Flesh Gothic by Edward Lee (7 page)

Before him, downtown St. Petersburg stood clean and
uncrowded. It was a small and diverse metropolis but with a
big city feel somehow. The restaurant block reminded him
of slices of other cities all amalgamated into one: a little bit
of Bourbon Street dropped into Rodeo Drive peppered
with specks of Baltimore's Inner Harbor. Westmore liked
it-classy but unpretentious eateries, sophisticated but genuine people, and upscale bars. But when he walked past one
of those same bars, his heart twinged. Yes, Westmore liked
this area but he didn't come here anymore. He couldn't
trust himself.

The glowing neon light in the front window of the mar tini bar could've spelled his name. That sadness, that loss of
part of himself-however bad-never went away.

He crossed the next block, exiting the sun into a wall of
cool shadow thrown by downtown's tallest buildings. Next
thing he knew he was standing in front of his favorite oyster bar, watching the skilled shucker effortlessly peel the
tops off bivalves larger than his hand. Westmore ate here a
lot when he was on the paper. He also did something else
here a lot, and he remembered that with a jaded fondness
now as he stared through the window and saw rows and
rows of top-shelf liquor.

He turned away.

The street's shadow covered him. He'd seen the Strauss
Building countless times in the past: sleek, narrow, forty stories high. It looked like a massive rectangle of perfectly
smooth, perfectly black volcanic glass-for the darkly tinted
windows that formed its skin. He'd seen it a lot, yes, but
never knew that it was a residential condo tower; he'd always thought it was an office building. Maybe Vivica Hildreth
has an office, it occurred to him, or maybe she was using her
late-husband's business office for the interview But then he
remembered the rest of her letter, inviting him to her
"home."

This is some home, he thought when he entered the posh
lobby. A security guard signed him in, even scrutinizing him
with a metal-detection wand. Rich people were often paranoid. As he approached the elevator, he spied the parking
garage through a door's chicken-wire window, noticing a
Rolls, several Porsches, a Ferrari, and a multitude of Mercedes. Just as the elevator opened, a woman stepped out and
said, "Mr. Westmore, I'm sorry I'm late."

He was taken by surprise. The short, well-built woman with the reserved smile couldn't have appeared more prim in
a black-leather half-shirt over a sheer gray turtleneck, black
skirt, high heels-a high-class sort of sexy office-manager
look. Razor-straight bangs and flawlessly straight strawberryblonde hair to her neckline. She looked forty but was probably only thirty---the Florida sun did that to women,
roughened the skin just a little, but an exemplary tan forgave it
all and somehow enhanced the harsh attraction.

He'd seen a picture of Vivica Hildreth. As he shook her
hand, he said, "You're not-"

"No, I'm not Mrs. Hildreth. My name's Karen Lovell.
I'm ... currently engaged as Mrs. Hildreth's personal secretary.

"Pleased to meet you." The way she'd phrased the statement seemed peculiar, as though she'd been something else
until recently. Until Hildreth's death? he wondered.

"And now if you'll come with me," she went on, "Mrs.
Hildreth is anxious to meet you."

He stepped into the elevator with her, watched the door
close without a sound. "I've got to be honest with you," he
tried to start some conversation, "I'm an investigative reporter, and I've been in the area for quite a while. But I've
never heard of the Hildreth Mansion."

She looked at him with the same repressed smile, burningblue eyes intensely magnified behind the petite glasses. She
didn't say anything in response.

Yeah. "Where exactly is it?"

"I'd prefer not to talk about the house at this time, Mr.
Westmore. Mrs. Hildreth will be happy to tell you everything you need to know"

"But I presume she's hiring me to disclose some things
that she doesn't know"

No response as the lift ascended. Baroque muzak played
almost inaudibly from unseen speakers.

Do I need afuckin' crowbar to open your mouth so you'll talk?
"At least that's usually how it works. When somebody hires
me to write something for them, it's also to find things
out."

"You haven't been hired yet-"

I like a unman with a positive personality, came the irresistible sarcasm. Westmore shrugged it off; the cold shell was
often his turf because nobody ever really trusted a reporter.
She was probably afraid he'd dig up a lot of bad info on the
husband, or maybe even Vivica. An over-protective employee.

She turned an unmarked keyhole on the button panel as
the elevator continued to go up. Some scent off her hair
smelled intoxicating. "But don't get me wrong, I hope you
do get the job," she eventually offered. "Mrs. Hildreth is a
very complex woman obsessed with detail. It would do her
a world of good to find out exactly what happened out
there. It's unpleasant information, Mr. Westmore, but it
would at least give her some peace."

Now we're getting somewhere. The statement alone told him
a lot. "I'll do my best. I'd like to think I always do."

Westmore was looking up at the lit floor indicator. The
top floor was 39. 38 lit and went out, then 39 lit and went
out. The lift continued to rise one more floor-to what he
presumed was the penthouse-then it stopped and the
doors slipped open.

"I'll leave you now, Mr. Westmore. I hope you have a
good interview."

Westmore shook her hand. "You're not coming in?"

"No. The security guard and the housekeeper are gone, too. Mrs. Hildreth prefers to speak with you in total confidence. You never know who might overhear something and
run their mouth."

Hmm. This was getting more interesting by the minute,
and he hadn't even met the woman yet.

"I'll be waiting for you across the street at the oyster bar.
Come over there when you're done, and I'll drive you
home."

"Great, I don't have to take the trolley back. It was nice
meeting you," he said, but the scent off her hair was driving
him nuts. Honey, you are one cold stick in the mud ... but your
hair smells so good I just wanna lean back and do a rebel yell!

"See you shortly, Mr. Westmore," she said as the doors
were closing.

Wow, there's a live one. Now he faced another door that
appeared to be a composite imitation of black marble. A
gold plaque read V. HILDRETH, and above it hung the
strangest gold knocker: an oval plate depicting a morose
half-formed face. Just two eyes, no mouth, no other features. The eyes seemed to appraise him. When he raised his
hand to knock, though, the door clicked and swung slowly
open on its own.

He stepped into the foyer and found no one there. Must
be some kind of electric lock or something ...

The look of the foyer stunned him. Were the walls made
of black Plexiglas? Shiny black and white tiles composed
the floor, and the ceiling was a mirror. Wire stands housed
funky silver vases full of artificial flowers that were disproportionately large and black. Total Art Deco, Westmore
thought. A far cry from her husband.

"In here, please, Mr. Westmore."

The demure voice drifted out to him. An awesome sitting room opened out from the foyer, but there was no one sitting in any of the Warholish wire couches or chairs. Rich
blue-violet wallpaper shot up to a rounded ceiling. On one
wall hung an abstract-expressionist painting he remembered
from college art-history class: a smeared face in pastel
streaks, a face that looked hopeful and crushed and hideous
at the same time. It was called A Study of Woman Number
One by Willem deKooning, and it didn't look like a print. If
that's original, he realized, that's ten million fucking dollar
hanging on the wall.

Through a curiously narrow doorway, he saw sunlight.

"In here. I promise I won't bite."

Westmore stepped into an enclosed balcony that was
ablaze with blurred sunlight; he almost had to shield his
eyes. This is one strange place, he thought. It was not open-air
at all; instead it was completely enclosed by transparent security bricks.

"You're in the penthouse but you don't want the view of
the bay?" he asked without thinking.

The woman looking up at him was intensely pretty in a
seasoned, mature way. Late forties but well, well-kept.
Vivica Hildreth sat in one of the familiar silver-wire chairs
that appeared to hover in mid-air. Westmore expected
someone matronly but this was the opposite. Casual attire for
the rich, I guess. She sat with her legs crossed, wearing black
cashmere shorts and an intricate dark-Paisley shawl around
a black t-shirt with white block letters that read ROTHKO.
The t-shirt was knotted to expose a flat and very tan abdomen. Black flipflops with-Good Lord!-diamonds studding the straps. Finger- and toenails shined with a polish
flecked with gold leaf. Man alive, Westmore thought.

"I love the sun, Mr. Westmore," she said of the clear security blocks, "but I don't like to be seen."

"Will people see you on the fortieth floor?"

"Those awful beach planes! With the ad banners? God!"

It was an amusing comment, but ... Is she serious?
"Then how did you get the tan? A salon?"

"I have a tanning bed here." She looked at her legs, then
her arms. "It works well. And at any rate, I hope you like
my home. Most people find it refreshing."

It's a futkin' eyesore. "It's diverse and unique," he said instead. Her elegant hand bid him to sit. The wire rocked
when he put his butt down on a clear plastic pillow case full
of brightly dyed goose feathers. "And thanks for inviting
me here ... and the money, too."

"So you need money," she said rather than asked. "I guess
everybody does." Her voice was a cold yet gentle lilt. Softblonde hair hung straight to her collarbone. She sat gracefully, her face calm yet her myrtle-green eyes intense. It all
gave her an exotic cast, not an aged one; she was highbosomed, striking in her funkiness. Westmore thought of a
Lauren Hutton or a Jacqueline Bissett dressed for a Goth
club.

"I'm not poor but----"

"But you don't have a deKooning on your wall," she finished, smiling.

He chuckled. "No, ma'am, I definitely don't."

"I saw you looking at it-" An elegant finger pointed
upward, to the mirrored ceiling in the sitting room. "-in
the reflection. If you're an art enthusiast, feel free to look in
the den before you leave. It's stuffed with wonderful art."

"I'll do that," he almost stammered. This was off to an
odd start. "But your decor surprises me. The little I've read
on your late husband tells me he was quite a fan of Gothic
Revival architecture and design. Yet this is as opposite as
you can get from that."

"So you've seen the Hildreth Mansion?"

"No, I haven't. I'd never heard of it until I got your letter. But I do remember reading about something very brief
in the paper about it, when ... when the tragedy happened
several weeks ago. Murders in Prospect Hill. As I recall the
article didn't refer to the mansion by name."

"No, I paid them not too."

Her directness stilled him. Even in this day and age, the
rich had their back-channels to keep details of familial
crimes out of the limelight.

When she turned, her chair squeaked. She pointed behind him. But in the process, her pose elucidated more of
her physique, the twist of her waist which pulled the
t-shirt tighter to her bosom. Westmore-in the brief
glance-was taken by her. The crossed legs, her shorts
straining at the crotch, the breasts obviously bereft of a bra
standing out in a dizzying vision. The $20,000 flipflop
hanging off the tanned, perfectly manicured foot. Westmore felt a ludicrous arousal. Even the thread-thin lines of
her inclined waist were attractive. Some women wore
middle age well; this one wore it like a mink coat. IT bet
she paid more for plastic surgery than she did the deKooning. But
she was pointing behind him, so he had to take his eyes
away. "I'd offer you a drink but my people tell me you're
a teetotaler."

There goes one grenade. He never lied about it. "I'm an alcoholic, Mrs. Hildreth. I always will be. But I haven't had a
drink in three years." She'd been pointing to a bar stand, a
glass counter on a silver wire stand. Black shot glasses stood
in a row before bizarre, twisted bottles. "I love those shot
glasses, though."

She got up, walked as demurely as one could in ffipflops,
and picked up one of the glasses. Westmore kept stealing
glances at her physique, the meticulous lines of her shoul ders and back, the swell of her breasts. All that tight, tan
skin-shining. The butterflies in his belly were sinking to
his groin, then he snapped, What the hell is wrong with me! I'm
lusting after a woman fifteen years older than me who's also a fivelame prospect! See if you can get more unprofessional!

She smiled thinly, and placed one of the shot glasses in
Westmore's hand. "It's onyx. And I'm glad you quit drinking, I did too. It's best to redirect destructive pursuits for
pleasure ... to natural ones."

Wow, was all he could think. Yeah, you're right. I haven't
been laid in a year ... He watched the backs of her calves,
that feminine flex, as she walked back to her seat. "Thank
you for the glass. It's beautiful."

"My husband was the same way. He never drank, never
used drugs. Sex was his intoxication."

Wow, Westmore thought again. He began to say something but she cut him off.

More overt directness. "I'd like to buy your confidence,
Mr. Westmore."

Baby, it's for sale. "I can guarantee my discretion, ma'am.
This is a private job. I'm not a news hound anymore. But
I'm still not sure what you'd like me to do. You'd like to
hire me to write a book about your husband's mansion?
You want me to write his biography?"

"Nothing like that. But first I want your confidence" She
leaned over, bosom swaying, and handed him a fat envelope.