The Night Visitor (16 page)

Rory crumpled the letter and tossed it onto the pile of dead flowers. “Is there no end to the supply of stupid young girls in this world? Is there a hatchery somewhere that keeps spitting them out? She’s idolizing a narcissistic and manipulative woman who came to a violent and early end.”

Tom remained silent as he looked at her.

“I know I sound like a bitch, talking about my murdered sister that way. I don’t even know who she was at the end. Finding out she had secrets makes me wonder about every conversation I had with her as an adult. Was she ever straight with me or was it all a lie?”

“Honey, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before about being at Anya’s house. It was so long ago.”

She waved dismissively. “I don’t care about that. I don’t know why I ever felt guilty for not visiting Anya’s grave.” She held her arms wide, indicating the scene. “No reason to. She’s still getting plenty of attention. My mom never even comes here.”

“You feel guilty because you’re a sweet and caring person.”

“And my mom’s not.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“That’s because
you’re
a sweet and caring person. My mom is Evelyn Langtry in capital letters. Former sex kitten who reinvented herself as an overbearing stage mother to supermodel Anya and reinvented herself again as a socialite, philanthropist, and survivor of personal tragedy. Anya’s murder gave my mom’s life the gravitas it was missing. Without that, she’d merely be a self-absorbed, faded beauty who managed to marry well before she hit the wall.”

Tom again took her hand. His eyes were sad.

“My mom has gotten better since Anya’s murder. You can’t help but be changed by something like that. It’s drawn me and my mom closer. When Anya was alive, her glare was so bright I felt like Mom couldn’t even see me. Seems odd now, but for years Mom and I barely visited except for holidays or an occasional Sunday dinner at the villa. Anya would come sometimes, on the arm of her true-love-of-th
e-moment. We’d stand around that cold ballroom with that portrait of Boo staring down and make awkward conversation, perpetuating the ruse that we were a family.”

Rory shivered. “After Anya was murdered, my grudge against my mother just got too heavy to carry. So, I let it go.”

“Now I understand why you chose to stay with your aunt and uncle even after your mom married Richard.”

“Chose to?” Rory turned to look at him. “I was
ordered
to stay with my aunt and uncle.”

He frowned. “That’s not the story you told me.”

“That’s not the story I’ve told anyone. I guess we all have secrets. I wanted to move to the villa. What teenager wouldn’t? My aunt and uncle’s house was cramped, and I wanted to finally live with my mom. And I really wanted to go to the Polytechnic School, a fancy private school in Pasadena. I was only thirteen, but I was already thinking about my future. No one else was. Being a Poly grad would have helped me get into a top college. But my mom was traveling with Anya a lot and there was no one at the villa to watch over me. Mom said that she was working on me still living with my aunt and uncle in Temple City but going to Poly, with Richard paying for it, of course.”

“But you didn’t go to Poly.”

“Anya made the final decision.” Rory stared at the headstone. “She told me she didn’t want me at Poly or anywhere near her. She didn’t want me to be part of her new life.”

“That’s harsh.”

“I was crushed. Anya and I were best friends as kids. She truly was my big sis. She was bigger, stronger, and more aggressive. I was pale and skinny, and I always had a runny nose or an earache. Anya watched over me. If any of the kids messed with me, they had to deal with her. And I had her back. Did her homework most of the time.”

She stretched out her legs on the grass and leaned back onto her hands. “We felt that all we had was each other. Even though my Aunt Donna and Uncle Dave treated us like their own, it couldn’t take away Anya’s and my feelings of being abandoned. Mom would breeze in and out. We’d see her on Christmas and our birthdays, maybe. She’d usually just send expensive gifts.”

Rory looked up to watch two squirrels chasing each other across the tree branches. “I was the practical one. Anya was the dreamer. She always wanted to be a model. At four years old, she’d dress up and pretend she was on the catwalk at a fashion show. She got her break when Mom married Richard. Mom’s acting jobs were drying up. She had all the time and money in the world to devote to Anya’s career.

“As soon as Anya started modeling professionally, she changed. It was as if all the attention stoked her narcissism. Instead of her being my protector, I became bait for her. That sweet side of her seeped out until all that was left was this cold, brittle, beautiful shell.”

“The attitude that sold a zillion magazines.”

“I’ll never forget the day I started to hate my sister.” Rory sat up and looked at Anya’s grave, her gaze darkening. “It was August, a few days after our fourteenth birthday. School was out. I was hoping to enroll in Poly that fall. Mom said it was in the works. She’d sent me a birthday gift of clothes—all of them practical and boring. There was only one thing I’d wanted for my birthday and she hadn’t bought it for me. It was a pair of red boots made of soft leather in this slouchy style that was popular at the time, with a zipper up the back. I’d seen them in a Barneys catalogue. My mother usually sent her gifts, so I was on the mailing lists of all the high-end retailers. The boots were pricey, but Mom was always buying Anya things like that.

“That day, Uncle Dave had asked me to weed his vegetable garden. He was going to pay me ten dollars. That’s where I was, by the fence in the back, dirty, hot, and sweaty, when here comes Anya strolling across the garden, picking her way around the tomato cages and zucchini vines, dressed to the nines. I was surprised to see her, all right. She never came by anymore. But it wasn’t just that. She was wearing the boots I wanted.

“I’m on the ground, a trowel in my hand, my eyes level with the boots. She started talking in this flip manner that she’d taken on. ‘I had Richard’s driver bring me over. Mom and I are off to New York. I’m shooting a spread for
Vogue
. I don’t have much time, but I came to tell you something. You can’t live in the villa. I don’t want you at the Polytechnic School either.’ ” Rory’s eyes welled and her voice wavered. “She said, ‘I don’t want you around me. Just stay away from me. Get it?’ Then she spun on her heel and marched off.” Rory wiped away tears. “My heart was broken.”

Tom reached to put his arm around her, but she climbed onto her knees and crawled to Anya’s headstone.

“Daughter, sister, friend, my ass.”

She picked up the bottle of champagne and brought it down against the granite. It broke with a wet sound, the champagne spilling across the stone and onto the grass. Rory’s sobs choked her and she gasped for breath.

Tom reached for her but stopped, letting her release her rage.

She picked up the champagne flute and threw it against the headstone where it shattered. A sliver of glass flew into the soft part of her arm. She furiously pulled it out, the thread of blood that appeared only inciting her fury.

Tom gently touched her. She shrugged her shoulders, tossing him off. She grabbed the bouquet she’d brought and tore up the roses, grunting and crying. “Why did you really hire Junior to paint that nude of you? Why did you even bother with him? You said he was low class. A
painter
with dirty hands. You were always messing with my life, making sure you were on top. Were you pregnant by him?”

She flew at the grave and pulled off the junk, throwing it every which way. She tore at the grass, threw clumps at the headstone, and smeared dirt onto her face when she wiped her tears. “Junior was mine. He was
mine.
Did you have to have everything? You had it all already. You had it all, you had it all…”

Tom was dazed. He gathered himself and again approached her. “Rory, it’s going to be okay. Come on, sweetheart.”

She stopped ripping up the grass and fell forward, her cheek against the ground, her palms stretched flat over where her sister’s body lay. She shook with each sob.

She rolled back onto her knees and pressed her soiled hands against her face. After a few minutes, her crying subsided.

Tom folded his handkerchief so the clean side was out and handed it to her. She blew her nose, laughing at the mud that came off onto the cloth.

He rubbed her back, hoping it was over. “Feeling better?”

She looked at the mess and started laughing louder, her laughter bubbling almost hysterically. She leaned back and roared at the sky.

Tom didn’t know what to do.

Slowly she calmed down. “I guess I went out of my head.” She folded his handkerchief, taking her time.

“Seems like you got some things off your chest.”

She nodded and glanced at him from a corner of her eye. “You know, I loved Junior Lara, but that was a long time ago. I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you. I want you to know that.”

He took her in his arms. “I know.”

She gasped when she looked at her watch. She’d lost track of the time. It was an hour and a half past the six-hour mark when she usually had the choking dream. She considered how she was feeling. She was drained, but her mind was quiet. Her thoughts were her own. The scratchy TV playing in the back of her mind was gone. Had she done it? Had she expelled the demon?

She closed her eyes and snuggled against Tom, savoring the feeling of peace.

He held her more tightly. “You okay?”

“I feel great.”

He smiled at her. “That makes me happy.”

“I love you, Tom, with all my heart and all my soul. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

They kissed and then sat quietly, looking at each other.

She said, “You know what? I’m hungry.”

“I never thought those words would sound so sweet. What do you want to eat?”

“Everything. And lots of it.”

35

“Mother of God.”

Fermina Lara gave her daughter a scorching look. “Sylvia, you’re cursing now?”

“Look who’s here. Why am I surprised?”

Leland Declues was standing in the doorway to Junior’s room. “Good afternoon.” He seemed confused by their gloves, masks, and gowns.

“You need to cover yourself,” Sylvia said. “Go to the cart by the door.”

He did so and entered the room, taking in Mr. Patyk and unable to completely hide his shock at the sight of Junior. He quickly looked away from the shrunken human on the bed and extended his gloved hand to Junior’s mother. “Mrs. Lara? I’m Leland Declues. I’m a friend of the Tate family.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Declues.” She warmly shook his hand.

He held his hand toward Sylvia. “And Mrs. Torres…”

Sylvia raised her hand, precluding contact. “He’s their lawyer, Mom.”

Remembering the advice posted on the sign outside the door, Leland turned his attention to Junior. “Hello, Junior. I’m Leland.”

Fermina ran the backs of her fingers down Junior’s cheek. “He’s sleeping. He hasn’t been well.”

“Shocking, huh?” Sylvia indicated Junior with a tilt of her head. “While the Tates are having cocktails at their members-only clubs, we’re here.”

“Mrs. Torres, I sympathize with your pain and everything your family has gone through, but the Langtry and Tate families are not out socializing. They also have much to grieve.”

Leland examined Junior’s art on the walls, pausing at the nude of Rory.

“Those are all copies,” Sylvia said.

“Makes sense.” Leland turned to her. “You don’t want to leave anything of value in a patient’s hospital room.”

“That’s true, but the real reason the originals are gone is because we had to sell most of them to pay Junior’s hospital bills.”

“The nude that Junior painted of Anya, was that sold too?” Leland asked.

“The police are still keeping it as evidence,” Sylvia said. “People still call, wanting to buy it, even though it’s cut up. I’ve always wondered why anyone would think that my brother would knife his own painting. Maybe when Junior’s…gone we can get it back. Probably be worth even more then. Why do you ask? Are you looking to buy a Junior Lara painting?”

Leland’s cheeks colored. “The reason of my visit—” Leland opened his briefcase and took out a sheaf of papers.

Sylvia said, “We’re not dropping our lawsuit.”

“—is to make an offer that hopefully will ease your burden and bring you a bit of comfort. The Langtry and Tate families would be honored to pay for Danny’s funeral—”

Fermina stepped forward, shielding Junior’s view. “He can hear us. I won’t have this talk in front of him.”

Leland looked at Junior like one might eye a dog that had just spoken English.

Fermina took Leland’s arm and led him into the corridor. Sylvia followed.

Fermina spoke in a low voice. “Junior doesn’t know about Danny. Mr. Declues, Junior is dying.”

Sylvia looked at her mother with surprise. It was the first time she’d heard her admit that Junior’s days were short.

Fermina said, “Junior’s heart is troubled. I can tell. He doesn’t want to pass from this earth with this stain upon himself and his family. Our Lord knows the truth, but it’s our job to show the truth here on earth. Danny tried to help Junior, but he did it the wrong way. Will you help us?”