He swung the door wide open, stepped aside, and let me into a large parlor with a high, cross-beamed ceiling. Heavy ruby-and-gold brocade drapes sealed the windows and plunged the space into gloom. New smells blew toward me: cologne, incense, the suggestion of fried eggs.
“Let there be light,” said Andrew Salander as he rushed over and yanked the curtains open. A cigar of downtown smog hovered above the rooftops of the buildings across the street. Exposed, the living room walls were lemon yellow topped by gilded moldings. The cross-beams were gilded as well; someone had taken the time to hand-leaf. French cigarette prints, insipid old seascapes in decaying frames, and frayed samplers coexisted in improbable alliance on the walls. Deco and Victorian and tubular-legged moderne furniture formed a cluttered liaison. A close look suggested thrift-shop treasures. A keen eye had made it all work.
Salander said, “So Mrs. A called you. Me, too. Three times in as many days. At first I thought she was being menopausal, but it has been six-plus days, and now Fm starting to get concerned about Lo myself.”
He pulled a tattered silk throw off a sagging olive velvet divan and said, “Please. Sit. Excuse the squalor. Can I get you something to drink?”
“No thanks. It’s far from squalid.”
“Oh, please.” A hand waved. “Work in progress and very little progress at work—Lo and I have been going at this since I moved in. Sundays at the Rose Bowl Swap Meet, Western Avenue, once in a while you can still find something reasonable on La Brea. The problem is neither of us has time to really give it our all. But at least it’s habitable. When Lo lived hereby herself, it was utterly bare—I thought she was one of those people with no eye, no artistic sense. Turns out she has fabulous taste—it just needed to be brought out.”
“How long have you been rooming together?”
“Six months,” he said. “I was in the building already—downstairs in Number Two.” He frowned, sat on a mock-leopard-skin ottoman, crossed his legs. “Month to month, I was supposed to move out to … Then things changed, as they so often do, and the landlord leased my space to someone else and suddenly I found myself without hearth or home. Lo and I had always had a good rapport—we used to chat at the laundromat, she’s easy to talk to. When she found out I was stuck, she invited me to move in. At first, I refused—charity’s one of many things I don’t do. But she finally convinced me two bedrooms were too much for her and I could share the rent.”
A fingertip grazed a plucked eyebrow. “To be honest, I wanted to be convinced. Being alone’s so … dark. I hadn’t . . . And Lo’s a wonderful person—and now she’s flown off somewhere. Dr. Delaware, do we need to worry? I really don’t want to worry, but I must admit, I am bothered.”
“Lauren didn’t give a clue where she was going?”
“No, and she didn’t take her car—it’s parked in her space out back. So maybe she did fly off—literally. It’s not as if she’s a Greyhound girl. Nothing slow suits her, she works like a demon—studying, doing research.”
“Research at the U?”
“Uh-huh.”
“On what?”
“She never told me, just said that between her classes and research job she had a full plate. You think that’s what might’ve taken her somewhere—the job?”
“Maybe,” I said. “No idea who she worked for?”
Salander shook his head. “We’re chums and all that, but Lo goes her way and I go mine. Different biorhythms. She’s a morning lark, I’m a night owl. Perfect arrangement—she’s bright and chirpy for classes and I’m coherent when the time rolls around for my work. By the time I wake up, she’s usually gone. That’s why it took a couple of days to realize her bed hadn’t been slept in.” He shifted uncomfortably. “Our bedrooms are our private space, but Mrs. A sounded so anxious that I did agree to peek in.”
“The right thing to do,” I said.
“I hope.”
“What kind of work do you do, Mr. Salander?”
“Andrew. Advanced mixology.” He smiled. “I tend bar at The Cloisters. It’s a saloon in West Hollywood.”