Naked Came The Phoenix (10 page)

"Women like you always hate me," he said. "I guess I seem unpredictable. The funny thing is, you scare me as bad as I scare you. You seem so sure of yourself. Makes me feel fraudulent somehow."

"Women like me," Caroline repeated. "What is a woman like me?"

He looked surprised. "Well, mainstream women. Who go to good women's colleges like Wellesley. Who marry well and do good works, not for pay of course, and have one point six beautiful-"

"Stop!" she interrupted. "You don't know anything about me!" She felt ashamed to hear her life described like that, ashamed that anyone could reduce her to just that. And yet an hour before she had been proud of her marriage, looking forward to beautiful children. What's
wrong with what I am
? she thought.
Who have I ever harmed? Did Douglas ever love me at all
?

"Sorry," King said. "Whatever I say seems to make you dislike me more. And from what I heard on the phone, you've just had a hell of a shock."

She breathed out. "It's okay. I suppose I've got you hopelessly stereotyped, too."

"I did do it. Bit the head off a bat. It was performance art. I was young and trying to make it any way I could. I'm forty-four now, and I study classical piano, and I contribute to the Humane Society, and I'm a vegetarian. But people still remember me and the band, the bras flying onto the stage, the screaming, the heroin…" He stopped and folded his arms around his knees.

"I'm a cellist," Caroline said.

"So you said."

"I loved it. Love it."

"Fantastic," King said. "Do you have it with you? Your cello? It'd be a kick to hear you play."

"No."

"Why not?"

She almost didn't answer, but he seemed genuinely interested. He was a musician, too. "I gave it up. When I got married. Isn't that a riot? I sold my cello." Thinking about her cello finally brought out all the emotion that had been roiling inside her. Angry, frustrated tears stung her eyes. She felt King's big hand on her arm, and she shivered.

"You were saying that you knew Claudia," she said, pulling her arm away.

There was a pause, as if they were re-collecting themselves.

Caroline realized that she really wanted to spill her guts about her life, to weep on his shoulder and tell him intimate details about her marriage.

People talk to him, she thought. King was staring down at his shoes, which she was happy to notice were not the lizard-skin pointy-toed boots she might have expected but beat-up Adidas sneakers, size fourteen at least.

"Claudia. Yes. When I first met her, she was a nutritional counselor at a very exclusive facility that catered to a lot of very well-known people," King said. "This was about twelve years ago. She did favors, you know? And then she'd come back to you, sometimes years later, and want a favor in return."

"I see," Caroline said. She was thinking about the word he had used earlier.
Heroin
. Was that what the "facility" treated? Or was it one of Claudia's "favors"?

"She got me to come here to the spa, and when I arrived yesterday I recognized two of the other guests. They had both been at this other… place. I asked them if Claudia had asked them to come, rather than them just happening to sign up. And they both said Claudia had put the pressure on."

"Who are you talking about?"

"Well, Howie. Howard Fondulac, the producer."

She remembered. The man who seemed to be a drinker.

"And Phyllis Talmadge."

"The writer. The New Age lady."

"Right."

"So what?" Caroline said. "What has that got to do with me? Why tell me this?"

"So I thought this was peculiar. I decided to check with some of the people I didn't know. I just happened to be talking to Ondine's manager, what's his name-"

"Christopher Lund, I think he said-"

"And I asked him what really brought Ondine here. He told me that Claudia had invited them both to come and waived all fees. He thought the idea was that she would find a way to get some publicity from having Ondine around, but he actually hasn't got a clue about why they got this invitation. Then he said when they got here, he could see that Ondine already knew Claudia."

"Okay," Caroline said slowly.

"That covers four of the people who came just before Claudia was killed. So, what about you and your mother, Caroline? Why are you here?"

"My mother wanted to come. She decided."

"And you came along like a good girl," King said. "Did your mother know Claudia too, before she came here?"

"Yes. They were roommates for a while in college. A very long time ago." Careful, she told herself. Don't say any more, don't mention the baby. That was far too private. She had so much thinking to do!

King was watching her struggle to say no more. "And what about you? Did you know her?" he said.

"Not at all. I didn't know who ran this place. I just-" I just blindly followed, she thought.

King said nothing. He rubbed his chin.

"So all of the new guests either knew Claudia before or came with someone who did," Caroline said. "As though Claudia had some purpose in mind in gathering together this particular group."

"She didn't do it as a friendly get-together," King said. "Not her style."

"Tell the police," Caroline said.

"After I find out who killed her."

"You? But why should you?"

"Because her killer took the thing I came here for. I need to get that back. Then the cops can have whoever it is."

"That could be dangerous."

King threw back his head and laughed. A product of who knew how many brawls and riots, he obviously wasn't afraid of much. Then he said, "I'd like that to mean you care about what happens to me."

She got to her feet, and he jumped up and again was standing too close. She had gotten up too quickly-or was it his proximity making her dizzy?-and a fantasy blew into her mind, born of resentment toward Douglas as well as King's slow smile. Any second now he would stretch out his arms to her, pick her up lightly, run off with her into the woods and-

"Caroline?" he said, still smiling, embarrassing her, knowing somehow what she was thinking.

"Yes?"

"What were you doing last night at two a.m.? I saw you go by my cabin."

"I-I-"

He leaned down and put his mouth to her ear, and she could smell the scent of him, woody and slightly pungent.

"I won't tell," he whispered. "Just give me the key you took from her."

"No! It wasn't me!" She stared at him, wide-eyed. His eyes with the lightning bolts gleamed like the lake, and suddenly she thought she caught something cold and terrible in there. He could easily kill Claudia, the way he had lived for so long, lawless and wild. And he was a magician, the way he held you with his eyes and touched you and fascinated you, a master of misdirection.

"You found Claudia, didn't you? You had time to take it. Don't be afraid, I won't tell anyone else. Our secret. But I need the key."

"Maybe you killed her and didn't have time to take this key you're talking about," she said, breathing hard. "But I sure didn't."

He cocked his head, held her eyes, then nodded. "I believe you. Then your mother must have it."

Caroline felt the memory like a knife, saw it all again, her mother touching Claudia's body.

"No!" She shoved him hard, taking advantage of his surprise to get him out of her way, and took off running. The long rays of sun jabbed through the haze here and there, striping the path in dark and gold, confusing her. She ran on in what she hoped was the direction of her cabin, every sense occupied with getting there and avoiding a misstep.

Through her ragged panting she could swear she heard another breath, a panting behind her, rhythmic and determined. King David?

Or someone else?

Vince leaned back in his chair, which he found cloyingly comfortable, put his hands behind his head and his feet up on the granite, and listened to the noise in the corridor outside. The first one to arrive had barged right in, and Vince had kicked him out just as fast.

All the lawyers had arrived by now, in rapid succession, importantly, noisily, tethered to their attaches, raising hell with the patrolman outside for making them wait.

Vince did not budge. He twisted his lower lip and thought. After a while, a skittish police officer finally knocked and edged in, locking the door behind him.

"They all out there yet?" Vince said. "Let's see, we got lawyers for the Hollywood boozer, the husband, the macho employee, the rocker, the Madame Blavatsky lady, and the supermodel."

"There's five Hermes ties and one pair of Manolo Blahnik spike heels out there, sir. The suits are all gray and black. Two of them have been waiting almost an hour. The woman lawyer just got here."

"Fine."

"They're starting to froth, sir. Staring at their watches and barking into their cell phones. The woman has her laptop out, but the men may try to beat the door down if you don't see them soon."

"I hear you, Mike. Did you offer them anything to drink?"

"No, sir, like you said-"

"Good, good."

"Sir?"

Vince was looking out the window again. He had a nice view of the lake, not a hint of the smog up here. Birdies twittered outside and the whole scene was like a postcard. Yeah, staged for the photographer. Ten minutes before, King David and the congressman's wife had been sitting by the lake having a heavy discussion. Then she jumped up and ran around a turn in the path, and he had lost sight of them. "Huh? Yeah?" he said.

"How long before I start bringing them in?"

"Listen, Mike," Vince said, not taking his eyes off the view. "Three hours ago I asked those important people outside to answer a few questions about a murder in their freakin' midst. And you know what they did?"

"No, sir."

"They were disrespectful and uncooperative. They tried to jack me around."

"Not good, sir."

"Right you are. So I gave them time to round up some local mouthpieces, and I applied myself to other freakin' aspects of the case. Because we got a duty, right, Mike? Rich people, that's the problem. Exercisin' rights poor people don't even know they have."

Knock knock knock
. "I need to see the detective," an authoritative baritone announced.

Vince motioned with his finger for Mike to come closer. "Fifteen more minutes, Mikey," he said. "Let 'em stew in it, okay?" He turned back to the papers on the table.

"Yes, sir." Mike threw open the door. A balding man in a thousand-dollar suit was standing there, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down in fury. "Step back," Mike ordered. "Step back there. Detective Toscana is not ready for you yet."

Fifteen minutes later a slightly less balding man entered, ushered by Mike, clutching a heavy briefcase as if he'd already drafted a bunch of briefs and wrapped the whole thing up. The wait had fired him up and he started talking before he even sat down. Behind him came Howard Fondulac, unshaven, uncombed, and undone. Vince switched on the tape recorder.

"Outrageous," the lawyer was saying. It was a routine lawyer greeting. Sort of like "hello."

"Please," Vince said, feeling better than he had in hours. "Take a seat, gentlemen." They sat down in front of the table and right away the producer, if that was what he really was, Vince was going to check him out, spoke up. "I don't know anything. I've got to go back to LA right away. Important business. Meetings. Commitments."

"I'll do the talking," said the lawyer.

"Well, tell him."

"My name is Eric Derrick." He handed Vince a card engraved so deep it was practically coming apart. He had a slow Southern accent that gave Vince time to grind his teeth between words. "Mr. Fondulac was sound asleep from ten P.M. until eleven a.m. this morning. He is shocked and distressed at this situation, and he fears for his own safety since a killer appears to be running free on the property. He has booked a flight leaving in two hours, and-"

"He's not going anywhere," Vince said.

"But Mr. Fondulac has important business-"

"His current business is right here. Nobody's leaving at the moment."

"But you can't-there's a murderer loose!"

Vince just sat there and looked at him and let the inanity of that statement sink in. Eventually even the lawyer got it, if the merest hint of a blush on the top of the ears was any indication.

"Yeah, you got that right, and we're trying to do something about it," Vince said finally. "Like talk to the witnesses. You mind?"

"But I don't know anything!" Fondulac said.

"What do you do in Hollywood?" Vince said. "I've never been there myself."

"I'm a film producer." Vince let him explain that and came to find out that old Howard was sort of retired right now, hadn't done a movie in the last several years, in fact. He confessed he'd had a few health problems. Vince sympathized and told him about his arthritis, and Fondulac started relaxing and even getting a little garrulous, which made Derrick jump in, and old Howard shushed him this time.

"I guess a week or two at a place like this would be good for me, too," Vince said, patting his belly. "But I couldn't take the chow, I'd miss my pasta."

"Oh, there's pasta. Just no oil, you know. No cheese."

"I'd rather die young," Vince said. "No, give me my food and my liquor, you know? Speaking of which, you got a good one going this morning. Hangover, right? You ever try vitamin C for that?"

"Mr. Fondulac certainly does not have a hangover. He did not come here to be-"

"Give it a rest, counselor. Well, Howard? Big night last night?"

"That's exactly why I don't know anything," Howard said. "I'm afraid I had too much to drink. I missed breakfast. And all the rest of it."