"V" is for Vengeance (9 page)

“Don't tell me about the stream,” I said, hastily. “I thought that was related to your prostate.”

“That was my first thought as well. Now I'm not so sure.”

Mentally, I squinted, trying to judge the truth value of his claim. I knew
he
believed it, but was there foundation in fact? One of these days, despite his tendency to dramatize, William was going to be afflicted with something real. “Do you have a family history of diabetes?” I asked.

“How would I know? There are only five of us left. The sibs and I take after our mother's side of the family. Her maiden name was Til-mann, hardy German stock. Our grandmother on our father's side was a Mauritz by birth. There were five other brothers and sisters who carried her genetic line. They all died within days of each other in the influenza epidemic of 1917. Who knows what health problems they'd have developed had they lived?”

“What's Rosie think about all this?”

“She has her head in the sand as usual, convinced nothing's wrong. It's right there in the
Merck
. . . every word of it . . . under ‘Endocrine Disorders,' page 1289. On the facing page, there's talk of ‘Precocious Puberty,' which I was mercifully spared.”

“I'm not sure you should consult medical texts on your own. Most of the terminology makes no sense to the average person.”

“I was a Latin scholar as a youth.
As praesens ova cras pullis sunt meliora
.”

He fixed me with a look to see if I was following. My face must have been blank because he went on to translate. “‘Eggs today are better than chickens tomorrow.'”

I let that one pass. “But what if you're misinterpreting? I mean, the doctor didn't actually
say
you were diabetic, did he?”

“He's probably giving me time to adjust. Most doctors don't want to burden a patient in the early stages. I thought he'd order additional lab work, but apparently he couldn't see the point. He told his nurse to make me an appointment for the
week after next
. It's probably going to be like that from now on.”

“Well, if Henry's home by then, he should go with you for moral support. When you're upset, you don't always hear what's being said.”

Rosie opened the swinging kitchen door and stuck her head out. “I'm make stuffed kohlrabi. Whatever you got, it's gonna fix,” she said to him. And then to me, “You gonna hev some, too, with mutton. Sauce is best I ever make.”

I took the interruption as an opportunity to retire to my favorite booth, bad wine in hand. I shrugged off my jacket and slid into the seat, hoping I wouldn't get a splinter in my butt. I pulled out my paperback and found my place, trying to look engrossed so William wouldn't follow me across the room to amplify his complaints. I was apprehensive about dinner. Rosie's Hungarian by birth and favors strange native dishes, many composed of animal organs smothered in sour cream. Earlier that week, she'd served me sautéed sweetbreads (a calf's thymus gland, if you want the offal truth). I'd eaten with my usual oinky appetite. I was mopping up the plate with half a dinner roll when she told me what it was. Thymus gland? What could I do about it when I'd already eaten it? Short of running to the ladies' room to jam a fork down my throat, I was stuck. It didn't help that I'd enjoyed it.

She appeared with my dinner plate, setting it down in front of me. She waited with her hands clasped while I tasted a small bite of meat and faked enthusiasm. She didn't seem convinced.

“Yummy,” I said. “Really. It's fabulous.”

She remained skeptical, but she had other orders coming up and she returned to the kitchen. Once she was gone, I picked up my fork and knife and started sawing away. The mutton required more work than I'd anticipated, but the effort took my mind off the sauce, which was not as sublime as she'd indicated. The kohlrabi looked like a little alien spacecraft and tasted like a cross between a turnip and cabbage, a perfect complement to the badly fermented sugar water I was using to wash it down. I wrapped a chunk of mutton in a paper napkin that I then tucked in my shoulder bag. I caught William's eye and made the universal gesture for the check. I exchanged a few parting remarks with Claudia and Drew, and then headed for home.

I was in bed by 9:00, thinking that was the end of the shoplifting episode. Silly me.

For Nora, the weekend had started on a sour note. She'd spent the early part of the week in Beverly Hills, taking care of routine appointments. She had her hair done, manicure, pedicure, massage, and her annual physical, which she was happy to have out of the way. She returned to the house in Montebello on Thursday afternoon. She and Channing had bought their second home the year before and she loved every minute of their time away. Though the new place was only a hundred miles north of their permanent residence, she felt she was traveling to another country. She could hardly wait to get there. This was a second marriage for each of them. When she and Channing met, he had shared custody of his twin girls, age thirteen. Her son was eleven. They'd decided against having children of their own, opting instead to keep life simple. Summers, all three kids would be under the same roof with them, and that was sufficient chaos, especially as puberty struck, bringing with it the squabbles, the shrieking, tears, accusations of unfairness, and doors slamming upstairs and down. While appreciating the current household peace, Nora looked back on that era with fondness. At least the family was intact, however bumptious and loud.

Channing had intended to join her Friday in time for dinner and stay until Monday morning. At the last minute, however, he'd called to say that he'd be bringing the Lows. Abner was a senior partner in Channing's law firm and one of his best friends. Meredith was Abner's second wife, the woman responsible for the breakup of his first marriage ten years before. He was a serial womanizer, currently cheating on Meredith with the woman who'd doubtless turn out to be wife number three—if she was smart and played her cards right.

Nora and Meredith had met in a Jazzercise class early in their fifteen-year friendship, and they'd loved nothing better than dishing about the various scandals in their social set. They'd bonded initially over the revelation that the wife of a pretentious bank president had had when she returned home unannounced and caught her husband cross-dressing, decked out in an Armani suit and designer heels. On another occasion, a mutual acquaintance was accused of appropriating large sums of money from the charity for which she volunteered as treasurer. Charges were filed but the case never went to trial. An agreement was reached and the business was swept under the carpet.

At least twice a year some outrageous impropriety would come to light, and the two would busy themselves trading rumors and howling with delight. Nora and Meredith had built an entire relationship on salacious gossip. This allowed the two women to compare notes, test their mutual values, and reinforce shared attitudes, to swap any number of snobbish put-downs. Not that they considered themselves snobs.

Then Meredith met Abner and within a year the two had abandoned their respective spouses. Nora and Channing had stood for them at a simple ceremony at city hall, followed by an elegant lunch at the Bel-Air Hotel. As Channing and Abner were such good friends, the two women became even closer. Nora had been a staunch support to Meredith after she'd caught Abner in the first affair. The irony wasn't lost on either one of them. They'd forged a bond based on the misfortunes of others, and Meredith's suffering now occupied front and center. Nora became her sounding board, counseling her during hour-long telephone conversations and drunken lunches, wherein Nora played life coach and marriage counselor, feeling wise and superior and above it all. Together they analyzed every nuance of Abner's infatuation with the other woman, who (to their way of thinking) was not only coarse, but had put herself in the hands of the wrong cosmetic surgeon. Problematic was the fact that Meredith loved the lifestyle Abner provided, so once she'd exhausted her emotional responses, she managed to make her peace with his infidelity. Though he never admitted to the affair, he bought her an armload of expensive jewelry and took her on a Silver Seas cruise through the Mediterranean.

With Meredith's discovery of affair number two, the same scenes played out. A renewed cycle of tears, rage, and vows of revenge continued during the next few months. Nora found herself bored, though it took her a while to admit it to herself. She wanted to be loyal and sympathetic, but the drama soon became tedious, and she was impatient with the ineffectual anguish and spite. Meredith would never file for divorce so why make such a big deal of it? The breaking point was when Meredith made a scene at a dinner party where the other woman was in attendance. The hostess quickly put a stop to Meredith's drunken catcalling, but not before she'd made a thorough fool of herself. This offended Nora, who thought Meredith's conduct was unseemly and unbecoming. Regardless of the righteousness of Meredith's position, there was the matter of etiquette. In their social circle, everybody was supposed to be too well-bred to expose any unhappiness to public view. Whatever their marital status, whether delirious or disaffected, couples were expected to maintain at least a
facade
of amicability. No sniping, no zingers, no hostility expressed as teasing or bantering. Nora realized that Meredith had become hooked on playing victim because she loved to occupy center stage. Nora confided this sentiment in a candid conversation with a mutual friend, a moment of openness that turned out to be a miscalculation on her part. She knew it was indiscreet to pass along information she should have kept to herself, but the other woman had brought it up and Nora couldn't resist. Somehow Meredith had gotten wind of it, and she and Nora had had a huge falling-out. Over time they'd mended their fences, but Nora was uncomfortably aware of having failed her friend and was therefore happier keeping her at a distance.

Channing had invited them up once before without consulting Nora, and she had bitten her tongue. She'd spent two days walking on eggshells, and once Abner and Meredith were out the door, she'd made her feelings known. “Jesus, Channing, the last thing in the world I want is her unloading on me. I feel sorry for her, but I don't want to be in the position of having to commiserate. If you can avoid inviting them again I'd be grateful.”

This had apparently annoyed him, though his tone of voice was light. “Just because you and Meredith had a parting of the ways doesn't mean Abner and I should be penalized.”

“It's not a question of
penalizing
anyone. You have to admit it's uncomfortable, knowing what Abner's up to. I mean, what if she asks me outright? What am I supposed to say?”

“What he does and how she feels about it is none of our business.”

“Maybe not, but the man's a shitheel.”

“Agreed, now let's drop the subject, please.”

From that point on, Nora had kept her observations to herself.

She had no way to guess if Meredith knew about affair number three, and this put her in the awkward position of editing her words. She didn't like keeping secrets. Even though the friendship had cooled she was conflicted. Should she raise the issue or not? If Meredith already knew about the liaison and Nora mentioned it, the weeping and hand wringing would erupt and the weekend would be shot. By the same token, if Meredith was in the dark and Nora failed to alert her, she'd be setting herself up for recriminations:
Why didn't you tell me? How could you have let me go on when you knew what was happening?

Nora made sure the housekeeper, Mrs. Stumbo, readied the guest room, setting out fresh flowers, distilled water in a crystal carafe with matching glasses, and two sets of Egyptian cotton towels folded together and tied with color-coordinated satin ribbon. Though it was April, evenings were still chilly, and she made sure all the fireplaces were laid with wood. Meals might be a problem. She and Channing had recently lost their personal chef, and Mrs. Stumbo couldn't be counted on to cook for the four of them. Nora checked the freezer, where she still had several dishes the chef had prepared before she left their employ “to pursue other goals.” She'd actually jumped ship in order to work for another couple in Montebello, who'd offered a thousand dollars more a month. Nora had bid the chef a fond farewell and cut the couple from their social list.

She decided she'd thaw the casserole of
boeuf bourguignon
and serve it that night with salad, french bread, and berries for dessert. Saturday night, she'd make reservations for the four of them for dinner at the country club. She wrote out a grocery list and sent Mrs. Stumbo off for items to cover breakfasts on Saturday and Sunday mornings and one lunch. Abner would insist on reciprocating their hospitality, taking them out for a meal on Sunday, and that would be that. The Lows would be on their way back to Bel Air by 2:00, and with luck she and Channing would have Sunday evening to themselves.

She'd hoped he'd arrive first so she could find out from him what, if anything, Meredith knew about Abner's latest fling. She wanted to be in the proper frame of mind so she could play her part. She also wanted to chide him for springing guests on her at the last minute when he knew she'd been looking forward to time alone. She'd have to underplay any suggestion of criticism. If Channing started feeling defensive, he'd trot out that little-boy-pouting act of his. He had a knack for sounding pleasant when he was actually being chilly and withdrawn. As it turned out, the opportunity for conversation didn't present itself because Channing and the Lows arrived at the same time. First his car then theirs pulled into the courtyard, and from that point on she had no chance to quiz him. Her irritation was quickly dispelled by cocktails and conversation. Who could hold on to a bad mood in the presence of expensive wine?