She was experiencing a grief of sorts.
“I guess he didn’t have a good life,” she said. The ocean was blue and lazy. Yesterday a sea lion had walked out of the surf, ignoring Spike’s rage and begging for food before waddling back in. Today, no signs of life on the beach, not even birds.
“No, he didn’t,” I said.
“I guess I should feel sorry for him—I wish I could feel something other than relief.”
“Right now, relief makes sense.”
“Yes . . . the way he spoke to me. After his words, Graydon-Jones’s gun seemed almost silly. That’s how I got the courage.”
She stared at the water. “I suppose he was a prisoner as much as anyone. Fate, biology, whatever. . . . I’m a part of him—genetically.”
“That troubles you?”
“I suppose I’m worried some of him is in me. If I ever have kids . . .”
“If you ever have kids, they’ll be great.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because you’re a kind, caring person. He elevated selfishness to an art form, Lucy. No one would ever accuse you of being selfish. You almost lost your life because you’re not selfish.”
“Whatever. . . . So, I guess it’s over.”
My acquiescent smile was a lie. Her mourning of Puck had been cut short prematurely. I still didn’t understand why she’d put her head in the oven. Still didn’t know if the Bogettes or anyone else were out to get her. Maybe, with the dream out of her head, we could find the missing pieces.
“So,” she said, touching her purse. “Guess I really don’t have anything to talk about right now.”
“Tired?”
“Very.”
“Why don’t you go home and catch up on your rest.”
“Think I will—only thing is, Ken wants to go places and I don’t want to hurt his feelings.”
“What kinds of places?”
“Palm Springs, San Diego . . . Driving around. He’s a nice guy, but—”
“But you want to be alone,” I said.
“I don’t want to reject him, but—this is terrible, I know—but sometimes he’s cloying.”
“Wanting too much too fast?”
“What should I do?”
“Explain to him that you need some time alone. He should understand.”
“Yes,” she said. “He should.”
Milo called later that day. “Thought I’d give you some bits and pieces. Lowell’s Mercedes was left in the long-term lot at Burbank Airport, so Ms. Nova probably flew the coop.”
“Can’t blame her.”
“We’re lifting prints from the house tomorrow, see if we can find out who she is. We can live without her testimony, but it wouldn’t hurt to have it so we can add an assault-with-intent-to-kill to Graydon-Jones’s trouble. We did locate Doris Reingold at her son’s in Tacoma; police up there are watching her till she comes down next week. And Gwen Shea’s lawyer called to let us know Tom phoned her from Mexico. Hanging out with his buddy—midlife crisis, casting off responsibilities. Supposedly, he begged Gwen for forgiveness, promised to fly back tomorrow. All three of them are being treated as material witnesses, no charges. The major good news is that Graydon-Jones is sticking to his guns on App—asshole finally figured out you can’t share a sleeping bag with a cobra. App’s lawyer is screaming and yelling, trying to void App’s confession; the DA says there’s a better-than-even chance it’ll be ruled admissible. Major good news number two is that the feds are finishing up their bookkeeping on Mr. A, and he’s got close to twenty mil in assets that can be snatched. So all in all he’s in trouble.”
“Still in prison?”
“Languishing.”
“No pesto and arugula?”
“Oh, sure. And for dessert, they can move him into general pop. Find him a four-hundred-pound roommate named Bubba, see what cooks up then.”
CHAPTER
49
The next day I received a package from Englewood, New Jersey. Inside was a blue binder containing two hundred neatly typed photocopied pages. Taped to the front cover was a piece of white stationery with Winston Mullins, M.D. on the letterhead.
A handwritten note read:
This is Darnel’s book. Hope you like it, W.M.
I read half. Clunky in places, but talent and grace shone through in others. The story line: a young man, half white, half black, makes his way through the academic and literary worlds, trying to define his identity through a series of jobs and sexual dalliances. Expletives, but no violence. The bride in question: art.