Milo said, “You’ve heard about Dr. Koppel.”
“She got murdered,” said Sheila Quick. “I read about it yesterday.”
Matter-of-fact, no emotion.
“Any thoughts about that, Mrs. Quick?”
“It’s terrible,” she said. “Everyone’s getting murdered. What a city—I’m thirsty. Would you like something to drink?”
“No, thanks, ma’am. Let me toss a few names at you. Please tell me if any of them are familiar. Anson Conniff.”
“No. Who’s he?”
“Flora Newsome?”
“No.”
“Brian Van Dyne, Roy Nichols?”
“No, no, no. Who are these people?”
“Not important,” said Milo. “Nothing you need to worry about. Thanks for your time.”
“Time,” said Sheila Quick. “I’ve got too much of that.”
CHAPTER
20
Sheila Quick turned her back on us, and we saw ourselves out.
Just before we reached the car, Milo’s cell phone beeped. He took the call, big hand concealing the little blue gizmo. “Sturgis . . . oh, hi. As a matter of fact, yes we are . . . right here, at the house . . . yes . . . that so? . . . where’s that? When? Sure, that would be fine. Thank you, ma’am, see you soon.”
He snapped the phone shut. “That was Eileen Paxton, Sheila’s ‘baby sister.’ She’s in Beverly Hills for a meeting, was planning to visit sis, drove by, saw us go in, and decided to wait until we were finished. She’d like to talk.”
“About what?”
“ ‘Family issues’ is how she put it. She’s a few blocks away, on Bedford, some Italian place, corner of Brighton.”
“Time for tiramisu,” I said.
He touched his gut and grimaced. “Even I have limits.”
“How disillusioning.”
*
The Italian place was named Pagano and it featured three wobbly outdoor tables that blocked most of its share of the sidewalk. Eileen Paxton sat at one of them, wearing a slim-cut black pantsuit and backless high-heeled sandals and sipping a café latte. She saw us, smiled, wiggled a pinkie. Her hair was trimmed shorter than a few days ago, tinted a couple of shades lighter, and her makeup was more intense. She wore diamond stud earrings and a jade necklace, looked as if she was celebrating something.
She said, “I’m so glad we could get together.”
Passersby brushed us. Milo edged closer to her, and said, “Here or inside?”
“Oh, here. I like the rhythm of the city.”
This particular city was barely a village, a precious display of conspicuous wealth. The rhythm was set by power-walking pedestrians and oversized engines belching toxins. Milo and I sat down and ordered espresso from an overly moussed waiter with drugged eyes. Eileen Paxton looked content, as if this was a quiet, restful place for al fresco dining.
She said, “How did my sister seem to you?”
Milo punted to me.
I said, “She looked a bit depressed.”
“What you need to know is that’s not all because of what happened to Gavin. Sheila’s got long-standing psychological problems.”
“Long-standing depression?”
“Depression, anxiety, difficulty coping, you name it. She’s always been moody and high-strung. I’m the baby, but I always took care of her. When she married Jerry, I had my concerns.”
“About the marriage?”
“About Sheila being able to handle marriage,” she said. She turned her head quickly, flashed teeth at Drug-eyes. “Gio, could I have some of those lovely little pistachio biscotti? Thank you, you’re a true dear.” Back to us: “To Sheila’s credit, she worked at her marriage and seemed to do okay. Even though Jerry’s no prize.”
“He’s got problems, too?”
Her squint was furious. “Jerry’s sexually predatory. Hits on anything with a vagina and, for all I know, anything with anything else. He hit on me. I’ve never told Sheila, it would’ve destroyed her and the marriage, and I didn’t want that on my conscience.”
But you’re telling us.
I said, “When did this happen?”
“A month after they were married. Barely back from their honeymoon. I was also married, and the four of us spent a weekend in Arrowhead—my first husband’s family owned a place on the lake, great place with a double dock. Everything was rolling along nicely until one day Sheila went down for a nap—she runs out of steam easily—and my then-hubby had to go to town on business—he was an investment banker. That left just Jerry and me. I went down to sun on the dock in my bikini, and a few minutes later, Jerry came by. We weren’t alone ten minutes before he made his move. And I’m not talking subtle. Hand down the bikini bottom.” She clawed her hand, made a swooping motion. “He does not have a gentle touch.”