Larkspur (17 page)

Ginger's face clouded. "Yeah, on the plane. She wants me to go out and see her--'call on
her,' for godsake, like some kind of old movie. I'm scared of her, Lark."

"What can she do to you? Dennis is a grown man, and he's the one who inherited. She
wasn't even mentioned in the will."

"That's true." Ginger brooded. "Right now Dennis is mad at her for not telling him about
his father. Dennis is so soft-hearted, though. He'll forgive her, and then what'll I do?"

"Tell Dennis to give her the townhouse and pension her off." I described Llewellyn's San
Francisco house in lavish detail to distract her. I could see the idea taking hold. It wasn't a bad
one, even from Denise's viewpoint. Besides, I couldn't imagine either Dennis or Ginger living
comfortably in a city.

A flurry of customers interrupted us. As they were leaving I happened to glance at my
watch. "Lord, it's two-thirty already. I'm supposed to go over to the hospital and visit Angharad
Peltz. Do we have any wrapping paper?"

Ginger thought taking a book to a person with a fractured skull was a weird idea, but she
helped me rustle up some white tissue paper and lace florist's ribbon left over from the opening. I
didn't have greeting cards but there were a couple of boxes of notepaper with noncommittal
pen-and-ink drawings of Mt. Shasta. No saccharine verses. I broke one of the boxes open, wrote a
get-well-soon message, and signed my name.

I didn't actually have the bad taste to give Angharad the divorce manual, though it was
what she needed. A craftsy, small-press selection of Emily Dickinson's poems seemed like a
suitable, if uninspired, gift for an English major. I wrapped the book and poked the card under
the ribbon. "Back in half an hour."

"Lark..."

"What is it?"

"Will you go with me to see Denise?"

"What...oh, no, not me. Not on your life."

"Please. Dennis says I have to see her, and she scares me."

"Make
him
go with you."

"She wants to see me alone. I mean without Dennis."

The better to eat you. "One of us has to run the store."

"Annie will be here tomorrow afternoon. We could drive out then and stay fifteen
minutes. Denise wouldn't do anything awful with you there."

I thought of Denise at the cathedral, playing to the galleries. "Don't count on it. That lady
likes an audience."

Ginger's eyes filled with tears. "Please, Lark. I'm scared."

"I'll think about it." I slid out the door and escaped.

I had had occasion to visit County Hospital. Afternoon visiting hours were two to four
and still strictly enforced. Intensive care was on the third floor. I rode up in the elevator with a
worried man in photogray glasses and an orderly pushing a cart of clean laundry.

The floor nurse informed me that only close relatives could visit intensive care patients.
That was a relief. I turned to go, but honor made me ask her where they had stashed
Angharad.

"Mrs. Peltz is stable. She's been moved to a private room." She told me the number. It
was on the second floor.

Foiled, I hung around waiting for the elevator though I could easily have trotted down a
flight of stairs. Another thought occurred to me. I went back to the nurse. "Do you have a Ted
Peltz on this floor?"

Her mouth tightened. "Are you a friend?"

"No! I just wanted to know if he'd been released."

Her mouth eased fractionally. "Two sheriff's deputies removed him before noon. He's
being kept at the county jail."

"Good. Thanks." I caught her smile as I headed for the stairs. Ted must have been a
wonderful patient.

Angharad's room lay at the end of a long corridor of two bed wards. County Hospital is
not a luxury facility, but there are a couple of private rooms available at a hefty surcharge. I
clutched my absurd gift and walked slowly. It was only three. The door to the room was open but
a blue ribbed curtain shrouded the bed. At first I thought nobody was there. Then I heard low
voices from the far side of the enclosing curtain. When I peered around the edge a man and
woman looked up, frowning almost identical frowns. I recognized Angharad's parents from the
memorial service.

I introduced myself and handed Mrs. Jones the slim packet. "For later. I know she can't
read yet."

Mrs. Jones said something polite. Mr. Jones shook hands.

The room was, naturally, filled with flowers. I spotted a large bouquet of Lydia's
delphiniums and a vase of gorgeous pink tea roses I was willing to bet were from D'Angelo.

Mrs. Jones was explaining her daughter's condition. "And they had to operate to relieve
the pressure on the brain. However, she regained consciousness this morning."

"Good. That's wonderful." Now what? "I'm awfully sorry it had to happen."

"They cut off her hair." Mr. Jones shook his head. He had tears in his eyes.

"It didn't
have
to happen," Mrs. Jones said sharply. "She could have left
him."

My words exactly. I shivered.

"Now, Ann."

"Well, it's true. I don't understand Angharad. I never did. We have three children, Miss
Dailey. The others never caused us a moment's trouble."

"Ev wrecked the BMW," Mr. Jones interposed, mild. "Be fair."

Mrs. Jones took a breath. "I am trying to hold onto my sanity here, George, and you're
talking about BMW's."

Her husband wisely said nothing.

There was a moan from the bed. Mrs. Jones opened the curtain and was at her daughter's
side in one movement. "What is it, Angie? Water?"

I looked at Angharad. Her head was swathed in a turban of gauze, and tubes dripped into
both arms. She lay still. All that I had expected. What I didn't expect were the black eyes.

Both her eyes were swollen shut. Blue and green bruises, hideous against her pale skin,
turned her face into something from a horror movie. The left side of her jaw was swollen and
bruised, too.

"They cut off her hair," her father whispered.

Angharad sighed and slipped deeper into her sleep, if it was sleep. Mrs. Jones smoothed
the coverlet and came out again, closing the curtain.

"She looks awful." A dumb thing to say, but I was shocked.

"The doctors think she'll heal without brain damage," Mrs. Jones said flatly. "But they're
not sure."

"I'm sorry." I wanted out of that room in the worst way.

"She should have left him."

I shifted from one foot to the other. "Look, that was my first reaction, too, but what if
she was trapped?"

"She could have come home."

"Could she? Maybe she didn't know that. Maybe she felt trapped." Shaky ground. I
rushed on, "Being angry is natural, but shouldn't you be mad at Ted Peltz?"

"She chose him."

"Well, he probably didn't say to her, 'Hey, I want to turn you into a punching bag.'"

"She knew he was scum." Mrs. Jones was turning her anger away from Angharad, all
right. Onto me.

I kept my mouth shut.

Mr. Jones said awkwardly, "We did warn her, you know. He wasn't her kind."

"We gave that girl every advantage," Ann Jones gritted. "And I don't just mean money.
Attention. A good, stable home. Principles. She's a graduate of Mills, for Godsake, not a high
school dropout. She threw all that down the toilet. I'm angry. I have a right to be angry."

At that point a sharp rap on the doorframe made all three of us look around. Jay was
standing just outside the room. He looked marginally better than he had that morning. His lip was
healing. The contusion had turned green. I wondered how much of the conversation he had
heard.

Mr. Jones took a step toward him. "Come in, Dodge. How's the hand? I won't offer to
shake again." He gave an uneasy laugh. "Any word?"

Jay made no social gestures except a brief nod in my direction. "Ted Peltz was charged
about half an hour ago. The judge will set bail Monday."

"Good, that's good." Mr. Jones was trying to sound hearty, but his eyes flicked from Jay
to his wife to the closed curtain.

"How is she doing?" Jay nodded toward the bed.

"Sleeping."

"I wish you'd reconsider."

"No." Mrs. Jones folded her arms across her Liz Claiborne jacket. "We're taking her
home. When she's well enough she'll file for divorce. We'll protect her. She will not be dragged
through a law court."

"Do you think it's in her interests not to press the assault charge? Psychologically..."

"I thought you said you were going to charge him."

"I have," Jay said dryly. "With aggravated assault, assaulting an officer, and resisting
arrest. But without your daughter's testimony I'll be the only witness on the aggravated assault
charge. I guarantee you he'll get a slap on the wrist, if anything, maybe six months real time on
the other charges. That will give Mrs. Peltz a breather, time to divorce him. Then he'll be out
rampaging around the country again."

"Let him." Ann Jones's jaw stuck out. "He won't get at Angie."

"Are you going to keep her prisoner the rest of her life?"

Mr. Jones made a rumbling protest.

"And what about the other women he'll victimize?"

"We're responsible for our daughter's well-being."

Jay shrugged. "Good luck. Lark?"

I went to him, and we walked to the elevator in silence. Just as the door opened Mr.
Jones caught up with us.

"Listen, Dodge, right now Ann's scared and confused. I'll talk to Angie when I can. If she
wants to press charges I'll back her."

Jay nodded.

"And I've notified the lawyers." Jones flushed. "The ones we hired for them when the
government brought the drug charges. I told Ted's attorney we wouldn't underwrite his
defense."

"A wife can't be compelled to testify against her husband."

"She can if she wants to, though."

"She'll be afraid to testify. I won't badger you, Mr. Jones, but I think she should be
encouraged to press the assault charge. If you try to pretend it didn't happen that's another way of
saying you think he had a right to bash her head in. She'll internalize that--and she'll go right on
being a victim."

"The scandal..."

"Spouse abuse is pretty wide-spread. In the best families."

Jones shook his head. "Well, we'll see. Ann doesn't want...there's this murder, too. Her
uncle was enough of an embarrassment when he was alive. Now he's dead..."

"That case is still wide open," Jay said coolly. "If it turns out that Peltz killed Llewellyn
in the belief that your daughter was going to inherit, she will be dragged through the courts.
Probably as an accessory. The sooner she distances herself from Peltz the better."

The whites of Mr. Jones's eyes were showing.

"Good afternoon." The elevator door had opened. Jay shoved me in and stepped in after
me, jabbing the Lobby button.

Neither of us said a word until we reached the parking lot.

Jay had parked the Blazer beside my Toyota. He had put his sunglasses on, and his face
looked like Mt. Rushmore. Blank and forbidding.

"They're crazy," I burst out. "How can they? Ted Peltz ought to be prosecuted to the
limit of the law. It's not right."

He didn't say anything.

"Did you expect that?"

He shrugged one shoulder. "Pretty much. They're respectable people."

"They're irresponsible morons. It's not fair to Angharad. My God, you saw her face."
That was stupid. I bit my lip.

"I'm going to go out to the house tonight, Lark. I'll call you tomorrow."

"Jay..."

"I'm out of clean shirts."

"Mother wants to meet you."

"Yes, well, later. How's the store?"

"Ginger gave me notice. She and Dennis are getting married."

He stopped with his car keys halfway to the lock. "What does Denise have to say to
that?"

"Call me tomorrow, and I'll tell you," I said coldly. "I'm supposed to chaperone Ginger
when she goes out to receive the maternal blessing."

He took off the sunglasses. His eyes were dark as a bog. "No shit? Take care of yourself,
Lark."

"Why do you say that? It's Ginger who needs backup."

"Ginger, too. That is one dangerous woman."

Having seen Denise in action at the memorial service I had to agree. All the same, Jay's
withdrawal hurt me. Had I or had I not lathered the man all over his body only that morning? "I
hope you ate something," I muttered.

"Blueberry yogurt."

"Wonderful. Goodbye." I got in the Toyota and started the engine. For once it caught
smoothly. I pulled out of the parking lot while he was still climbing into the Blazer.

I picked my mother up at half past five and showed her my apartment, refrigerator and
all. She told me I ought to buy a box of Arm and Hammer.

We had dinner at La Casa Verde. The fashion for Mexican food had transformed it from
a grimy cantina into a ferny grotto with real tablecloths. Fortunately the menu hadn't changed
much.

Ma tried the salsa, blinking back involuntary tears. It was hot stuff. "Where's Jay?"

"At the courthouse, or at his place washing shirts and eating yogurt."

"Yogurt?"

I explained the split lip and cracked ribs.

She blinked. "Inconvenient. Is he avoiding me?"

"Probably." Or me.

She brooded. I brooded. Our food came, and we poked at it. The waitress, a bubbly
blonde, asked us if something was wrong with our dinners. We reassured her.

I dipped a prawn in the spicy sauce. "Did you and Win work out a plan of action?"

Ma sighed. "We spent an hour or so talking about Dai's work. D'Angelo is
knowledgeable. Maybe I said something that led him to believe I doubted his credentials, though.
He told me a tale about Dai breaking up his marriage."

"I thought he'd probably get to that."

"You know about it?"

I described the Thursday night confessional.

Ma took a sip of Dos Equis. Beer is the appropriate libation for Mexican food unless
you're into margaritas. "I'm afraid I believed him."