P.J. Morse - Clancy Parker 01 - Heavy Mental (12 page)

“Just like your father—thinking of the bottom line,” she said.

I know Mom meant it as a compliment, but I never liked being compared to my dad. So I changed the subject. “What do you know about the maids?” I asked.

Mom rolled her neck from side to side and sighed like a kitten. She was always relaxed after an appointment with Hans. “Her maids have been leaving, and she wants to find out why. It’s her nasty husband, if you ask me. He probably propositioned them, and, if I were propositioned by that man, I’d take off, too.”

I weighed what I should tell her and what I shouldn’t. Sabrina didn’t want anyone to know she lost that necklace, but I had to tell Mom just enough to get an introduction to the mysterious Dr. Redburn. “Okay—there’s another side to the story.”

Mom’s eyes flashed, and she coiled up. She wasn’t relaxed anymore. Gossiping about friends was a highlight of her day. “I knew it! It’s that husband, isn’t it?”

“Actually, no. She wants me to check out her psychiatrist.”

Mom looked disappointed and relaxed again. “Well, Sabrina could use a shrink, and a good one. Who is the shrink?”

“Dr. Redburn.”

“Mr. Popular! I thought of seeing him myself.”

“You don’t need a shrink. You have Hans.”

“That’s true,” Mom said, and smiled. “But everyone else has a shrink or an analyst, and many women love that Dr. Redburn.”

“Why?” I asked. “Do you know him?”

“Kind of. I’ve met him once, and I hear he’s fabulous! I can’t even get an appointment with him!”

“What is it that makes him so fabulous?” I asked. “I don’t get it. His book talks about people getting in touch with their emotions or some such crap.”

Mom shrugged. “It’s just a return of that primal scream stuff. It’s like the leggings of psychology. It’s come back with a vengeance.”

“Screaming? How is that going to help anyone?”

Mom said, “Look, a lot of my friends want to scream at their husbands, but they can’t. Or, if they do, their husbands don’t care. They just want someone to listen to them. Dr. Redburn could claim he’s receiving transmissions from Mars, and women would love it as long as he’s a good listener. What woman doesn’t want a pretty face listening to her?”

I was surprised that Mom was speaking about a psychiatrist as if he were a promising blind date. Then again, if Mom’s bones weren’t exactly resilient, her spirit was like a trampoline. She didn’t take anything too seriously. She would tell me how she took a lot of crap for being new money on old-money Cape Cod and how my father’s family never really accepted her. But, when it seemed like she was sad about it, she would just let out this ringing laugh and make herself a drink. A few minutes later, she’d wind up with a sprained ankle, as if her body showed what her heart didn’t.

“Well, Sabrina wants me to check this Redburn guy out.” Then I fibbed and left out the necklace. “She wants me to go undercover as a patient to make sure he’s trustworthy.”

Mom rolled her eyes. “She is so paranoid. I remember when she called me after running out on you. She kept asking, ‘Are you sure she’s legitimate?’ You’re my daughter, for God’s sake! And now you have to vet her shrinks? And her maids?”

“I’m already vetting the maids,” I sighed. I thought of Rosa. While I wasn’t sure about any of the other maids at the Buckner residence, she seemed perfectly innocent.

“I hope she’s paying you well. And people say I’m high-maintenance!”

“Well, Ms. High-Maintenance, I am here to ask you for a favor, since you are the undisputed queen of introductions … and I need to meet this shrink …”

Mom grinned. Her eyes lit up. This was the first time I let her get actively involved in a case beyond a referral. “Say no more, darling! Mama can take care of everything!”

CHAPTER 16

PACKAGE DEAL

T
RUE TO HER WORD,
M
OM
set up the perfect opportunity for me to brush up against Dr. Redburn. Kit Parker Whitman never could resist a gallery opening, and she had spotted Dr. Redburn at several of them, sometimes as an escort for his patients. That night, she had plans to attend an elite sneak preview of a career retrospective at the San Jose Museum of Art. All the big donors were invited, and Dr. Redburn was expected to be there.

I felt confident about seeing Dr. Redburn without being called out as a private eye. Mom swore up and down that she could keep any of her pals who used my services at bay. If I was going to get an appointment and look for that necklace, Mom was my only option.

I spent an hour choosing an outfit, doing my makeup, and scenting myself. When I saw myself in the mirror, I barely recognized the pretty redhead in the little black cocktail dress, pearls, and strappy heels. I admitted to myself that I had probably gone overboard, but I decided to have a little fun.

Mom’s driver honked, and I flounced downstairs. Harold leaned out his kitchen door, whistled, then said, “Seducing your prey is one way to do it, huh?”

“Don’t stay up!” I called back as the driver opened the door.

My mom applauded me as I entered. “I should tell your father! You look like a queen!”

I bumped my head as I climbed into the backseat. “I sure wish I had the grace of one. Anyway, please don’t tell Dad. He’ll start expecting me to dress this way all the time.”

“Oh, please. When is the last time I spoke to your father?” Pulling a flask out of her handbag, Mom asked, “Want a little?”

“Don’t mind if I do!” I said. I took a swig, gasped slightly when the bourbon went down my throat, and said, “I forgot to tell you. I almost got killed yesterday.”

Mom took a bigger second swig and patted her hand on her chest. “My god! Are you in trouble?”

“I am if you see any ice-cream trucks lurking outside the San Jose Museum of Art. Some jackass stole my neighbor’s truck, and he tried to wipe me and Harold out.”

“Wait! Who do you think it was? A little hint, a clue? Does it have to do with your latest investigation?” After the initial shock, she seemed excited by the news. Mom definitely wasn’t the type of parent who worried.

I looked out the window at the scenery along Interstate 280. “Be patient. All you need to know is that I want a visit with the good doctor.”

“I thought you just needed to do a background check on him. Has he been a bad boy?” She snickered. “He’s an awfully good-looking man. Have you seen him? Phew!”

“Oh, yeah, I saw the picture on his book. Not bad.”

Mom waved her flask in a toasting gesture. “You’re so lucky! I wish I got paid to flirt, too!” She giggled and patted her legs like a little girl. I thought she saw the driver, a plump, middle-aged man whose Bible was resting on the passenger seat, look back in alarm.

When Mom and I entered the San Jose Museum of Art, the floor of the museum was jammed with potential donors, and the scene was far more crowded than I expected. Everyone was enjoying the abundant free food and wine that would eventually separate said donors from their wallets.

In this atmosphere, Mom bloomed like a flower watered by bourbon. “Darling!” she exclaimed. “This is what I live for!” She promptly saw a friend from her crowd and began to achieve her apparent goal of exchanging air-kisses with anyone within a one-mile radius.

If Mom had asked me, I would have declared that everyone in the museum’s grand hall—from rich to poor, from old to young, from Botoxed to dewy-skinned—were trying far too hard to see and be seen. I separated from Mom and moved from canvas to canvas at the museum, only slightly interested in the retrospective of a Bay Area figurative artist who liked to paint life-sized silhouettes of curvy women and muscle-bound men running in front of fake advertising billboards. I wasn’t sure if the artist was making a commentary on consumerism or if he just liked to hang around nude models. For a moment, I thought all these massive shadows were running toward me. Then I realized maybe that was Mom’s bourbon at work.

While the painter stood on a dais to thank his audience, I searched for Craig Redburn’s face in the crowd. The painter was a dumpy, pot-bellied, middle-aged man, and most of the other men at the museum who were Dr. Redburn’s age were equally dumpy and pot-bellied. Many of them wore black berets and Cosby sweaters, so, if the good doctor looked half as handsome as his jacket picture and my mom’s praise suggested, he would have stuck out like a blob of neon green on a black canvas. After strolling around the room in search of Dr. Redburn, I caught some of the elderly artistes ogling me, and I began to think of the doctor as a life raft.

Meanwhile, Mom was mingling with the socialites who were listening to the curators with only one ear about how wonderful their names would look stamped into a stair of the San Jose Museum of Art, just one of the possible perks depending on the size of their donation. Dr. Redburn wasn’t among the potential donors, either. I caught Mom’s eyes, and Mom scratched her head and shrugged in response.

My eyes wandered from Mom and the stairway embossed with the names of the most generous donors to a gazebo that had been awkwardly wedged into the courtyard entrance. The gazebo was a recent addition and thoroughly out of place compared to the rest of the sleek museum. The little hut was green and leafy, while everything else was marble and stone, and white plastic sealed off the open spaces one would expect in a gazebo.

The event caterers had laid out buffet tables full of food, along with a bar, in the main hall. Since the booze and food were in such close proximity, the gazebo seemed a logical place to hang out while drinking and eating. A few already-wobbly patrons were happily taking their cocktails and hors d’oeuvres inside. I could see a little through the entrance, and I thought I saw a tall man with black hair.

Bypassing the cocktails, I cut straight to the gazebo entrance, sliding my way past two pompadoured art students who were busy calling every painting around them “anemic” and “apolitical.”

Once I was inside, I understood why the gazebo was walled off. Images of three city skylines—Seattle, San Francisco, and New York—had been printed on the plastic, but shiny plastic leaves sat in piles on the edges of the gazebo floor. A few college-aged kids threatened to jump into the small piles, but the lone security guard would bark at random intervals, “DON’T TOUCH THE ART!”

One of the art students said, “Isn’t this exhibit is about the decay of cities? We’re just giving it more meaning by jumping in the leaves!”

The security guard replied, “DON’T TOUCH THE ART!”

By the brightest yellow leaves stood my quarry, musing upon the San Francisco skyline. His shoulders were square and broad, and I could see thick muscles through the sleeves of his shirt.

I had rehearsed my approach all afternoon, but I was still nervous. I was going to play the socialite’s daughter with a vague psychological malaise, and I—or at least Mom—had the cash to pay someone to listen to me. If he had heard about my day-job, there was no reason for him to know that Sabrina Norton Buckner had ever consulted me.

I still felt like an adolescent fan when I moved in close and chirped, “Your book changed my life!”

The doctor turned slowly from the skyline. His face seemed softer and less craggy in person, and he had a few gray hairs around his temples. He also wore the pleased, but restrained look of an artist in the presence of his fans. I knew that look well, as I had worn it several times among fans after my own shows. It was a look that concentrated on the fan but occasionally darted away to see what else was on the horizon.

“I’m so sorry to bother you,” I stammered. “But I had to let you know. I didn’t expect to see you here. I only finished your book a few days ago, and it was absolutely mind-blowing …”

Before Redburn responded, I noticed something else promising. His face lit up with just a few kind words. He was a sucker for praise.

“Thank you, Miss -”

“Parker. Clancy Parker. My mom—oops, Kit Whitman—sometimes takes me along to openings. I don’t know if you’ve met her, you probably haven’t heard of her …”

Of course he had. But I was sending a not-so-subtle message that I was a fan who had money. Dr. Redburn got the memo, and he suddenly looked much more interested in what I had to say. He stopped looking away and kept his eyes on mine. “I do know your mom! She’s not a patient, but I’ve seen her at events like this. You really look like her. I definitely think it’s the eyes.”

I felt a little too giddy after Dr. Redburn noticed my eyes. Perhaps it was the bourbon in Mom’s car or the small glass of wine I drank while tracking him down. From all indications, he liked looking at me, and I found myself wanting him to keep looking at me. Dr. Redburn had a swagger. I understood why the ladies flocked to him.

I realized I was blushing and nearly kicked myself. I had a moment of relief when a tall woman with wild, curly blonde hair and a flowing, spangly silver robe squealed, “Oh, Doctor Craig!” and swooped upon him, nearly knocking him back into the art installation.

The guard yelled, “DON’T TOUCH THE ART!”

The woman barely noticed since she was busy throwing herself upon Dr. Redburn, enfolding him in her robe. I felt bad for him since she smelled strongly of baby powder and sweat.

Dr. Redburn stiffened up, and he responded, “Peggy! So good to see you outside the office!” He hugged her back, and I tried not to be in the way, but I noticed that the doctor still kept his eyes on my face, not on his patient.

Dr. Redburn then effortlessly shifted Peggy to his left and introduced us. “And, Peggy, this is Clancy Parker—she’s Kit Whitman’s daughter.”

I said, “Pleased to meet you, Peggy.” I was thrilled that he remembered my name, but I immediately berated myself precisely because I was so thrilled.

Peggy looked at me and blinked slowly, as if she were trying to remember where she’d seen me before. She extended a bejeweled hand to me. It seemed like many of Dr. Redburn’s clients liked wearing their jewelry in public. Then she gasped, “Ah! Kit’s daughter! You know, I’ve been trying to get your mother to see this fabulous doctor for the longest time!”