C is for Corpse (4 page)

The maid led me down the hallway to a living room so large the group of people at the far end seemed constructed
on a smaller scale than I. The stone fireplace must have been ten feet wide and a good twelve feet high, with an opening big enough to roast an ox in. The furniture looked comfortable; nothing fussy or small. The couches, four of them, seemed substantial, and the chairs were large and overstuffed, with wide arms, reminding me somehow of first-class seats on an airplane. There was no particular color scheme and I wondered if it was only the middle class that ran out and hired someone to make everything match.

I caught sight of Bobby and, mercifully, he lumbered in my direction. He had apparently divined from my expression that I was ill-prepared for this whole pageant.

“I should have warned you. I'm sorry,” he said. “Let me get you a drink. What would you like? We've got white wine, but if I tell you what it is, you'll think we're showing off.”

“Wine is perfect,” I said. “I'm crazy about the show-off kind.”

Another maid, not the one who opened the door, but one especially trained for living rooms, anticipated Bobby's needs, approaching with glasses of wine already poured. I was really hoping I wouldn't disgrace myself by spilling a drink down my front or catching a heel on the rug. He handed me a glass of wine and I took a sip.

“Did you grow up in this place?” I asked. It was difficult to picture binkies, Johnny-Jump-Ups, and Tonka trucks in a room that looked like the nave of a church. I suddenly tuned in to what was happening in my
mouth. This wine was going to ruin me for the stuff in a cardboard box, which is what I usually drink.

“Actually, I did,” he said, looking around with interest now, as though the incongruity had just occurred to him. “I had a nanny, of course.”

“Oh sure, why not? What do your parents do? Or should I guess.”

Bobby gave me a lopsided smile and dabbed at his chin, almost sheepishly, I thought. “My grandfather, my mother's father, founded a big chemical company at the turn of the century. I guess they ended up patenting half the products essential to civilization. Douches and mouthwashes and birth-control devices. A lot of over-the-counter drugs, too. Solvents, alloys, industrial products. The list goes on for a bit.”

“Brothers? Sisters?”

“Just me.”

“Where's your father at this point?”

“Tibet. He's taken to mountain climbing of late. Last year, he lived in an ashram in India. His soul is evolving at a pace with his VISA bill.”

I cupped a hand to my ear. “Do I detect some hostility?”

Bobby shrugged. “He can afford to dabble in the Great Mysteries because of the settlement he got from my mother when they divorced. He pretends it's a great spiritual journey when he's really just indulging himself. Actually, I felt O.K. about him until he came back just after the accident. He used to sit by my bedside and smile at me benevolently, explaining that being crippled must be something I was having to sort
through in this life.” He looked at me with an odd smile. “Know what he said when he heard Rick was dead? ‘That's nice. That means he's finished his work.' I got so upset Dr. Kleinert refused to let him visit anymore, so he went off to hike the Himalayas. We don't hear from him much, but it's just as well, I guess.”

Bobby broke off. For a moment, tears swam in his eyes and he fought for control. He stared off toward a cluster of people near the fireplace and I followed his gaze. There were only ten or so on a quick count.

“Which one is your mother?”

“The woman in the cream-colored outfit. The guy standing just behind her is my stepfather, Derek. They've been married three years, but I don't think it's working out.”

“How come?”

Bobby seemed to consider several replies, but he finally settled for a slight head shake and silence. He looked back at me. “You ready to meet them?”

“Tell me about the other people first.” I was stalling, but I couldn't help myself.

He surveyed the group. “Some, I forget. That woman in blue I don't know at all. The tall fellow with gray hair is Dr. Fraker. He's the pathologist I was working for before the accident. He's married to the redhead talking to my mom. My mother's on the board of trustees for St. Terry's so she knows all these medical types. The balding, heavyset man is Dr. Metcalf and the guy he's talking to is Dr. Kleinert.”

“Your psychiatrist?”

“Right. He thinks I'm crazy, but that's all right because
he thinks he can fix me.” Bitterness had crept into his voice and I was acutely aware of the level of rage he must be dealing with day by day.

As though on cue, Dr. Kleinert turned and stared at us and then his eyes slid away. He looked like he was in his early forties with thin, wavy gray hair and a sorrowful expression.

Bobby smirked. “I told him I was hiring a private detective, but I don't think he's figured out yet that it's you or he'd have come down here to have a little chat to straighten us out.”

“What about your stepsister? Where is she?”

“Probably in her room. She's not very sociable.”

“And who's the little blonde?”

“My mother's best friend. She's a surgical nurse. Come on,” he said impatiently. “You might as well take the plunge.”

I followed Bobby, keeping pace with him as he hobbled down the room toward the fireplace, where people had congregated. His mother watched us approach, the two women with her pausing in the middle of their conversation to see what had engaged her attention.

She looked young to be the mother of a twenty-three-year-old, lean, with narrow hips and long legs. Her hair was a thick glossy bush of pale fawn brown, not quite shoulder-length. Her eyes were small and deep-set, her face narrow, mouth wide. Her hands were elegant, her fingers long and thin. She wore a cream-colored silk blouse and a full linen skirt nipped in at the waist. Her jewelry was gold, delicate chains at her wrist and throat. The gaze she turned on Bobby
was intense and I thought I could feel the pain with which she regarded his crippled form. She looked from him to me, smiling politely.

She moved forward, holding out her hand. “I'm Glen Callahan. You must be Kinsey Millhone. Bobby said you'd be stopping by.” Her voice was low and throaty. “I'll give you a chance to enjoy yourself. We'll talk in a bit.”

I shook hands with her, startled how bony and warm her hand felt in mine. Her grip was iron.

She glanced at the woman to her right, introducing me. “This is Nola Fraker.”

“Hi, how are you?” I said as we shook hands.

“And Sufi Daniels.”

Murmured pleasantries were exchanged. Nola was a redhead, with clear, fine-textured skin, and luminous blue eyes, wearing a dark red jumpsuit that left her arms bare and a deep V of naked flesh visible from throat to waist. Already, I didn't want her to bend down or make any sudden moves. I had the feeling I knew her from somewhere. Possibly I'd seen her picture in the society section or something of that sort. Reminder bells went off, at any rate, and I wondered what the story was.

The other woman, Sufi, was small and somewhat misshapen, thick through the trunk, her back hunched. She wore a mauve velour sweatsuit that looked like she'd never sweated in it. Her blond hair was thin and fine, worn too long, I thought, to be flattering.

After a decent interval, the three of them resumed their conversation, much to my relief. I hadn't the
faintest idea what to say to them. Nola was talking about a thirty-dollar fabric remnant she was whipping up to wear to a wine-tasting down in Los Angeles. “I checked all the shops in Montebello, but it was ridiculous! I wouldn't pay four bills for an outfit. I wouldn't even pay
two,
” she said with energy.

That surprised me. She looked like a woman who enjoyed extravagance. Unless I just make up things like that. My notion of women with money is that they drive to Beverly Hills to have their legs waxed, charge a bauble or two on Rodeo Drive, and then go to charity luncheons at $1,500 a plate. I couldn't picture Nola Fraker pawing through the bargain bin at our local Stretch N' Sew. Maybe she'd been poor as a young girl and couldn't get used to being a doctor's wife.

Bobby took my arm and steered me toward the men. He introduced me to his stepfather, Derek Wenner, and then in quick succession to Drs. Fraker, Metcalf, and Kleinert. Before I knew what to think, he was hustling me toward the hallway. “Let's go upstairs. We'll find Kitty and then I'll show you the rest of the house.”

“Bobby, I want to talk to those people!” I said.

“No, you don't. They're dull and they don't know anything.”

As we passed a side table, I started to set my wineglass down, but he shook his head. “Bring it with you.”

He grabbed a full bottle of wine out of a silver cooler and tucked it under his arm. He was really moving at a fair clip, limp and all, and I could hear my high heels clip-clopping along inelegantly as we moved toward
the foyer. I paused for a moment to slip my shoes off, and then I caught up with him. Something about Bobby's attitude made me want to laugh. He was accustomed to doing exactly as he pleased among people I'd been taught to respect. My aunt would have been impressed by the company, but Bobby didn't seem to be.

We went up the stairs, Bobby pulling himself along by the smooth stone banister.

“Your mother doesn't use the name Wenner?” I asked, as I followed him.

“Nope. Callahan is her maiden name as a matter of fact. I changed mine to Callahan when she and my father divorced.”

“That's unusual, isn't it?”

“Doesn't seem that way to me. He's a jerk. This way, I don't have to be connected to him any more than she does.”

The gallery at the top formed a semicircle with wings branching out on either side. We passed through an archway to the right and into a wide corridor with rooms opening off at intervals. Most of the doors were closed. Daylight was beginning to fade and the upstairs was gloomy. I once conducted a homicide investigation at an exclusive girls' school that had this same air to it. The house felt as if it had been converted to institutional use, someplace impersonal and chill. Bobby knocked at the third door down on the right.

“Kitty?”

“Just a minute,” she called.

He flashed me a smile. “She'll be stoned.”

Hey, why not? I thought with a shrug. Seventeen.

The door opened and she looked out, gaze shifting from Bobby to me with suspicion. “Who's this?”

“Come on, Kitty. Would you knock that shit off?”

She moved away from the door indifferently. Bobby and I went in and he closed the door behind us. She was anorexic; tall and painfully thin, with knees and elbow joints standing out like Tinkertoys. Her face was gaunt. She was barefoot, wearing shorts and a white tube top that looked about as big as a man's crew sock, one size fits all.

“What are
you
looking at?” she said. She didn't seem to expect an answer so I didn't bother with one. She flopped down on an unmade king-sized bed, staring at me as she took up a cigarette and lit it. Her nails were bitten to the quick. The room had been painted black and looked like a parody of an adolescent girl's room. There were lots of posters and stuffed animals but all of them had a nightmare quality. The posters were of rock groups in tartish makeup, sinister and sneering, depicted in vignettes largely hostile toward women. The stuffed animals ran more to satyrs than Winnie-the-Pooh. The air was scented with eau de dope and my guess was she'd smoked so much grass in there, you could bury your nose in the bedcovers and get high.

Bobby apparently enjoyed her antagonism. He pulled a chair over for me, dumping clothes on the floor unceremoniously. I sat down and he stretched out on the foot of the bed, circling her left ankle with one hand. His fingers overlapped as if he were holding her wrist instead. It reminded me of Hansel and Gretel. Maybe Kitty was worried that if she got fat, they'd put
her in the cooking pot. I thought they'd put her in a grave long before that point and it was frightening. She leaned back on both elbows, smiling at me faintly down the length of her long, frail legs. All the veins were visible, like an anatomical diagram with a celluloid overlay. I could see how the bones were strung together in her feet, her toes looking almost prehensile.

“So what's going on downstairs?” she said to Bobby, her gaze still pinned on me. Her speech was ever so slightly slurred and her eyes seemed to swim in and out of focus. I wondered if she was drunk or had just popped some pills.

“They're standing around sucking up booze as usual. Speaking of which, I brought us wine,” he said. “Got a glass?”

She leaned over to her bed-table and sorted through the mess, coming up with a tumbler with something sticky and green in the bottom: absinthe or crème de menthe. She held the glass out to him. The wine he poured into it became tainted with the remnants of liqueur.

“So, who's the chick?”

I loathe being called a chick.

Bobby laughed. “Oh God, I'm sorry. This is Kinsey. She's the private detective I told you about.”

“I should've figured as much.” Her eyes came back to mine, her pupils so dilated I couldn't tell what color the irises were. “So how do you like our little sideshow? Bobby and I are the family freaks. What a pair, right?”

This child was getting on my nerves. She wasn't smart enough or quick enough to pull off the tough air
she was affecting, and the strain was evident, like watching a stand-up comic with second-rate gags.

Bobby cut in smoothly. “Dr. Kleinert's downstairs.”

“Ah, Dr. Destructo. What did you think of him?” She took a drag of her cigarette, feigning nonchalance, but I sensed that she was genuinely curious about my response.

“I didn't talk to him,” I said. “Bobby wanted me to meet you first.”