Rebecca Schwartz 05 - Other People's Skeletons Page 12

  “So you started seeing each other.”

  “Um-hm. The first time he asked me for a drink and then we came back here. The second time, he said why didn’t he come over and we’d get some Chinese food. And then after that, he’d just kind of call and wait for me to ask him to come over. And then I was supposed to buy this damned expensive Scotch that was all he’d drink. And fuck him. Always on a Monday or a Tuesday night or something. Never a weekend. And stupid me. I didn’t even catch on to what was happening.” She addressed Rob. “You were his friend, right? I bet you had no idea what a shit he was.”

  Rob turned to me, silently appealing for help; I wondered what he did when I wasn’t there.

  “It certainly sounds like he took advantage,” I said.

  “You bet your ass he did.” It sounded shocking coming out of such a small, childlike person, the anger behind it seemingly incongruous. “I was just out of a ten-year marriage— I got married right after high school and never dated anyone but my husband Joey, and that was in the eleventh grade! I didn’t know a thing about men; or dating. Or sex. Well, there are lots of women like me, right?”

  “You mean women involved with Jason McKendrick?”

  She looked surprised. “I don’t know. Were there?”

  “I’m sorry. I guess I didn’t understand what you meant— women like you in what way?”

  “Dumb. Naive. Just like there’s lots of men like Jason McKendrick. Assholes.”

  Both Rob and I were silent. Goldie Hawn snored.

  “I want everybody to know, that’s why I called you. I want people to know what he was really like.”

  Rob finally summoned the courage to say, “You seem awfully angry.”

  “He fucked me, he got me pregnant, he dumped me.

  I gasped. “Oh, you poor thing. How awful— to go through an abortion alone.”

  “I didn’t have an abortion. Why would I have an abortion? Joey and I had been trying to get pregnant the whole time we were married. Come look.” She led us down a hall to a closed door. Inside was a nursery, with a sleeping baby in a crib. For the first time since she’d seen my Jeep, Hilary smiled. “This is Shirleen. Shirleen McKendrick.”

  “Did Jason help support her?”

  “Shhh!” She put her finger to her lips, took us out of the room, and closed the door. She said, “Jason never even came to see her. He said she wasn’t his kid.”

  “Why did he say that?”

  She didn’t answer till we were back in the living room. “Well, he came over one night, and Joey was here. By the way, you know why I’m telling you this? I want you to know I’m not after any money. I was still married when I was seeing Jason, and Joey came over a couple of times then.” She dropped her eyes. “Once we slept together, but I didn’t get pregnant. I mean, I’m sure of that. Do you understand?” This time she looked hard at me.

  I nodded and said what she was too shy to say: “You mean, you got your period afterward?”

  She spoke with eyes still down, a faint blush on her cheeks. “Yes. So I know Shirleen’s Jason’s— but look, I know I’d look trashy to some judge. I’m not trying to get money. I just don’t want other women to have to go through this.”

  Somehow I didn’t think she’d be canonized for her nobility, but I could see why she’d called Rob. She was furious, and I didn’t blame her. However, there was a tiny point we hadn’t covered. The time had come.

  Rob said, “Hilary. On the phone, you said you knew who the murderer was.”

  “I do. It was someone like me.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Look, I’ve got a motive, haven’t I? There were times when I’d have liked to kill him, God forgive me. I'm a god-fearing woman, Mr. Burns. I go to church every Sunday and always have. And I still felt like I wanted to kill that man. I know it was wrong, but I did. And I know … I just know … that that’s who did it. Someone like me.”

  “But who?”

  “Well, I don’t know her name. I just know her profile. Isn’t that how cops catch people— with profiles?”

  “Look, Hilary, have you talked to the police about this?”

  “No. I wanted to get it in the paper, that’s why I called you.” She was getting panicky now. It made her whiny.

  “If I write about it, the police are going to come calling, and they’re probably going to ask you where you were on the night of the murder.”

  “I was here! I’m always here. With Shirleen.”

  “You weren’t with any adults?”

  “What does that matter? Shirleen’s still nursing— I couldn’t leave her alone. That should be obvious to anybody!”

  “Hey, Hey, take it easy.”

  “Well, whose side are you on, anyway? I think you should go. I think you should both just go.”

  It was starting to be a very appealing idea. But there was one thing I had to ask. “There’s a woman…” I hoped she’d think I meant a woman involved with Jason. “Do you know a Chris Nicholson, by any chance?”

  She didn’t change expression. “I never heard of any Chris Nicholson, and I want you out of my house now.” We left.

  “Is that,” said Rob, “what they mean by contemporary female rage?”

  “I think that’s what they mean by a fruitcake.”

  “She’s got a reason to be mad.”

  “Yes, but she’s volatile. That’s what’s scary about her. Remind me to ask Chris if she could possibly know her.”

  “At least we finally met someone who says she slept with him.”

  “Oh, Sarah does, too. I wonder if she’s got a baby.” But Sarah had neither baby, dog, nor hamster. She had cats— a round, unmoving calico who could have been the model for T.S. Eliot’s Gumby cat, a lithe, quick gray shadow with a whiplike tail, and a pathetic black kitten who reminded me a lot of my first impression of Hilary. I wondered if he had as dark a side as she did.

  We’d come unannounced, catching Sarah in the middle of broiling a steak, but she turned it off, said she’d eat later, she was glad to see us, and would we like a drink. Following Rob’s rule of thumb, I asked for white wine, he had a gin and tonic, and Sarah went for bourbon and water.

  She told us about the cats, one especially. Their names were Melanie, Scarlett, and Jason, the little black one named for Sarah’s lost love. She had found him trying to cross the street on Thursday, the day she heard the news of Jason’s death, and she had brought him home, feeling superstitious somehow: “I mean, I know he can’t really be Jason, even if you believe in reincarnation— there wouldn’t have been enough time. But it was like he was sent, because Jason wasn’t there anymore, to comfort me or something, I don’t know. Does that make sense?”

  It didn’t, but we pretended.

  “I couldn’t just leave him there, out in the cold.” I didn’t remind her it was August. “He’s such a sweet’ums, aren’t you, puss-pot?” The kitten turned tail and ran— right for me. It leapt into my lap, lay down delightedly, and started to purr. Well, I’d wanted more kittens in my life.

  “The only thing is, Melanie hates him. I think she might kill him. He really likes you, though. You wouldn’t be able to—”

  “I have fish.” But I was beginning to question the wisdom of choosing pets you could only look at over those that lay in your lap and purred. “Sarah, you were saying the other night that you and Jason had been lovers.”

  Tears welled in her eyes. “Uh-huh.”

  “We were hoping you could tell us a little about what he was like. We’re having trouble finding people who were really close to him.”

  “We were so close it was almost scary.” She took a long pull of the bourbon.

  “But I thought you didn’t know his family. His sister, I mean.”

  “It wasn’t that kind of close. It was something spiritual, something you couldn’t really name. Just a way of feeling that made all the rest of that stuff unimportant.”

  “Oh.” I tried to remember what she’d said before. “I thought
you said you two weren’t dating anymore.”

  “We weren’t. I wasn’t… I don’t think I was enough, you know, enough of anything for Jason. I wasn’t smart enough, I wasn’t pretty enough. I’m just grateful I could be close to him for a little while.” She drained her glass and went to make herself another drink.

  Rob rolled his eyes at me, but I tried not to look at him. I was feeling far too sorry for Sarah to play games behind her back.

  “How did you two meet?” I called out the question while she rattled ice cubes.

  She came back, her step light, smiling at the memory— and no doubt at the zing of bourbon in her bloodstream. “It was so romantic. It was the most romantic thing you can imagine. I work over at Books ’n’ Stuff, you know? It’s a great, great job. I get to meet all these really famous people, like wonderful authors, but usually they’re all from out of town. They come in and sign their books and leave. I used to dream that I’d meet somebody who wouldn’t even care that we don’t live in the same town, he’d just take me away with him. And then this local publisher collected a bunch of essays and things from newspapers, and two of Jason’s articles were included. It was such a little book we didn’t even have a signing. I mean how would we, anyway?— there were a million authors.

  “So one day this really cute guy came in, and he was real shy and everything. He found the book and brought it up to me, real shy. He found a page with one of his articles on it, and he said, ‘Could I show you something? This is me.’ He sort of turned red about that time and he said, ‘Would you like me to sign your stock or anything?’ I just thought he was adorable.”

  She got up to get herself another bourbon, but I was quite sure more details were coming. This was clearly a story she loved to tell.

  “I really didn’t think we were going to sell that many of the books. But he was just so cute, I couldn’t resist. I acted like we’d really love it if we did that and made this great big show of putting the books up by the register with little stickers that said, ‘Autographed Copy.’”

  “Anyway, we got to talking and kidding around, and he was so funny— I mean, he had me completely in stitches. I’d just never met anybody like that. You know, he was a lot older than me and all— I guess it never occurred to me that he’d ask me out. But two weeks later he called. Would you believe he said, ‘You probably won’t remember me?’ Like you’d forget if Mel Gibson walked into your life one day. I mean, it was like that.”

  “So you started dating.”

  “Can you believe it? We did. Me, Sarah Byers, and Jason McKendrick.”

  “And where did you go on your dates?”

  “Oh, Jason absolutely hated to go out. He just couldn’t stand it. You know, that was his whole job— going out. He said it was the last thing he wanted to do on a date, so we’d always just stay in. It was wonderful; really cozy, like we’d known each other forever— and of course that way we did get to know each other a lot faster. Something about the setting, I guess. We were like… I don’t know, sister and brother, we were so close. Only I don’t really mean that like it sounds— the sex was just incredible. I’ve never in my life felt so close to another human being. And he was sooo sweet, always bringing Chinese food or pizza so I wouldn’t have to cook.”

  Rob said, “You could be the person we’ve been looking for. We haven’t really talked to anyone else he confided in.”

  “Confided?”

  “He seems to have been rather distant with most people.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say he exactly confided in me. It wasn’t like that. We were just … soul mates is the only way I can describe it. We knew everything we needed to know about each other without words. Does that make any sense?”

  “Of course.”

  Rob looked at me like I’d betrayed him, but I wasn’t lying— I had once been fourteen.

  “What finally happened?” I said. “Why did you stop seeing him?”

  Again, tears welled. This time they spilled. “Because I blew it, that’s why. Everything was going along great, but I was stupid enough to tell him I loved him. I mean, isn’t that the way it’s supposed to be? If you love somebody, don’t you say so? Isn’t it nicer that way? But he said he wasn’t ready for that. Well, naturally, I said that was fine, he could just go at whatever pace he needed to— I wouldn’t say it again until he was ready to hear it. Because I knew he loved me. Nobody could treat me the way he did and not love me— he was the nicest guy I’ve ever met in my life. I mean, by far. They just don’t make them like that anymore.

  “But anyway, he just wasn’t ready to make a commitment. So when I called him to find out why he hadn’t called, he said he thought it was just best that we stop seeing each other for a while.” She shrugged. “And that was fine with me. I knew he’d come back.”

  “And did he?”

  I could have killed Rob— it opened the floodgates. She managed to stammer something that sounded like, “He never had a chance!” and then it was nonstop bawling for twenty minutes, with me trying to decide whether to pat her or not pat her, Rob trying to find tissues somewhere in her tiny studio, and Sarah coming thoroughly unglued.

  Finally, when the attack began to subside, Rob cleared his throat. “I’m sorry this is so hard for you, Ms. Byers. But I know that you of all people want to make sure Jason’s…” Rob couldn’t bring himself to say “murderer,” and I didn’t blame him. Talking to Sarah Byers was really no different from talking to a child. He finally said, “I mean, I know you want to help us. What we were wondering is whether Jason ever talked to you about any enemies he might have had— anybody who had it in for him, wanted to do him harm.”

  “No way! Didn’t you see the crowd at his wake? That man was universally loved. There wasn’t a person in the whole city who didn’t absolutely worship him.”

  “Somebody killed him.”

  “A crazy person, probably. I’m sure it’ll turn out to be someone who never knew Jason at all.”

  I don’t think I ever in my life saw a man gulp fresh air like Rob did when we were out of there. He staggered to the car, a broken man. “Rebecca, let’s get a drink.”

  “You’re supposed to be a hard-boiled reporter.”

  “I’m a wreck. Next time let’s go watch a baby having open heart surgery or something. Something I can handle.”

  I had to admit it had been pretty harrowing. We drove back to the Chronicle, where Rob had left his car, and headed for the M&M, where generations of similarly wrecked reporters had drowned their sorrows. “One thing,” he said, beer safely in hand and about three-quarters down the hatch, “a pattern seems to be emerging.”

  “You mean about Jason’s women?”

  “Yes. A first string and a second string, but he only slept with the second string.”

  “I thought a pattern was supposed to make sense.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Carolyn Perimutter consulted her notes. “It says here you think you have a lump in your breast.”

  “Carolyn. I do have a lump in my breast. I’ve felt it about eight times.”

  “Well, let’s have a look.”

  As I lay back with my hands behind my head, the prescribed posture for breast examinations, I was aware of how wet my palms were. Fresh sweat was breaking out in my armpits. Every time fingers touched skin, I flinched.

  “Nervous, huh?”

  I’d been going to Carolyn for ten years. What did I have to hide? “Scared shitless.”

  She stopped, pawing over an area— the one where The Thing was— a little more thoroughly; then she did it again. Without saying anything, she went on to the other breast. She wasn’t going to say a word until she’d finished the exam. But I couldn’t stand it. “What do you think?”

  “I feel something, but it’s fibrous. I want to see if I can get fluid out of it.”

  “What’s that about?”

  “If I get fluid, we don’t have to worry.”

  I watched her attach a needle to its syringe. At least
it was a small one.

  “Okay, try to relax.”

  Sure.

  “Ouch.”

  “Okay. Let’s wait a minute while that gets numb.”

  “That wasn’t it?”

  “That was the xylocaine.” Now she attached a businesslike needle. I averted my eyes.

  A moment later Carolyn was saying, “You can sit up now,” by which I imagined the worst was over.

  I rose, pulling up the hospital gown. She said, “I’d like to refer you to Charlie Suzawa. He’s an excellent surgeon; really a prince of a guy, I promise you. Honestly, I refer everyone to him now.”

  I couldn’t believe what she was saying. Hadn’t she left out a chapter or three? “You didn’t get any fluid?”

  “No, I didn’t. And with a lump as big as this one, I really think we need a surgeon’s opinion.”

  “Oh, opinion. I thought I was going under the knife.”

  “He might— well, he’ll probably want a biopsy.”

  A biopsy. There it was, the B word. I’d been expecting this; I had known I’d get sent for a biopsy. Why was the word so awful? Why was my heart pounding so hard? Because I was flat-out terrified, that was why. All it took was that one little word to reduce a competent lawyer to boneless protoplasm, a quivering puddle in the corner.

  I got in my car and found my hands were shaking. Okay. I wouldn’t drive drunk, and I shouldn’t drive boneless. I got out and walked around the block, trying to breathe deeply, to banish the thing at least long enough to restore muscle coordination. But there is something about a purely physical fear without adrenaline behind it— it doesn’t seem to respond to ordinary attempts to get rid of it. I finally got in and drove, the steering wheel so slick from sweat I knew I was dead if I had to react suddenly. Slow and easy, I thought; it’s just a few blocks. Some creep on my rear end leaned on his horn, and the fear doubled. The car swerved nearly out of control, but I got it back in its lane. The creep passed on the right. If I’d had a coronary, my estate could have sued big.