Night Night, Sleep Tight (12 page)

“Could it have been an accident?”

“Most garage fires are.”

“What happens if that’s what it turns out to be?”

“Accidental fire? Just property damage, no one injured or killed? Usually as far as police are concerned, case closed.”

But was the fire accidental? Her father’s death had turned out not to be. “And what if . . . ?”

“It was deliberately set? Insurance investigators swoop in like a flock of banshees. They’ll want to know whether this fire was set with an intent to defraud. They’re looking for a reason not to pay out, and they’re nothing if not thorough.” He paused for a few seconds. “Police get involved, too. Arson is a crime.”

Chapter 21

L
ater that night, long after Tyler had driven off in the fire department van, Deirdre stood with Henry outside the garage, taking in the miserable piles of cardboard boxes and lawn furniture that had been left heaped in the driveway. At least the crime scene tape and orange cones were gone. The air pulsed with crickets, and a sliver of a crescent moon hung high in a sky that shimmered in the tepid night air.

Had the fire been deliberately set, and if so, was it a firebug who liked to watch things burn, or someone whose aim was to destroy her father’s garage and office and its contents? And if so, how could it
not
be connected to her father’s death?

“Promise you won’t bite my head off if I ask you something,” Deirdre said to Henry.

“What?”

She turned to face him. “First, promise.”

“How can I promise if I don’t know what you’re going to ask?”

“Did you set this fire?”

“Did I . . .” Henry’s mouth fell open. “Deirdre, how could—”

“Just answer the question. Did you?”

He glared at her. “Idiot.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Henry paused. Then said emphatically, “No.”

She stared hard at him. Used to be she could tell when he was lying. Now he seemed completely opaque. “Do you know anything about how it started?” she asked.

“No. I do not. Do you?”

She entered the garage and shined a flashlight beam across the floor. Prints from the patterned soles of rubber boots tracked through the soot, and water still dripped overhead. “Here’s where it started.” She shined the beam on a spot on the floor.

Henry crouched over the lighted area. He ran his finger through ashes, sniffed at them, and pulled a face.

“Tyler told me that was why they were taking so many pictures right there,” Deirdre said. “He said it could have been started by accident, something like careless disposal of smoking materials. Or it could have been set.”

“Why would anyone set fire to Dad’s garage?” Henry said, taking the flashlight from Deirdre. “Your friend Tyler have any theories about that?”

“Why would anyone kill Dad?” she said. Henry glanced up at her, then back at the floor. “What do you have against Tyler, anyway?”

“Wasn’t he the one in high school who made a big deal about there being no ROTC? He was always Mr. Straight Arrow.”

“That’s it? That was twenty years ago.” It amazed her, the old tapes that were still running in his head. Did any of them ever outrun who they’d been in high school?

Henry walked over to where one of his motorcycles was tipped over on its side. He ran the flashlight beam across the skim of ash that now coated its twisted flank. The leather seat had been burned away, revealing bits of charred yellow foam. He shook his head. “Shit.”

“That’s it? Just ‘shit’?”

“Hey, it’s just a bike.” He shrugged. “And it’s insured. So’s Dad’s car. And the garage, too, for that matter. They’re just things. Not like it got one of us or the dogs.”

Someone would have to call the insurance company—and as usual that someone would end up being her. Deirdre stared up at the ceiling where the fire had burned through. A huge cleanup lay ahead of them. Any records that her father had kept up there, like their homeowner’s insurance policy, had probably gone up in flames along with financial records and whatever “literary estate” he’d left for her to execute.
Execute
seemed the apt term, since that was pretty much what the fire had already done to it.

“Don’t even think about going up there now,” Henry said.

“I want to know how bad it is.” What she really wanted to know was whether anyone had been messing around with her father’s papers after she’d left and before the fire started.

“It’s late,” Henry went on, “and besides, there’s no electricity. You don’t know if it’s even safe to walk around. The insurance adjuster is coming over first thing in the morning. At least wait until after the inspection—”

“You actually called the insurance company?” Deirdre said, astonished.

“You know, you’re completely batshit,” Henry said. “Believe it or not, I do plenty of things without you or Mom telling me I’m supposed to and then pecking me to death until they’re done.”

Deirdre yawned. She could feel the adrenaline that had been fueling her drain away. “I think you enjoy being pecked at. I just never thought you’d figure out where to call. Especially when most of Dad’s records are probably up there.” She kissed Henry lightly on the cheek. He reeked of smoke. She realized she did, too. Her clothing. Her hair. Even her skin smelled charred. “Seriously, thank you,” she said. “The truth is, I’m exhausted. What I need more than anything right now is a hot shower and my pillow. Maybe a drink to help me pass out.”

“Take your shower. I’ll uncork some wine,” Henry said.

Ten minutes later Deirdre was in her bathroom. When the water was hot enough, she peeled off her shirt and pants and underwear and stepped into the shower, holding on to the grab bar that her parents had had installed after her accident. Smoke-scented steam filled the air as she shampooed her hair and soaped her body, then closed her eyes, letting the water pulse against her back. She couldn’t help thinking about what she’d find when she went up to her father’s office in the light of day and took in the destruction.

She stepped out of the shower, dried off, and put on clean underpants—her last pair—and one of her father’s soft chambray shirts, the tail of which grazed the backs of her knees. Then she scooped her clothing from the floor and carried it out to the little back room off the kitchen. She was about to stuff her pants into the washing machine when she noticed a piece of paper sticking out of the pocket. She eased it out. Staring back at her from the faded snapshot was the ghost image of Joelen Nichol, on her knees in front of the window in Deirdre’s father’s office. The other Polaroid snapshots of young aspiring actresses had probably gone up in smoke.

Henry was right. Joelen did not look unhappy. Far from it. The corners of her mouth were curled in a bemused Mona Lisa smile, as if she were taking the photographer’s measure every bit as much as he was taking hers.

Chapter 22

B
efore dawn, the heat broke with a crash of thunder. Deirdre had fallen asleep nearly the instant her head hit the pillow, leaving the glass of wine Henry poured for her untouched on the bedside table.

She lay awake, the quilt pulled up to her chin, listening to the steady thrum of rain. Her stomach turned queasy as she imagined water pouring into her father’s office through the damaged roof and windows. Hope grew fainter by the minute that any of her father’s papers could be salvaged.

When the rain let up and the sky lightened to gunmetal gray, she got out of bed. It was barely six. She pulled on her extra pair of dark leggings. In the closet she found a pair of once soft, now stiff fringed suede boots that she’d worn in college. She put them on and looked in the mirror. With her father’s long work shirt, now wrinkled; her wild hair; and those boots, all she needed was a flower painted on her cheek and love beads.

In the living room, she found the flashlight that she’d used the night before and let herself out through the sliding glass door. The tip of her crutch left the lawn punctuated with a trail of tiny puddles of standing water.

The door to the garage was open, and the base of the staircase up to her father’s office was dark. Even though Deirdre knew the electricity wasn’t working, she tried the switch. When nothing happened, she turned on the flashlight and climbed the steps, pushing off with her crutch from each riser and taking shallow breaths of rank, smoky air.

She couldn’t remember whether she’d locked the door to her father’s office when she’d stormed off yesterday, her anger boiling over at the pictures her father had taken. It was ajar when she reached the top of the stairs. Swelled with moisture, the door creaked when she pushed it open. At least the firefighters hadn’t had to break it down.

Her father’s office was a monochromatic, ash-coated gray as daylight seeped in through empty window frames that would soon have to be boarded over. A section of ceiling had collapsed, and the floor was blackened where the fire had burned through from beneath. Several file cabinet drawers hung open, their contents strewn across the floor in a sodden mess.

But not everything had been damaged. The cover on the electric typewriter was barely singed, and the pullout couch was soaked but not burned at all. For the next hour, Deirdre worked her way around the room, sticking to the edges for safety’s sake, taking a mental inventory of what had survived and what had not, prioritizing what she’d deal with after the insurance adjuster had assessed the damage. Everything on the bookshelves on one wall had been burned, and the shelves themselves had come down. But the shelves on the opposite wall were still in place. The first book she pulled down from one of those shelves was wet but probably salvageable.

Anything left in the middle of the floor had been reduced to cinders. Deirdre poked her crutch into the floorboards, carefully testing, before she shifted her weight and moved closer. The spines of the Players Directories had survived, but the pages were curled into ashes, oddly beautiful, like petals of a fragile, slate gray rose. One of the cigar boxes had survived, as had Arthur’s Chasen’s ashtray.

Deirdre crouched and reached across with her crutch to nudge the ashtray closer. Several marbles, disturbed by the crutch, rolled over as well. She examined them closely: they weren’t marbles at all, but equal-sized turquoise beads, all of them blackened on one side. Poking around, she found more. Eight in all. She dropped them into her pocket.

Finally, Deirdre circled around to the closet door. It hung open a few inches, and Deirdre suspected that the firefighters had looked in the closet for a victim. The wood had swelled so much that she could barely wrench it the rest of the way open. Moisture and smoky stink seemed to have settled in the interior. There was the plastic bag, sitting where she’d left it.

She took out the bag, shaking off the moisture that had pooled on top. Opening it, she shined the light inside. The dress that was bundled around the knife was unscathed.

It was only later, when she’d left her father’s office and was feeling her way down the dark stairway, carrying away with her the plastic bag, that she started to wonder: Why would firefighters have taken it upon themselves to open and empty out file drawers? Because, as far as she knew, she’d been the last person to set foot in her father’s office before the fire, and she was certain that she’d left every one of the file drawers closed with its files intact.

Chapter 23

B
aby and Bear greeted Deirdre as she crossed the yard. Henry opened the sliding glass door for her. It was just eight o’clock.

“What are you doing up?” Deirdre asked. She smelled coffee.

Henry held his finger to his lips and whispered, “What were you doing up in Dad’s office?”

“Why are we whispering?” she whispered back.

“Mom’s here.”

“Mom?” Deirdre followed his gaze toward the kitchen. So she’d finally shown up.

“What were you doing up there?” Henry grabbed her arm. “You couldn’t wait until after the insurance adjuster—”

She wrenched free. “Henry, I needed to see. Turns out Dad’s file cabinets are open and papers are all over the floor. Someone’s been up there.”

“The firefighters were up there.”

“Throwing around his files? How likely is that?”

“And what’s that?” He was looking at the plastic bag that held the yellow dress and the knife.

Deirdre ignored the question and headed for her bedroom. She dumped the bag in the back of her closet, then closed herself in the bathroom and washed her hands and face, trying to erase the smell of smoke that clung to her like a second skin.

When she emerged, she recognized a new smell. Bacon? That seemed impossible; her mother had long ago given up eating meat. Deirdre’s stomach rumbled anyway. She was starving. She headed for the kitchen.

From the back Deirdre recognized the slender figure standing at the stove, wearing a saffron-colored turban, loose-fitting cotton pants, and a linen top. “Hi, Mom.”

Her mother turned around, fork in her hand. The turban framed her pale, shiny face, the skin stretched taut. She tilted her head and gave a sympathetic smile. “Hello, darling.” Crow’s-feet fanned at the corners of her eyes.

Deirdre said, “I’m glad you came.”

“Of course I came. I’m sorry it took so long. I had car trouble. And then . . .” Her mother put down the fork and turned off the burner. She approached Deirdre and placed a warm hand on the side of her face. “Well, never mind my woes. It’s nothing compared to what’s been going on around here.” She fingered the collar of the chambray shirt that had been Arthur’s and her eyes filled with tears. “I’m so sorry about Daddy. I know you must be very sad, too.”

Sadness was just one of the emotions in the mix, Deirdre thought, blinking back her own tears. She’d barely begun to sort out the other feelings.

Her mother kissed her on the forehead. “Isn’t it just like him? Couldn’t die like a normal person. Had to make a production out of it.” She wrapped her arms around Deirdre and rocked her, not something Deirdre could remember her mother ever having done. She’d never been one for kissing boo-boos. Instead she’d clap her hands and assure Deirdre she was fine, even when it was obvious that she was not.

Gloria held her at arm’s length and gently tucked a lock of hair behind Deirdre’s ear. “And yet life goes on, doesn’t it?” There. That was more like it. “Act four. Act five. Your father always insisted that a really good story makes you care about what’s going to happen to the characters after the movie ends.”

“He was full of good advice,” Deirdre said.

“For everyone but himself.”

The doorbell rang. Henry went to answer it.

“I hope that’s not another reporter,” Deirdre said. “They were camped outside yesterday, and the police have been—”

She was interrupted by Henry’s return. Following him was a woman about Deirdre’s age with a mane of shoulder-length, lion-colored, perfectly layered hair. She had on brown work boots and a raincoat and carried a hard hat and a clipboard, a sturdy canvas bag, and a walking stick.

“Mom? Deirdre?” Henry said. “This is the insurance adjuster.”

“Sondra Dray,” the woman said. Her canvas satchel thunked on the floor when she set it down to shake hands with Gloria and then Deirdre. The thick belt on her coat was hung with tools—a heavy-duty flashlight, a tape measure, a pry bar. “I was just telling Mr. Unger”—
Mr. Unger?
Deirdre’s stomach turned over, and it was a moment before she realized Sondra meant Henry, not Arthur—“that I’ll need at least a few hours to complete my inventory. The sooner I get started, the sooner I’ll be done.”

“Here, I’ll take that.” Henry picked up the satchel and led her out through the kitchen door.

“Your brother can be a gentleman when he feels like it,” Gloria said.

“He can also be a jerk.”

“That,” her mother said, “is not news.” She returned to the stove and turned the burner back on.

“You’re cooking?”

“Now don’t you start with me,” Gloria said, shaking a fork at Deirdre. “Your brother’s already been there. I may not be a gourmet chef, but I’ve always been able to put together a perfectly serviceable breakfast. I could have been a short-order cook.”

Deirdre snorted a laugh. “I’m not questioning your competence. But bacon? You once told me it has more carcinogens, ounce for ounce, than tobacco.”

“Not this bacon. This”—Gloria lifted a strip of what looked like pink-and-white rubber—“is soy based. Nothing toxic in it. And it doesn’t taste bad as long as you forget that it’s supposed to be bacon.” She glanced sideways at Deirdre. “Don’t look at me like that. I do remember what bacon tastes like. And yes, I do miss it.”

The truth was, whatever it was that her mother was cooking, it smelled yummy. Deirdre’s mouth watered.

Gloria went on, “I also brought organic eggs and whole-grain bread. Or I have granola, too. Would you rather have that?”

“Just bread.” Her mother’s granola was so healthy it tasted like wood chips. Deirdre opened the bag of bread and put two slices in the toaster.

“Your brother told me what happened. About your finding him.” Gloria shuddered. “About the police.”

“Someone killed him. And the police actually think it could have been me.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Gloria looked out toward the pool. “Whatever else you can say about the police, they are not complete fools. Why would they think you killed him? It’s absurd. You got along. Unlike plenty of other folks who might have wanted to kill your father at one time or another. Myself included.”

Her mother was always so definite, regardless of whether her opinion was informed or not. For once Deirdre found that reassuring. “You weren’t here,” Deirdre said. “You have an alibi.”

Her mother lifted a strip and checked the underside. Then she removed strip after strip of soy bacon from the pan and laid them on a paper towel. “I’m glad you called Sy.”

“He talked to you?” Deirdre asked.

“Henry told me.”

“Sy went with me to talk to the police.”

“He’s the real deal. Defended Timothy Leary. Emily Harris. Patty Hearst.”

“Joelen Nichol.”

“Joelen Nichol.” Her mother broke an egg into the pan. It sizzled and spat. She lowered the heat. “I hear she’s turned up again.”

“Mom, Sy said something to me that I didn’t understand. He said he helped me stay out of trouble then. And I got the impression he was talking about the night Joelen’s mother’s boyfriend was killed.”

Her mother’s hand froze in midair above the egg carton. “One egg or two?”

“Two.”

“So what is she doing?”

“Joelen? She’s living with Bunny—again or still, I don’t know which. Selling real estate. Dad had an appointment to talk to her about putting the house on the market.”

“He did, did he?” Gloria broke the second egg into the pan.

“Sounds like you’re surprised that he’d hire her.”

“With all the Realtors to choose from? Yes.”

“I thought you were friends with her mother.”

Gloria tucked a wisp of hair into her turban. “Friends? Me and Elenor Nichol? Whatever gave you that idea?”

Deirdre took in her mother’s makeup-free face, baggy clothing, and battered leather sandals with rubber-tire soles. The only hint of vanity was the turban hiding her shorn hair. The idea that her mother and Elenor Nichol had been bosom buddies was preposterous.

“Something she said. When reporters and police showed up here, Joelen drove me over there and Bunny helped me dress up so I wouldn’t be recognized. She said you were chorus girls together at Warner Brothers.”

Gloria gave a shrug, allowing that it was true. “We worked at the same studio, along with a lot of other people.”

“You and Daddy went to her parties.”

“Us and half of Hollywood.” Gloria bit her lip and poked at the eggs, breaking one of the yolks. “Poor thing. After the scandal, she had quite a lot to deal with. I think your father helped her out where he could. Got her a cameo in
Towering Inferno
. He was one of her many admirers.” She stated that last part as if it were just a fact. “It was a mistake, letting you stay over there whenever you wanted to. I was . . . distracted.”

It struck Deirdre, not for the first time, that her mother’s transformation—from wisecracking broad who took her scotch straight on the rocks and bought tailored suits from the same exclusive designer as Pat Nixon, to New Age acolyte in sackcloth—had always felt like some kind of penance. But neither the old chic-but-prickly Gloria Unger nor this new dowdy-but-outwardly-serene version had even the slightest bit in common with Bunny Nichol. And Bunny was shrewd enough to know that. So why pretend otherwise?

Gloria shook the pan, loosening the eggs, and with a practiced gesture flipped them. Smiled. She reached into the overhead cupboard and pulled down a plate. Deirdre got out some silverware and a napkin and sat at the kitchen table while her mother slid the eggs onto the plate along with strips of soy bacon and the toast, which had popped. “Bon appétit!”

Deirdre picked up a piece of the soy bacon and nibbled on it. Salty. Sweet. Crisp, not greasy. Not awful at all, just odd. She stuffed the entire piece into her mouth and chased it with a bite of egg. “Did you know that Dad named me his literary executor?”

“I did.” Her mother went to the sink and ran the water. “He asked if I thought it was a good idea.” She shot Deirdre a quick glance as she scrubbed the pan. “I know. Not something you’d have volunteered for. Don’t panic. I’m here to help. We can take a quick first pass through his papers—shouldn’t take more than a day or two if we put our minds to it. With the fire, there’s less to deal with.”

That was an understatement. Deirdre dragged a piece of wheat toast through the yolk and put it in her mouth.

Gloria picked up a dish towel. Leaning with her back against the sink, she started drying the pan. “Have you and Henry made plans for the funeral?”

“I talked to the mortuary, but I didn’t know what to say about a service. The coroner is supposed to release Dad’s body today.”

“Right,” her mother said, drying her hands, snapping the dish towel and folding it smartly. “Finish your breakfast. Then get me the phone number of the funeral home and find me your father’s Rolodex. We’ll schedule a service for day after tomorrow. Keep it simple. Tasteful. I’ll get some of his friends to say a few words. I’ll have food delivered to the house for after. And after it’s all over, how about the three of us drive out to Paradise Cove? Scatter your father’s ashes in the sea. He always said he was part fish. Then I’ll take you and Henry to Holiday House. I haven’t been back there in ages. We can order cracked crab and champagne and sit out on the patio and toast your father’s memory.”

Gratitude pulsed through Deirdre. Henry had called the insurance company. Her mother was offering to organize the funeral and help sort through Arthur’s papers. At least she wasn’t going to be on her own acting out the role of the dutiful daughter, something she’d never been very good at anyway.

“Holiday House. That sounds perfect,” she said. And it did. Her father would have loved to see them toasting him, the consummate celebrity wannabe, at the storied celebrity hangout. It was where JFK and Marilyn, Liz and Eddie, Frankie and Ava had supposedly shared intimate tête-à-têtes and then slipped off to the attached no-tell motel. Its ultramodern design of glass and steel and stone and spectacular view would have made it a tourist attraction if the maître d’ hadn’t courteously but firmly barred anyone who smacked of tourist or, even worse, paparazzi. Deirdre had a soft spot for it as well. She’d once handled the sale of a photograph by Man Ray of a weather-beaten shipwreck washed up on a stretch of beach that could only be viewed from the Holiday House patio.

“That’s it then. Decided,” Gloria said with a wry smile. She sat at the kitchen table opposite Deirdre, took a deep breath, and bowed her head. Her lips moved in a whisper as she rubbed together the thumb and fingers of her left hand. This was Gloria’s way of maintaining her cherished tranquility, reciting a mantra and fingering the string of prayer beads that for years she’d worn wrapped around her wrist. Portable valium, Arthur used to call them. One hundred and eight beads, four lapis lazuli and the rest turquoise.

Only now there was no string of beads wrapped around Gloria’s wrist.