Everything and More (59 page)

He moved to Althea. “Now, are you going to tell me what the hell this is all about?”

Althea leaned against the white-painted fence of the paddock, where two quarter-horse mares stood with their colts. She could feel the sun’s heat on her skin, but below the surface was an unpleasant chill. That earlier dumbfounding calm had abandoned her. She was trapped in a riptide of love, pity, sorrow. How could she dismiss Gerry like an insolent servant when he was part of her pulsebeat?

Yet she heard her unimpassioned voice. “I’m flying back to New York tomorrow, Gerry. And I don’t want you to follow me.”

“You damn rotten rich bitch, you love me. And I love you.”

At the bitter anguish in his voice, her resolve wavered briefly; then she responded with a patrician smile.

He stared at her, his eyes narrowed in the abstracted concentration that was his before he began to paint, then pulled her to him in a kiss that was all tongue and savage teeth.

For a fraction of time she kissed him back, a surrender crueler than an immediate rebuff, before jerking from his grasp.

Raising his arm, he slapped her full force across the cheek.

The blow stunned her.

She staggered backward, falling sideways on the soft earth. Stars. You do see stars, she thought. Involuntary tears welled into her eyes. She was trembling all over.

He did not offer a hand to help her rise. Staring down at her with beaten rage, he turned to jog back down the eucalyptus-lined road to the house. Althea pushed to her feet, brushing the seat of her jodhpurs.

A couple of minutes later she heard the angry squeal of his borrowed Buick convertible careening along the curves of the private road that led to the highway.

One of the mares had come to nuzzle Althea, but she paid no attention. She rested her forehead on the painted rail. She was not crying. Her tears of pain had dried and her eyes had become hot and gritty, as if the very fluid of life were gone from her.

  
55
  

Around four that same afternoon, Roy stood in the largest fitting room behind Crystal Klingbeil, who had flown in from Houston for the day to let Roy coordinate her summer wardrobe. Mrs. Klingbeil was beaming entranced at the reflection of the white-beaded Norell sheath, while Roy, who had ordered the designer original with this specific customer in mind, had a doubtful glint in her eye. She was having second thoughts whether she could in good faith sell the roly-poly oil millionairess a gown that strained this way across her buttocks.

There was a tap at the louvered door and Mrs. Fineman’s powdered face popped in. “Do you mind if I assist you, Mrs. Klingbeil? There’s somebody here to speak to Mrs. Horak.”

Knowing that only the utmost emergency had brought her employer to interrupt this lucrative selling session, Roy was swept by a sense of foreboding. With a blank smile and a polite “Excuse me” at Crystal Klingbeil, she hurried to her office, which consisted of a desk and filing cabinet outside the Finemans’ office. Mr. Fineman stood tapping a yellow pencil.

“Two police officers,” he whispered tersely, nodding toward the closed door of his office. “They insisted on talking to you.”

“Did they say what it’s about?” Roy faltered.

“They showed me their badges and asked us to get you, that’s all I know.” He touched her arm—it was rare for Mr. Fineman to make an impromptu gesture of concord. “Roy, I told them you had worked here as our most trusted employee for nearly ten years.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fineman,” she said faintly.

The inner office also lacked the sumptuousness of the customer side of Patricia’s. More filing cabinets, a pair of desks with unmatched reproduction chairs, an old horsehair sofa on which Mr. Fineman took his postprandial snooze. By the streaked windows that looked out on the alley stood a pair of tall, bulky men. Despite their sport jackets—tweed and bright blue check—there was something
about them that screamed “cop.” They’ve stepped directly from a
Badge 714
set, Roy thought numbly.

The older of the pair was totally bald. “Mrs. Gerrold Horak?” he asked. “Of 9621 Erica Drive?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Sergeant Wills, this is Officer Monroe.”

“What’s it about?” she asked. Her mouth was dry.

“Before we get to that, you better sit down, Mrs. Horak.”

His dispensation of professional concern made Roy’s heart beat yet more erratically. “I’m all right like this.”

“There’s been an automobile accident near Ventura. Mr. Horak—”

“Gerry? An automobile accident?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’ve made a mistake,” she said loudly. “It’s some other Gerrold Horak. Ventura—that’s on the way to Santa Barbara. He never goes there. Never.”

“His driver’s license showed the same address as yours.”

“But his car’s at the house!”

“He was at the wheel of a fifty-six Buick convertible belonging to Arthur Vought—”

“Artie?”

“The car was observed speeding erratically on Highway One. A highway patrolman tried to halt the vehicle. It skidded out of control, hitting the embankment. Mr. Horak was thrown clear. He was dead by the time the highway patrolman reached him.”

Dead?

Gerry was
leaving
her, not dying.

Gerry was thirty-nine years old, and men of thirty-nine don’t die. Gerry was passionately alive. Why would he be in Ventura?

An alien roar resounded in her head, which suddenly felt pumped with helium. As her head became lighter her body weight increased until her black suede Delman pumps were too insubstantial to support her body’s gravitational pull.

“Mrs. Horak? Mrs. Horak, here. Rest here. . . .”

She sank inexorably down, a small object trapped in a monstrous, whirling vortex. Hands helped her onto the rough horsehair, placing her head on the folded afghan.

Mr. Fineman’s outline blurred and then became etched on her vision with unnerving precision—she could see that one of his eyelashes grew from a minuscule wart. The two plainclothesmen had moved to flank him.

“Rest there a minute,” said Mr. Fineman in the gooey tones used to encourage ailing small children to swallow their medicine.

“But Mrs. Klingbeil . . . the beaded Norell . . . bought it for her. . . .”

“If we lose a sale, we’ll lose it. We’re your friends. Roy, you’re a daughter to us.”

“I better go home. . . .” She struggled to stand.

He pressed her shoulders. “Rest a few minutes. You’ve had a terrible shock.”

An awful, hollow, arthritic kind of ache afflicted Roy’s rib and shoulder bones, making breathing difficult. She drew in shallow breaths, exhaling through her mouth. Opposite her hung the bulletin board covered with the Patricia’s summer-season ads from
Vogue
and
Harper’s Bazaar.
Roy stared blankly at models posed in ludicrously expensive outfits.

Dead?

The cops must have said goodbye. They were gone and Mr. Fineman was excusing himself. Mrs. Fineman came in immediately. “My poor Roy,” she said, her fleshy face askew. “Mr. Fineman’s calling your brother-in-law.”

*   *   *

Joshua took charge.

He drove to Ventura, identified the body, and arranged for it to be brought home. He set the funeral for 2
P.M.
Thursday at Forest Lawn, he selected and paid for the ornate bronze coffin with gold-plated handles, he decided on the type of service, he ordered a messenger service to deliver to Pierce Brothers’ Mortuary a brand-new dark suit—Gerry didn’t own one. He telephoned Gerry’s gallery in New York and his brothers in Pittsburgh, he sent out a press release, he saw to it that there were food, liquor, a bartender, and caterer in the small tract house.

Joshua played the role of host to the many people who visited before the funeral. The Fernauld clan came, and BJ’s in-laws, Roy’s sorority alumnae group, her numerous friends, and every one of Patricia’s employees. Everyone attempted to distract her from her grief. Possibly they succeeded, because of those prefuneral days, she would recall only one conversation.

It was with Marylin.

NolaBee and Marylin were staying in the house with her. On the night before the funeral, NolaBee retired early and the sisters went into the compact yellow kitchen, Roy sitting in the breakfast alcove, Marylin using a padded mitt to take from the oven the savory-smelling
casserole that was Coraleen’s funeral offering—the Fernaulds’ elderly couple doted on Roy.

“Coraleen’s chicken Marco Polo, your favorite,” Marylin said.

“You go ahead. None for me.”

Marylin spooned out the cheese-covered chicken and broccoli. “We both need a late-night snack in our stomachs after our drinks.” Marylin’s use of the plural was kindness: she, as always, had been abstemious, while Roy had never been without a glass in her hand. “This’ll slide down easily.” She set the plates on the table.

Roy was soused enough to be obedient. She picked up her fork.

Since Gerry’s death, though, the taste of meat had become abhorrent to Roy, and with difficulty she swallowed the cheese-oozing bite of chicken. Gulping at her drink, she said, “This thing’s turned me into a vegetarian.”

“Then I’ll fix you some milk bread.” An old Wace cure-all.

Roy shook her head. “Nothing.”

Marylin reached her small, slender hand across the yellow tabletop to clasp Roy’s cold fingers. “I know what you’re going through.”

“You can’t. . . .”

“When they said Linc was dead, I thought I would die, too.”

Roy got up. Before leaving, the bartender had arranged a kitchen counter with clean glasses, the vacuum ice bucket, soft drinks, liquor. Roy reached for the Johnnie Walker bottle.

Marylin’s fork toyed with broccoli. “Do you think that’s a good idea?” she murmured.

“A teensy nightcap,” Roy said, switching to brandy.
How come with all I’ve drunk, I can still feel this much pain?
“It’s really not the same. At least you knew Linc
had
loved you.”

“Oh, Roy, Gerry loved you, of course he did. Didn’t he marry you?

“It wasn’t his idea. I talked him into living with me. Then after we had a big blow-up, he was sorry and agreed on the wedding.”

“The smartest thing he ever did. You gave him stability, you made him a real home.”

Roy sighed deeply. That arthritic pain through her chest remained. “He didn’t really care where he lived. A borrowed attic, a sleeping bag—any dump was the same to him. All he wanted was a place to work . . . and . . .” Roy’s voice wavered “Marylin, I’ve been feeling guilty, so lousy, rotten guilty. I made his last months hell for him. Phoning him at all hours, fouling up his Oaxaca series. No wonder he preferred Althea.”

Marylin’s lovely eyes darkened to a stormy, grayish green.
“Her.”

“I’m so ashamed. The night before he . . . was killed, I called Belvedere to talk to her. She wasn’t home. I’d had a few too many, and I made this big scene with Mrs. Cunningham.”

“He was
your
husband, Roy.”

“He and Althea had an affair ages ago, long before I met him.” Roy’s eyes filled.

“You’re being right silly.” To cheer her sister, Marylin rendered a near-perfect mimicry of NolaBee’s Southern tones. “I reckon Mr. Man chose you, hon.”

“They loved each other.”

“She doesn’t know the meaning of the word!” Marylin’s soft voice was relentless. “Wherever she is, there’s trouble!”

“That’s not fair.”

“Everybody says she was the one behind Henry Lissauer’s suicide.”

Gossip was so unlike Marylin that Roy’s bloodshot eyes fixed questioningly on her sister.

“Roxanne de Liso was at his art school when he killed himself,” Marylin said. “Roxanne said Althea was always making eyes at him. Mr. Lissauer was Jewish but German, an enemy alien. Roxanne swore that the Cunninghams set Immigration on him. He shot himself the day the atom bomb dropped on Hiroshima. Althea had come over to the house and had hysterics the night before, remember?”

“That’s old garbage, Marylin.”

The exquisite, gentle mouth was tensed. “All the years you two were so close, you had no other friends, but the minute you broke away, people swarmed around you.”

“We went through a difficult phase together, that’s all.” Roy wondered why, when hatred surged dizzily through her, she was defending Althea.