr. Manitow was just staring. Like, how tasteless— I guess that was good, though. Right? The fact that they were attracted to each other. My father would always talk about how they didn't age as quickly as everyone else, they'd always be kids. And then Mom just
. . . inflated
herself."

She took a step, put her foot down heavily, stopped again, fought back tears. "What's the use of going on and on about it? She did it, it's over, whatever. . . . I have to keep thinking of the good memories, don't I? Because she
was
a good mother. . . . I know that."

She edged closer to me. "Everyone talks about getting closure, moving on. But where do I go
to
, Dr. Delaware?"

"That's what we need to find out. That's why I'm here."

"Yes. You are." She surged forward, threw her arms around me. Her hands dug into my coat. Curly, shampooed hair— too-sweet shampoo, heavy with apricots— tickled my nose.

Someone watching from a distance would have thought, Romance on the beach.

The professional thing would be to pull away. I compromised, avoiding a full embrace by keeping one arm at my side. Patting her back lightly with the other.

What used to be called therapeutic touch, before the lawyers got involved.

I held her for the shortest possible period, then gently drew away.

She smiled. We resumed walking. Walked in step. I kept enough distance between us to avoid the accidental graze of hand against hand.

"College," she said, laughing. "That's what we were supposed to be talking about this morning."

"College isn't all of your future, but it's part of it," I said. "Part of where to
go.
"

"A small part. So no big deal, I'll make Dad happy, apply to Stanford. If I get in, I'll go. Why not? One place is the same as another. I'm not some spoiled brat. I know I'm lucky my dad can afford a place like that. But there are other things we need to talk about, right? If you trust me not to flake out, I can come in tomorrow— if you've got time."

"I've got time. How about after school— five P.M."

"Yes," she said. "Thank you so, so much. . . . I'd better get back home, see if Dad called, maybe he found Eric— he'll probably just blow into the dorm and scream at my father for flying up."

We turned around.

Back at the Mustang, she said, "And I meant what I said— please don't stop working with the cops. Take care of
yourself.
"

Nice kid.

I watched her drive away, eased onto PCH feeling pretty good.

16

WHEN I GOT home, Robin was in the kitchen stirring a pot— one of those big blue things flecked with white. Spike was off in a corner, making rapturous overtures to a delicious-looking bone.

"You look tired," she said.

"Bad traffic." I kissed her cheek and looked inside the pot. Chunks of lamb, carrots, prunes, onions. My nose filled with cumin and cinnamon and heat, and my eyes watered.

"Something new," she said. "A tajine. Got the recipe from the guy who sells me maple."

I dipped the spoon, blew, tasted. "Fantastic, thank you, thank you, thank you."

"Hungry?"

"Starving."

"No sleep, no food." She sighed. "Bad traffic, where?"

I told her about having to meet a patient at the beach.

"Emergency?"

"Potentially, but it resolved." I placed my arms under her rear, lifted her, deposited her on the counter.

"What is this?" she said. "Passion amid the pots and pans, one of those male-fantasy things?"

"Maybe later. If you behave yourself." I went to the fridge, found some leftover white wine, sniffed the bottle, poured two glasses. "First we celebrate."

"What's the occasion?"

"No occasion," I said. "That's the point."

• • •

The rest of the evening passed quietly. No calls from Milo or anyone else. I tried to imagine what life would be like without a phone. We ate too much lamb, drank enough wine to get silly. The idea of making love seemed remote, more of a scripted segment than passion; both of us seemed content just to be.

So we just sat on the couch, holding hands, not moving, not talking. Would it be like this when we grew old? That prospect seemed suddenly glorious.

Eventually, something changed in the air, and we began touching each other, stroking, kissing, risking exploration. Eventually, we were naked, intertwined, moving from the couch to the floor, enduring chafed knees and elbows, strained muscles, ridiculous postures.

We ended up in bed. Afterward, Robin showered off, then announced she was going to do a bit of carving, did I mind?

After she left for the studio, I slouched in my big leather chair reading journals, Hawaiian slack-key guitar music droning in the background. For a while I did a pretty good job of forgetting. Then I was thinking about Stacy again. Eric. Richard. The deterioration of Joanne Doss.

I considered calling Judy Manitow, tomorrow, to find out if she'd come up with any new insights since the original referral. Bad idea. Stacy might find that intrusive. And Stacy had told me enough for me to see that the Dosses and the Manitows had been entangled beyond mere neighborliness. Joanne tutoring Becky, Eric dumping Allison, Becky and Stacy drifting apart.