“Is part of that the memory loss?”
“Yes,” she said. “What makes it hard is he can never predict where the losses will occur. Sometimes he can remember the most inconsequential things, then he’ll tnrn around and forget his own birthdate. Or he’ll blank out on someone altogether, maybe someone he’s known all his life. That’s one of the reasons he’s seeing Leo Kleinert. To help him cope with the personality changes.”
“He told me Kitty was seeing Dr. Kleinert, too. Was that for the anorexia?”
“Kitty’s been impossible from the first.”
“Well, I gathered that much. What was it about?”
“Ask Derek. I’m the wrong person to consult about her. I did try, but I don’t give a damn anymore. Even this business tonight. I know it sounds cruel, but I can’t take it seriously. She does it to herself. It’s her life. Let her do anything she wants as long as it doesn’t affect the rest of us. She can drop dead for all I care.”
“It looks like her behavior affects you whether you like it or not,” I ventured carefully. This was clearly touchy stuff and I didn’t want to antagonize her.
“I’m afraid that’s true, but I’ve had it. Something’s got to change. I’m tired of playing games and I’m sick of watching her manipulate Derek.”
I shifted the subject slightly, probing a question I’d been curious about. “You think the drugs were actually hers?”
“Of course. She’s been stoned since she walked in my front door. It’s been such a bone of contention between Derek and me I can hardly speak of it. She’s ruining our relationship.” She closed her mouth and composed herself, then said, “What makes you put it that way?”
“About the drugs? It seems odd to me, that’s all,” I said. “I can’t believe she’d leave them in her bed-table drawer in a Ziploc bag for starters and I can’t believe she’d have pills in that quantity. Do you know what that stuff is worth?”
“She has an allowance of two hundred dollars a month,” Glen said crisply. “I’ve argued and cajoled until I’m blue in the face, but what’s the point? Derek insists. The money comes out of his own account.”
“Even so, it’s pretty high-level stuff. She’d have to have an incredible connection somewhere.”
“I’m sure Kitty has her little ways.”
I let the subject pass and made a mental note for myself I’d recently made the acquaintance of one of Santa Teresa High School’s more enterprising drug dealers and he might be able to identify her source. He might even be her source, for all I knew. He’d promised me he’d shut down his operation, but that was like a wino promising to buy a sandwich with the dollar you’d donated in good faith. Who were we trying to kid here?
“Maybe we should let it go for now,” I said. “I’m sure this day has seemed long enough. I’d like to have the name and telephone number of Bobby’s old girl friend if you have it, and I’ll probably want to talk to Rick’s parents, too. Can you tell me how to get in touch with them?”
“I’ll give you both numbers,” she said. She got up and crossed to a little antique rosewood desk with pigeonholes and tiny drawers along the top. She opened one of the large drawers below and took out a monogrammed leather address book.
“Beautiful desk,” I murmured. This was like telling the Queen of England she has nice jewels.
“Thank you,” Glen said idly, while she leafed through the address book. “I bought it at an auction in London last year. I’d hesitate to tell you how much I paid for it.”
“Oh, give it a whirl,” I said, fascinated. I was getting giddy hanging out with these people,
“Twenty-six thousand dollars,” she murmured, running a finger down the page.
I could feel myself shrug philosophically. Hey, big deal. Twenty-six grand was as nothing to her. I wondered what she paid for underwear. I wondered what she paid for cars.
“Here it is.” She scribbled the information on a scratch pad and tore off a leaf, which she passed to me.
“You’ll find Rick’s parents rather difficult, I suspect,” she said.
“How so?”
“Because they blame Bobby for his death.”
“How does he handle that?”
“Not well. Sometimes I think he believes it himself, which is all the more reason to get to the bottom of this.”
“Can I ask you one more thing?”
“Of course.”
“Is it ‘Glen’ as in ‘West Glen’?”
“The other way around,” she said. “I wasn’t named for the road. The road was named for me.”
By the time I got back in my car, I had a lot of information to digest. It was 9:30, fully dark, and too chilly for a black gauze tunic that ended six inches above my knees. I took a few minutes to wiggle out of my pantyhose and hunch into my long pants. I dropped the high heels into the backseat and pulled on my sandals again, then started the car and put it in reverse. I backed around in a semicircle, looking for a way out. I spotted the second arm of the drive and followed it, catching a glimpse of the rear of the house. There were four illuminated terraces, each with a reflecting “pool, shimmering black by night, probably giving back sequential images of the mountains by day, like a series of overlapping photographs.
I reached West Glen and turned left, heading toward town. There’d been no indication that Derek had gotten home and I thought I’d try to catch him at St. Terry’s before he left. Idly, I wondered what it’d be like to have a city street named after me. Kinsey Avenue. Kinsey Road. Not bad. I figured I could learn to live with the tribute if it came my way.
Chapter 6
Santa Teresa Hospital, by night, looks like an enormous art deco wedding cake, iced with exterior lights: three tiers of creamy white, with a square piece missing in front where the entranceway has been cut out. Visiting hours must have been over because I found a parking space right across the street. I locked my car, crossed, and headed up the circular driveway. There was a large portico and covered walk leading up to double doors that shushed open as I approached. Inside, the lobby lights had been dimmed like the interior of an airplane on a night flight. To my left was the deserted coffee shop, one waitress still at work, dressed in a white uniform almost like a nurses. To my right was the gift shop with a window display done up with the hospital equivalent of naughty lingerie. The whole place smelled like cold carnations in a florist’s refrigerated case.
The decor had been designed to soothe and pacify, especially over in the area marked “cashier.” I moved to the information desk, where a woman who resembled my old third-grade teacher sat in a pink-striped pinafore with an expectant look on her face.
“Hi,” said I. “Can you tell me if Kitty Wenner’s been admitted? She was brought into the emergency room a little^ while ago.”
“Well, now let me just check,” she said.
I noticed that her name tag read “Roberta Choat, Volunteer.” It sounded like one of a series of novels for young girls that was now sorely out of date. Roberta must have been in her sixties and she had all sorts of good-conduct medals pinned to her bib.
“Here it is. That’s Katherine Wenner. She’s on Three South. You just walk down this corridor and around these elevators to the bank on the far side. Third floor, and you’ll be turning to your left. But now, that’s a locked psychiatric ward and I don’t know that you’ll be able to see her. Visiting hours are over, you know. Are you family?”
“I’m her sister,” I said easily.
“Well now, dear, why don’t you repeat that to the charge nurse up on the floor and maybe she’ll believe you,” Roberta Choat said just as easily.
“I hope so,” I said. It was actually Derek I wanted to see.
I moved down the corridor, as instructed, and rounded the elevators to the bank on the far side. Sure enough, there was a sign that read SOUTH WING, which I found-reassuring. I punched the “up” button and the doors opened instantly. A man entered the elevator behind me and then hesitated, eyeing me as if I were the kind of person he’d read about in a rape-prevention pamphlet. He punched “2” and then stayed close to the control panel until he reached his floor and exited.
The south wing looked better than most of the hotels where I’ve stayed. Of course, it was also more expensive and offered many personal services that didn’t interest me, autopsy being one. The lights were all on and the carpet was a blaze of burnt orange, the walls hung with Van Gogh reproductions; a curious choice for the psycho ward, if you ask me.