Swimsuit Body (7 page)

CHAPTER NINE

I phone Arthur on the way home and the call goes straight to voicemail. What's up with that? He always answers when he sees my name on his caller ID because he knows I'll hit redial as many times as it takes until he does. Or at least he did until recently. Lately, he's been ducking my calls. And whenever I ask about his plans for the evening, he's either evasive or downright untruthful. Twice this week I stopped by his place to find no one home on a night when he'd claimed he was staying in. I wonder if he's out tonight with his new lady friend, Gladys Sedgwick.

The thought of my brother burning up the sheets with a woman who's old enough to give new meaning to Fifty Shades of Grey is enough to give me heartburn. It seems ludicrous, but then Arthur isn't your typical thirty-four-year-old guy. We're talking about someone who once gave himself up to a cop on the street for an unspecified crime he didn't recall having committed. I need to find out what, exactly, is going on between him and Gladys—and if it means he's headed for another crackup—before a situation that's manageable becomes
Houston, we have a problem. 
…

I stop at my brother's place to see if he's home. Arthur lives in one of those open-air sixties-era apartment complexes that are popular nowadays only as the settings for drunken swan dives into the swimming pool from upper floors on TV dramas. His building is composed of four terraced floors that overlook a pool and patio. It's badly in need of an upgrade, and I wouldn't swim in the pool if you paid me, but the tenants don't seem to care, and rents are cheap. I climb the concrete steps to the second level and knock on the door to Arthur's apartment. No answer. I'm inserting my key into the lock when a voice cuts through the muttering of TV sets and other nighttime noises from behind closed doors, startling me.

“Hold it right there, young fella!”

I look up to see a skinny, bald man in a plaid robe standing in the doorway to the apartment one down from Arthur's, brandishing a phone in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. “Evening, Mr. Fossum,” I greet him. He squints at me through the gloom of the poorly lit walkway.

“Tish?” He steps outside, peering as he draws closer as if to make sure it really is me. “I thought you was one of them ghetto boys looking to rob the place in that getup.” He gestures toward the dark-gray, hooded sweatshirt I have on, its hood pulled up against the chill of the evening.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you.” Mr. Fossum is a bigoted old goat, but he's been a good neighbor to Arthur. “I'm looking for my brother. Have you seen him by any chance?”

“He stopped by earlier. Said he was going out of town and asked me to look after his hamster while he was away.”

The news that Arthur has left town delivers a jolt, and my heart starts to race. I take a deep breath to calm my anxiety. “Did he say where he was going or when he'd be back?”

“Nope, and I didn't ask.” His expression shifts to one of concern. “Say, he's not in any kind of trouble, is he?”

“No, nothing like that. It's just … I worry, you know?” The old man nods in understanding and takes another drag off his cigarette, his plaid robe fluttering around his white stick legs in the breeze. He always phones to let me know whenever my brother is behaving strangely, which makes us allies of sorts. “Do me a favor. Let me know if you hear from him.” Arthur might call to check up on Mr. Chips, though I consider it unlikely. Who worries about a hamster?

“Will do.” The old man is turning to go back inside when something occurs to me.

“You wouldn't happen to know if he was traveling alone?”

“Couldn't say, but that redheaded gal was with him. I seen her waiting down by the pool.”

“Mrs. Sedgwick?” I squeak in alarm.

“Don't know her name, we weren't introduced. But she's been by before. A real looker, that one.” Mr. Fossum smacks his lips appreciatively as my panic mounts. Oh, God. This is worse than I'd feared. Where could they have gone? Best-case scenario they went on a sightseeing trip or a weekend retreat. Worst-case, they're headed for Vegas, and not to play the slots.

I let myself into Arthur's apartment, hoping I'll find some clue about where he and Gladys went. It's a one-bedroom unit, and the furnishings consist of a futon sofa and seventies-era coffee table, a recliner that sits opposite the forty-six-inch flat-screen TV, and a particleboard computer desk. It looks as it always does, except the suitcase that's normally in the hall closet is gone, as is the toothbrush from the medicine cabinet. There are no travel brochures lying around, and when I check the search history on the computer, I don't see any links to travel-related sites.

I try my brother's number one more time, and the call goes straight to voicemail. I leave another message, this one more pointed than the last. “Arthur. Where the hell are you? Call me, dammit.”

Next, I dial the home number for Shondra Perkins, the director at the senior center. She picks up after three rings. “Arthur asked for some time off. He didn't mention anything about a trip,” she says after I've explained why I'm calling. “But I can give you Mrs. Sedgwick's number. I also have a number for her son. He might know something.” She puts me on hold for a minute.

After she's given me the numbers, I broach a more delicate topic. “You mentioned she and Arthur had become close. Did you get the impression they were … you know.”

“Romantically involved?” Shondra doesn't sound shocked. In her years of dealing with senior issues, I'm sure she's seen it all. “No, the thought never crossed my mind. But I don't see the harm. It would be … unusual, yes, but Mrs. Sedgwick is young for her age, and they're both adults.”

“As long as Arthur remembers to take his meds,” I mutter.

“Good luck,” she says. “Let me know when they turn up.”

I dial Gladys's number and leave a message asking her to call me back, then try her son. The voicemail message on his cell provides me with his home number. “Sedgwick residence. Howard speaking,” answers a deep male voice when I finally reach him. He sounds like the butler in
Downton Abbey
. I explain why I'm calling, but from the way he acts, you'd think I dialed the wrong number. “I don't know anyone named Arthur. You say he's a friend of Mother's?”

“He gives computer lessons at the senior center. That's how they met.”

“I know about the computer course. She even bought herself a laptop of all things. My mother!” He says this as though she were a ninety-year-old who was missing some marbles and not a spry septuagenarian. “But she never mentioned anything about a new friend. You say she and your brother went away together? I'm sorry, Miss Ballard, but that's absurd. Mother wouldn't go on a trip without letting me or my sister know.”

“When was the last time you spoke with her?”

“Just yesterday, and she didn't mention any travel plans. She doesn't even own a car.” He explains that she'd gifted her Pontiac to his youngest son when she'd sold her former home and moved to Oak Knoll.

“Why don't you see if you can reach her?” I suggest. “I didn't have any luck.”

“She's probably out with friends. I'll check with her, of course, but I'm sure this is all a misunderstanding.”

“Believe me, nothing would make me happier.”

He mutters something and hangs up.

Fifteen minutes later, I'm talking to an irate Howard Sedgwick. When he was unable to reach his mother, he called a neighbor of hers, who reported that she'd seen Gladys leaving with her suitcase earlier in the day
.
“This is totally unacceptable!” Howard thunders as though my brother were entirely to blame. “We're talking about a seventy-four-year-old woman with a heart condition! If anything should happen to Mother …”

“She wasn't forced at gunpoint.”

“We don't know that,” he replies darkly.

“Please. They're friends.”

“It would seem they're more than that.”

“It kind of looks that way, doesn't it?” I'm forced to admit. “I didn't think so at first, on account of the age difference, but …” I trail off, wishing I had withheld that piece of information.

“Just how old is your brother, anyway?” he asks, and when I tell him Arthur's age, there's a pregnant pause at the other end before he utters, “Dear God.”

“He's a very nice person,” I supply weakly.

“I'm sure he is. A nice man who's after her money.” Howard's voice takes on a nasty edge.

“That's ridiculous. He's not—”

“Why else would a thirty-four-year-old man be interested in a woman her age?”

“You're making him out to be some sort of a gigolo.” This asshole is starting to piss me off. “He's nothing at all like that. Believe me, if they went on a trip together, it was her idea, not his.”

“Are you suggesting my mother was the instigator?” Howard cries in outrage.

I take a deep breath, struggling to keep from losing my temper. Casting blame isn't going to help. “The point is they're both adults, and no one was forced into anything. Anyway, what's the worst that could happen? Because I think we can rule out unwanted pregnancy.”

Howard is not amused. “Why did you call me, if you weren't concerned?”

He has me there. “Arthur is … I just wanted to make sure he's okay.”

“Is there any reason he wouldn't be?”

I hesitate before deciding I have an obligation to provide all the facts. “My brother is … He's schizoaffective. He's on medication, and most of the time he's fine, but—”

“Are you telling me Mother's run off to God knows where with a possibly dangerous psychotic?” Howard blurts before I can finish.

“Arthur is perfectly harmless! And it's been months since he's had one of his … episodes.” I do my best to defuse the situation, but my reassuring words have the opposite effect.

“
Episodes?
You mean like the nutcase who shot those Amish kids? That's it. I'm calling the police.”

“There's no need for that.” I speak in a crisp, authoritative tone to mask my rising panic. I can't have the cops involved. I have enough troubles as it is. “I'm sure they're fine, so let's not blow this out of proportion. We need to stay calm and see if we can figure out where they might have gone.”

Howard exhales audibly and says in a less hostile tone, “My sister might have some idea.”

“Call her. In the meantime, I'll see what I can find out.”

“Wait. I just thought of something.” He informs me that, as his mother's banker and legal proxy, he has the pin number for her account at Sedgwick Savings and Loan. He puts me on speakerphone, and I hear the sound of him tapping on a keyboard at the other end. Then, he stops tapping and says, “Oh.” And somehow that one word is more ominous than all his bluster.

“What is it?” My heart starts to pound.

“Mother made a substantial cash withdrawal this morning. Twenty thousand dollars to be exact.”

CHAPTER TEN

By the following Monday, I'm at my wit's end. It appears the lovebirds haven't just flown the coop, they've vanished into thin air. There's been no word from Arthur, and none of Gladys's friends or family seem to know where she's gone. Nor did she leave a paper trail. Howard Sedgwick has been monitoring her accounts and there have been no ATM withdrawals or recent charges on her credit cards, which doesn't surprise me given the sizable chunk she took out of her savings account. Twenty grand will take you pretty far.

I'm worried about Arthur. Any change in his routine tends to make him squirrelly, which was why I was nervous about his volunteering at the senior center at first. I tried explaining all that to Howard Sedgwick when I went to see him, but he was as unpleasant in person as he'd been over the phone. A large man in his fifties whose bald crown makes his head look like a battering ram, he lives in a McMansion the size of his ego, which I only saw from the outside because I didn't get past the entryway. We talked briefly—or rather I listened while he talked at me—after which I came away feeling grateful that I didn't work for him. His employees at the bank must wish his father, their former boss, who'd been a kind man by Gladys's description, were still alive.

“Where could they have gone?” I fret aloud to Ivy as we sit in her front parlor that evening, she drinking tea while I pluck pills from the cable-knit throw pillow on my lap. “No, don't answer. I have a sinking suspicion, and it's too horrible to contemplate.”

“Does it involve Elvis impersonators?” she says in an attempt to lighten the mood.

I groan.

“For all we know, it's perfectly innocent,” she goes on. “Maybe the Grand Canyon was on her bucket list, and he went along for the ride.” Nestled in the overstuffed armchair opposite the sofa where I sit, Ivy looks like Goldilocks trying out Papa Bear's chair. She wears a pair of drawstring cotton pants and a colorful tie-dye tunic. Her curly black hair cascades over her shoulders.

“Then why the secrecy?”

Ivy calmly sips her tea from one of the Haviland teacups she inherited along with the house. “Isn't she, like, a hundred years old? Can you really see him having sex with some wrinkly old lady?”

“She's not that old, and I think I have more wrinkles than she does.”

“In that case, he's totally doing her.” Ivy grins, and when I don't respond in kind, she abandons her effort to cheer me. “We can't always choose who we fall in love with,” she says gently.

“Says the girl who's praying her boyfriend won't propose.”

“This isn't about me and Rajeev.” She picks up the teapot that sits on the antique piecrust table between us and pours more tea into our cups. “Besides, what makes you think the odds of us making it are any better? Maybe they're soul mates.”

“What about when she becomes decrepit?”

“She can afford live-in help, from what you've told me. She also has grown kids.”

“I want him to be happy,” I say into the de-pilled pillow on my lap. “I just wish I knew where the hell he
is.
”

Ivy considers this, then sets her teacup in its saucer with a decisive clink and springs to her feet, catlike. She pads over to the oak rolltop desk that stands against one wall. When Grandmother Ladeaux had owned the house, it had looked pretty much as I imagine it had when it was built around the turn of the century. The parlor had William Morris wallpaper, oriental rugs, and porcelain figurines scattered throughout it. Now it has neutral walls hung with bright canvases and contemporary furniture mixed in with the antiques. Ivy pulls a yellow legal pad and pencil from a desk drawer and joins me on the sofa. “Let's make a list,” she says.

“A list?”

“Of possible destinations. Places Arthur's always wanted to go to. Or that they'd have reason to visit.” She writes down
Vegas
and cries, “You said it, not me!” when I level an accusing look at her.

Half an hour later, we have a list of possible destinations that include all the national parks west of the Rockies; Vegas, for obvious reasons; and Bozeman, Montana, where Gladys's granddaughter, Lexie MacAllister, owns a ranch. I'd spoken with Lexie over the phone. She told me her grandmother hadn't said anything about coming to visit, the last time they'd talked, and she promised to call me if she had any news. She sounded nice. Unlike her uncle Howard, she seemed as concerned for Arthur's welfare as for Gladys's.

“There's just one problem,” Ivy says, frowning as she chews on the eraser end of the pencil.

“More than one actually, but what were you thinking?”

“Where would we begin? We could call motels along those routes to see if anyone remembers a couple that looked like they could be mother and son, but who has the time? We'd need an army.”

“Or one crack assistant
.
”

“Do you know of any who are looking for temp work?”

Delilah's personal assistant instantly comes to mind. “Brianna would be perfect. And I could kill two birds with one stone. Put her on my brother's trail and pick her brain about Delilah.”

“Why is she looking for temp work? She could have any job she wanted with her résumé.”

“She's stuck in town while the investigation is ongoing. She sounded desperate when I last spoke with her.” I'd called yesterday to see if she'd found a home for Prince and to feel her out about Delilah.

Ivy perks up, like my cat at the scent of raw chicken liver. “Is she a suspect?”

“Everyone's a suspect until an arrest is made.” Including me, I suppose. “Also, I imagine she knew Delilah better than anyone else. She managed her affairs and knows all the players.”

“Sounds like she's made to order.”

“Except for one thing: I can't afford to pay her more than minimum wage.”

“You could sweeten the offer by including free room and board.” Before I can object—because I'm thinking if Brianna were to move in with me, I'd have to move out or there'd be another dead body after I was done strangling her—Ivy says, “She's welcome to stay with me. I have more than enough room.”

Warmed by Ivy's generosity, I'm reminded of why we're best friends. “I couldn't let you do that. You don't know what you'd be getting in to.” I recall the Bluetooth Brianna who'd coolly presented me with the list of her employer's demands, and then acted as though
I
was the one being unreasonable when I drew the line at procuring the white coffee beans harvested only in the highlands of Peru and not available from any vendor in the States.

“Consider it my contribution to the cause. Besides, it would only be temporary. How bad could it be?”

“It's your funeral,” I warn.

An hour later, Brianna is at the door with her suitcase and laptop. I'd expected her to sleep on my offer, but she'd leaped at it instead. I got the feeling she would've worked for free room and board alone, if only because she was going stir-crazy. She'd expected to help with the funeral arrangements and with wrapping up her late employer's affairs, she explained, but her services weren't required as it turned out. Delilah's sister-in-law, Greta Nyland, has her own people, and in lieu of a funeral (Delilah's remains had been cremated following the autopsy) there is to be a memorial service at a future date that has yet to be announced. Brianna's uncle had offered her a job on the film set, but she'd turned him down. She confided that she'd had her fill of celebrity egos.

Ivy shows Brianna to her room, which we refer to as the Lincoln Bedroom because it's the only one of the three guest rooms with a four-poster bed, and leaves her to unpack. Minutes later, Brianna is back downstairs, powering up her laptop at the kitchen table, Bluetooth device—which I'm pretty sure would have to be surgically removed—glowing in her ear.

“Does your brother's phone have a locater?” she asks.

“Yes, but it only works when the phone is on.” I haven't been able to pick up a signal, which means either the battery is dead or the phone is shut off.

“I know of one that works a little differently. You get pinged if the phone is switched on,” she explains. “All he'd have to do is power up and you'd have his location.” She starts clacking away at her keyboard, while I look up the account info for Arthur's phone, which is in a folder labeled “Arthur” on my iPad, and which also holds the contact info for his shrink and the medications he's on. Ivy puts the kettle on to make a fresh pot of tea. By the time the tea is brewed, Brianna has the app installed. Ivy and I exchange a look over her bent head as she's creating an Excel spreadsheet for her to-do list. Ivy looks impressed. She also looks like she doesn't know what hit her.

I'm thinking it was a smart move to hire Brianna—so what if she irons her jeans and the color of her lipstick matches the cashmere sweater she's wearing?—but at the same time, I have a niggling sense of unease, wondering
Is she too good to be true?
Did Spence tell her to stick around because of her intimate knowledge of the victim … or so he could keep an eye on her?

The three of us are sitting around the kitchen table, drinking tea and strategizing, when Rajeev shows up. Brianna appears dazzled by him as Ivy makes the introductions. Most women are when they meet Rajeev the first time. With his toffee skin and shiny blue-black hair, high cheekbones, and brown eyes with the longest eyelashes I've ever seen on a man, he's beyond gorgeous.

He's also a good sport when Ivy informs him that they'll be sharing a bathroom with her new housemate on the nights he stays over. “Two ladies and one shower, how did I get so lucky?” His lightly inflected British accent makes the joking comment seem endearing rather than sleazy.

Brianna blushes. “Thanks for being so accommodating.”

“Not at all. I have three sisters, and they trained me well.” He slips an arm around Ivy's shoulders. He stands more than a foot taller than her, so her head fits perfectly in the curve of his shoulder.

“I'm an early riser. You'll hardly know I'm here,” Brianna says. Somehow I doubt that.

Soon she and Rajeev are immersed in talking shop, comparing the merits of various software programs. Ivy orders pizza and she and I make a salad to go with it. When we all sit down to eat, I'm surprised to find myself wolfing down my food. It's the first time in days I've had an appetite. All too soon, it's time to leave. “I have to walk the dog,” I explain with a pointed look at Brianna. She annoys me by shrugging, as if to say,
We all have to make sacrifices.

Ivy accompanies me to the door while Brianna and Rajeev finish cleaning up in the kitchen. “You weren't kidding,” she says, lowering her voice. “She's like a heat-seeking missile.”

“If anyone can zero in on the target, she can,” I agree. “The question is: Will there be a ring on it?”

   

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, it seems my cat, Hercules, has decided to let Prince live. I find him reposing on the back of the Morris sofa, like a feudal lord on his throne, where he watches through slitted yellow eyes while I clip the leash to the Yorkie's collar.

“You guys hungry?” I ask when we return from our walk. Prince gives an excited yip. Hercules stares at me with reproach. Seems he's not ready to forgive me for sharing my affections.

“Fine, go ahead and sulk,” I tell him. “You're only punishing yourself.”

My cat's hunger strike proves short-lived. At the whirring of the electric can opener, Hercules is at my feet, rubbing against my ankles, meowing piteously, while Prince watches from a safe distance. Leaving them to their food, which I've placed at opposite ends of the kitchen, I head for the shower.

Later on, I have a Skype date with Bradley, who's currently in an undisclosed location somewhere along the Afghanistan-Pakistan border. I bring him up to date, starting with the murder investigation and ending with my brother. “Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse.”

“Worse than finding a dead body?” I detect a smile behind the sympathetic expression he wears, as if he's thinking it's about time Arthur got some, even if the lady in question is past her prime.

“Okay, so not as bad as that. But if he marries her, I may revise my opinion.”

“Would that be so terrible?”

“Ask me that when he's spending his honeymoon in the puff.”

“Aren't you being overly dramatic? You were also worried about a possible
fatwa
,” he reminds me.

“That could still happen.”

He laughs. “I think Yusef has recovered from the shock of seeing you topless.”

“Did he say anything to you?”

“He wanted to know if all American women were like you. I told him you were special.”

“Special over there can get you beheaded.”

“Don't worry about Yusef. He's a good guy.”

“Like someone else I know,” I purr.

“Does this mean what I think it means?”

His eyes light up, and he leans in close. I want to jump his bones even though it's Virtual Bradley, not Bradley in the flesh. He's not handsome in the way that Rajeev is—his features are uneven and his face bears the faded scars from shrapnel he caught in an explosion years ago—but he's sexy as hell. Tanned with deep-blue eyes and curly dark-brown hair bleached a dusky gold by the Middle Eastern sun. In the army flak jacket he wears open over a maroon Hard Rock T-shirt, he reminds me of Indiana Jones. “Not a chance, buster,” I tell him. I learned my lesson after the last time.

He sighs. “Can't blame a guy for trying.”

“You can feast your eyes on me in all my glory when you get back. Only a few more weeks.”

His smile fades and his face recedes on my screen as he sits back. He's in an army tent, and I can hear the muffled sounds of men and vehicles on the move outside. “Listen, about that …”