Blood Test

19

To trust someone is to take the greatest risk of all. Without trust nothing ever happens.

The issue, at this juncture, wasn’t whether or not to take the risk. It was who could be trusted.

There was Del Hardy of course, but I didn’t see him, or the police in general, as being much help. They were professionals who dealt with facts. All I had to offer were vague suspicions and intuitive dread. Hardy would hear me out politely, thank me for my input, tell me not to worry, and that would be it.

The answers I needed had to come from an insider; only someone who had known the Swopes in life could shed light on their deaths.

Sheriff Houten had seemed straight. But like many a large frog in a small pond, he’d overidentified with his role. He was the law in La Vista and crime was a personal affront. I recalled his anger at my suggestion that Woody and Nona might be somewhere in town. Such things simply didn’t happen on his turf.

That kind of paternalism bred a make-nice approach exemplified by the formal coexistence between the town and the Touch. On the positive side it could lead to tolerance, on the negative, tunnel vision.

I couldn’t turn to Houten for help. He wouldn’t welcome inquiries by outsiders under any circumstances and the hassles with Raoul were certain to have firmed his defenses. Neither could I waltz into town and strike up conversations with strangers. For a moment it seemed hopeless, La Vista a locked box.

Then I thought of Ezra Maimon.

There’d been a simple dignity and independence of spirit about the man that had impressed me. He’d walked into a mess and cleaned it up within minutes. Representing an outside trouble-maker’s interests against those of the sheriff could have proved intimidating to a less resolute man. Maimon had taken the job seriously and had done it damn well. He had spine and smarts.

Equally important, he was all I had.

I got his number from information and dialed it.

He answered the phone “Rare Fruit and Seed Company” in the same quiet voice I remembered.

“Mr. Maimon, Alex Delaware. We met at the sheriff’s station.”

“Good afternoon, Dr. Delaware. How is Dr. Melendez-Lynch?”

“I haven’t seen him since that day. He was pretty depressed.”

“Yes. Such a tragic state of affairs.”

“That’s why I called you.”

“Oh?”

I told him of Valcroix’s death, the attempt on my life, and my conviction that the situation would never be resolved without delving into the history of the Swopes, finishing with a straight-out plea for help.

There was silence on the other end and I knew he was deliberating, just as he had after Houten presented his case. I could almost hear the wheels turning.

“You’ve got a personal stake in this,” he said finally.

“That’s a big part of it. But there’s more. Woody Swope’s disease is curable. There’s no reason for him to die. If he’s alive I want him found and treated.”

More silent cerebration.

“I’m not sure I know anything that will help you.”

“Neither am I. But it’s worth a try.”

“Very well.”

I thanked him profusely. We agreed that meeting in La Vista was out of the question. For both our sakes.

“There’s a restaurant in Oceanside named Anita’s where I dine regularly,” he said. “I’m a vegetarian and they serve fine meatless cuisine. Can you meet me there at nine tonight?”

It was five forty. Given even the heaviest traffic, I’d make it with time to spare.

“I’ll be there.”

“All right, then, let me tell you how to find the place.”

The directions he gave were as expected: simple, straight-forward, precise.

I paid for another two nights at the Bel Air, returned to my room and called Mal Worthy. He was out of the office but his secretary volunteered his home number.

He picked up on the first ring, sounding weary and drained.

“Alex, I’ve tried to get you all day.”

“I’m in seclusion.”

“Hiding? Why? He’s dead.”

“It’s a long story. Listen, Mal, I called for a couple of reasons. First, how did the children take it?”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. To get your advice. What a goddamned mess. Darlene didn’t want to tell them but I told her she had to. I spoke to her afterward, and she said April cried a lot, asked questions, wouldn’t let go of her skirt. She couldn’t get Ricky to talk. Kid clammed up, went into his room and wouldn’t come out. She had lots of questions and I tried my best to answer them but it’s not my area of expertise. Do those reactions sound normal?”

“Normal or abnormal isn’t the issue. Those kids have had to deal with more trauma than most people encounter in a lifetime. When I examined them in your office I felt they needed help and said so. Now it’s absolutely necessary. Make sure they get it. In the meantime keep an eye on Ricky. He identified strongly with his father. Imitative suicide isn’t out of the question. Neither is arson. If there are guns in the house get rid of them. Tell Darlene to watch him closely — keep him away from matches, knives, ropes, pills. At least until she gets him into therapy. After that she should do what the therapist says. And if the kid starts expressing his anger she should make sure not to clamp down. Even if it gets abusive.”

“I’ll pass it on. I’d like you to see them once they get back to L.A.”

“I can’t, Mal. I’m too close to the whole thing.” I gave him the names of two other psychologists.

“All right,” he said, with some reluctance. “I’ll give her the referrals, make sure she calls one of them.” He paused. “I’m staring out the window. Place looks like a barbecue pit. Firemen sprayed it with something that’s supposed to make the smell go away but it still stinks. I keep wondering if it could have turned out differently.”

“I don’t know. Moody was programmed for violence. He had a violent upbringing. You remember the history — his own father was explosive, died in a brawl.”

“History repeats itself.”

“Get that boy in therapy and maybe it won’t.”

The whitewashed walls of Anita’s Café were backlit by lavender-tinted bulbs and trimmed with used brick. The entrance was through a lattice-wood arch. Dwarf lemon trees had been espaliered to the lattice and the fruit glowed turquoise in the artificial light.

The restaurant was tucked away, incongruously, in an industrial park, flanked on three sides by black-glass office buildings, acres of parking lot on the fourth. The songs of nightbirds mingled with the distant roar of the highway.

Inside, it was cool and dim. Baroque harpsichord music issued forth at low volume. The aroma of herbs and spices — cumin, marjoram, saffron, basil — saturated the air. Three quarters of the tables were occupied. Most of the diners looked young, hip, affluent. They spoke earnestly in subdued tones.

A stout blond woman in peasant blouse and embroidered skirt showed me to Maimon’s table. He rose in a courtly gesture and sat when I did.

“Good evening, Doctor.” He was dressed as before: spotless white shirt, pressed khaki trousers. His eyeglasses had slid down his nose and he pushed them back into place.

“Good evening. Thank you very much for seeing me.”

He smiled.

“You stated your case eloquently.”

The waitress, a slender girl with long dark hair and a Modigliani face, came to our table.

“They make an excellent lentil wellington,” said Maimon.

“That sounds fine.” My mind wasn’t on food.

He ordered for both of us. The waitress returned with ice water in cut-crystal goblets, pillowy slices of whole-wheat bread and two small tubs of vegetable pâté that tasted uncannily like the real thing. A paper-thin lemon slice floated in each glass.

He spread pâté on bread, took a bite, chewed slowly and deliberately. After he swallowed he asked, “How can I help you, Doctor?”

“I’m trying to understand the Swopes. What they were like before Woody’s illness.”

“I didn’t know them well. They were secretive people.”

“I keep hearing that.”

“I’m not surprised.” He sipped his water. “I moved to La Vista ten years ago. My wife and I were childless. After she died I retired from my law practice and opened up the nursery — horticulture had been my first love. One of the first things I did after settling in was to contact the other growers in the area. For the most part I was welcomed warmly. Traditionally, horticulturists and orchardists are cordial people. So much of our progress depends upon cooperation — one grower will obtain seeds from an unusual species and distribute it to the others. It’s in the best interests of all— scientifically and economically. A fruit that no one tastes will eventually die out, as did so many of the old American apples and pears. One that achieves some degree of circulation will survive.

“I’d expected to be welcomed warmly by Garland Swope, because he was my neighbor. It was a naive expectation. I dropped in on him one day and he stood by his gate, not inviting me in, curt, almost to the point of hostility. Needless to say, I was taken aback. Not only by the unfriendliness but also by his lack of desire to show off — most of us love to exhibit our prize hybrids and rare specimens.”

The food came. It was surprisingly good, the lentils intriguingly spiced and wrapped in filo dough. Maimon ate sparingly then put his fork down before speaking again.

“I left quickly and never went back, though our properties are less than a mile apart. There were other growers in the area interested in collaboration and I quickly forgot about Swope. About a year later I attended a convention in Florida on the cultivation of subtropical Malaysian fruits. I met several people who’d known him and they explained his behavior.

“It seems the man was a grower in name only. He’d been prominent at one time, but hadn’t done anything for years. There’s no nursery behind his gates, only an old house and acres of dust.”

“What did the family live on?”

“Inheritance. Garland’s father was a state senator, owned a large ranch and miles of coastal land. He sold some to the government, the rest to developers. Much of the proceeds were immediately lost to bad investments, but apparently there was enough left to support Garland and his family.”

He looked at me with curiosity.

“Does any of this help you?”

“I don’t know. Why did he give up horticulture?”

“Bad investments of his own. Have you heard of the cherimoya?”

“There’s a street in Hollywood by that name. Sounds like a fruit.”

He wiped his lips.

“You’re correct. It is a fruit. One that Mark Twain called ‘deliciousness of deliciousness.’ Those who’ve tasted it are inclined to agree. It’s subtropical in nature, native to the Chilean Andes. Looks somewhat like an artichoke or a large green strawberry. The skin is inedible. The pulp is white and textured like custard, laced with many large, hard seeds. Some joke that the seeds were put there by the gods so the fruit wouldn’t be consumed with undue haste. One eats it with a spoon. The taste is fantastic, Doctor. Sweet and tangy, with perfumed overtones of peach, pear, pineapple, banana, and citrus, but a totality that is unique.

“It’s a wonderful fruit, and according to the people in Florida, Garland Swope was obsessed with it. He considered it the fruit of the future and was convinced that once the public tasted it, there would be instant demand. He dreamed of doing for the cherimoya what Sanford Dole had done for the pineapple. Even went so far as to name his first child after it— Annona cherimola is the full botanical name.”

“Was it a realistic dream?”

“Theoretically. It’s a finicky tree, requiring a temperate climate and consant moisture, but adaptable to the subtropical strip that runs along the coast of California from the Mexican border up through Ventura County. Wherever avocadoes grow so can the cherimoya. But there are complications that I’ll come to.

“He bought up land on credit. Ironically, much of it had originally been owned by his father. Then he went on expeditions to South America and brought back young trees. Propagated seedlings and planted his orchard. It took several years for the trees to reach fruiting size, but finally he had the largest cherimoya grove in the state. During all this time he’d been traveling up and down the state, talking up the fruit with produce buyers, telling them of the wonders that would soon be blossoming in his groves.

“It must have been an uphill battle, for the palate of the American public is quite unadventurous. As a nation, we don’t consume much fruit. The ones we do eat have gained familiarity over centuries. The tomato was once believed poisonous, the eggplant thought to cause madness. Those are just two examples. There are literally hundreds of tantalizing food plants that would thrive in this climate but are ignored.

“However, Garland was persistent and it paid off. He received advance orders for most of his crop. Had the cherimoya caught on he would have cornered the market on a gourmet delicacy and ended up a rich man. Of course, the corporate growers would have moved in eventually and coopted everything, but that would have taken years and even then, his expertise would have been highly marketable.

“Almost a decade after he conceived his plan the first year’s crop set — that in itself was an achievement. In its native habitat the cherimoya is pollinated by an indigenous wasp. Duplicating the process requires painstaking hand pollination — pollen from the anthers of one flower is brushed on the pistils of another. Time of day is important as well, for the plant undergoes fertility cycles. Garland babied the trees almost as if they were human infants.”

Maimon took off his glasses and wiped them. His eyes were dark and unblinking.

“Two weeks before harvest a killing frost borne by frigid air currents crept up from Mexico. There’d been a rash of tropical storms that had battered the Caribbean and the frost was an aftershock. Most of the trees died overnight and the ones that survived dropped their fruit. There was a frantic attempt at rescue. Several of the people I met in Florida had been there to help. They described it to me: Garland and Emma running through the groves with smudgepots and blankets, trying to wrap the trees, warm the soil, do anything to save them. The little girl watching them and crying. They struggled for three days but it was hopeless. Garland was the last to accept it.”

He shook his head sadly.

“Years of work were lost in a span of seventy hours. After that he withdrew from horticulture and became a virtual hermit.”

It was a classic tragedy — dreams savaged by the Fates. The agony of helplessness. Terminal despair.

I began to catch a glimpse of what Woody’s diagnosis must have meant to them:

Cancer in a child was never less than monstrous. For any parent it meant confronting a sickening sense of impotence. But for Garland and Emma Swope the trauma would be compounded, the inability to save their child evoking past failures. Perhaps unbearably …

“Is all of this well-known?” I asked.

“To anyone who’s lived here for a while.”

“What about Matthias and the Touch?”

“That I couldn’t tell you. They moved here a few years ago. May or may not have found out. It’s not a topic of public conversation.”

He smiled the waitress over and ordered a pot of herb tea. She brought it, along with two cups, which she filled.

He sipped, put his cup down, and looked at me through the steam.

“You still harbor suspicions about the Touch,” he said.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “There’s no real reason to. But something about them is spooky.”

“Somewhat contrived?”

“Exactly. It all looks too programmed. Like a movie director’s version of what a cult should be.”

“I agree with you, Doctor. When I heard Norman Matthews had become a spiritual leader I was rather amused.”

“You knew him?”

“By reputation only. Anyone in the legal profession had heard of him. He was the quintessential Beverly Hills attorney — bright, flamboyant, aggressive, ruthless. None of which jibed with what he presently claims to be. Still, I suppose odder transformations have taken place.”

“Someone took a pot shot at me yesterday. Can you see them doing that kind of thing?”

He thought about it.

“Their public face has been anything but violent. If you told me Matthews was a swindler I’d believe it. But a murderer…” He looked doubtful.

I took a different tack.

“What kind of relationship was there between the Touch and the Swopes?”

“None, I would imagine. Garland was a recluse. Never came to town. Occasionally I’d see Emma or the girl out shopping.”

“Matthias told me Nona worked for the Touch one summer.”

“That’s true. I’d forgotten.” He turned away and fiddled with a container of unfiltered honey.

“Mr. Maimon, forgive me if this sounds rude, but I don’t see you forgetting anything. When Matthias talked about Nona, the sheriff got uncomfortable, as you just did. Broke in with a comment about what a wild kid she was, as if to end the discussion. You’ve been very helpful until now. Please don’t hold back.”

He put his glasses back on, stroked his chin, started to lift his teacup but thought better of it.

“Doctor,” he said evenly, “you seem a sincere young man and I want to help you. But let me explain the position I’m in. I’ve lived here for a decade but still consider myself an outsider. I’m a Sephardic Jew, descended from the great scholar Maimonides. My ancestors were expelled from Spain in 1492, along with all the Jews. They settled in Holland, were expelled from there, went to England, Palestine, Australia, America. Five hundred years of wandering gets into the blood, makes one reluctant to think in terms of permanence.

“Two years ago, a member of the Ku Klux Klan was nominated for state assembly from this district. Part of it was subterfuge— the man concealed his membership — but too many people knew who he was to make the nomination an accident. He lost the election but shortly afterward there were cross-burnings, anti-Semitic leafleting, an epidemic of racist graffiti and harassment of Mexican-Americans along the border.

“I’m not telling you this because I think La Vista is a hotbed of racism. On the contrary, I’ve found it an extremely tolerant town, as witnessed by the smooth integration of the Touch. But attitudes can change rather quickly — my forebears were court physicians to the Spanish royal family one week, refugees the next.” He warmed both hands on his cup. “Being an outsider means exercising discretion.”

“I know how to keep a secret,” I said. “Anything you tell me will be kept confidential unless lives are at stake.”

He engaged in another bout of silent contemplation, the delicate features solemn and still. We locked eyes for a moment.

“There was some kind of trouble,” he said. “Exactly what kind was never publicized. Knowing the girl, it had to be of a sexual nature.”

“Why’s that?”

“She had a reputation for promiscuity. I don’t seek out gossip, but in a small town one overhears things. There’s always been something libidinous about the girl. Even at twelve or thirteen when she walked through town every male head would turn. She exuded — physicality. I’d always thought it strange that she sprang from such a withdrawn, isolated family — as if somehow she’d sucked the sexual energy from the others and ended up with more than she could handle.”

“Do you have any idea what happened at the Retreat?” I asked, though from Doug Carmichael’s story, I had a strong hypothesis.

“Only that her job was terminated abruptly and snickers and whispers circulated around town for the next few days.”

“And the Touch never hired town kids again.”

“Correct.”

The waitress brought the check. I put down my credit card. Maimon thanked me and called for another pot of tea.

“What was she like as a little girl?” I asked.

“I have only vague memories — she was a pretty little thing— that red hair always stood out. Used to pass by my place and say hello, always very friendly. I don’t think the problems started until she was twelve or so.”

“What kinds of problems?”

“What I told you. Promiscuity. Wild behavior. She started running with a bunch of older kids — the ones with fast cars and motorcycles. I suppose things got out of hand because they sent her away to boarding school. That I remember vividly because on the morning she left Garland’s car broke down on the way to the train station. Just gave out in the middle of the road, a few yards from my nursery. I offered to give them a lift but of course he refused. Left her sitting there with her suitcase until he came back with a truck. She looked like a sad little child, though I suppose she must have been at least fourteen. As if all the mischief had been knocked out of her.”

“How long was she away?”

“A year. She was different when she returned — quieter, more subdued. But still sexually precocious, in an angry kind of way.”

“What do you mean?”

He flushed and drank tepid tea.

“Predatory. One day she walked into my nursery wearing shorts and a halter top. Out of the blue. Said she’d heard I had a new kind of banana and she wanted to see it. It was true — I’d brought in several fifteen-gallon Dwarf Cavendish plants from Florida and had taken a lovely bunch of fruit to the town market for display. I wondered why she’d be interested in something like that, but showed her the plants anyway. She looked them over in a cursory manner and smiled — lasciviously. Then she leaned over and gave me a frank view of her chest, picked a banana and began eating it in a rather crude manner—” He stopped, stammered—“You’ll have to excuse me, Doctor, I’m sixty-three, from another generation, and it’s hard for me to be as uninhibited about this kind of thing as is fashionable.”

I nodded, trying to seem empathetic. “You look much younger.”

“Good genes.” He smiled. “Anyway, that’s the story. She made a production out of eating the banana, smiled at me again and told me it was delicious. Licked her fingers and ran off down the road. The encounter unnerved me because even as she vamped there’d been hatred in her eyes. A strange mixture of sex and hostility. It’s hard to explain.”

He sipped his tea, then asked, “Has any of this been relevant?”

Before I could answer the waitress returned with the charge slip. Maimon insisted upon leaving the tip. It was a generous one.

We walked out to the parking lot. The night was cool and fragrant. He had the springy step of a man a third his age.

His truck was a long-bed Chevy pickup. Conventional tires. He took out his keys and asked, “Would you like to stop by and visit my nursery? I’d like to show you some of my most fascinating specimens.”

He seemed eager for companionship. He’d unloaded a lot of alienation, probably for the first time. Self-expression can become habit forming.

“It would be my pleasure. Could being seen with me cause problems for you?”

He smiled and shook his head.

“Last I heard, Doctor, this was still a free country. I’m located several miles southeast of town. Up in the foothills where most of the big groves are. You’ll follow me, but in case we disconnect I’ll give you directions. We’ll cut under the freeway, ride parallel with it, and turn right on an unmarked road — I’ll slow down so you don’t miss it. At the foot of the mountains there’ll be a left turn onto an old utility trail. Too narrow for commercial vehicles and it floods when the rains come. But this time of year it’s a handy shortcut.”

He went on for a while before I realized he was directing me to the back road I’d seen on the county map in the sheriff’s office. The one that bypassed the town. When I’d asked Houten about it he’d said it was sealed off by the oil company. Perhaps he considered a utility trail too insignificant to be thought of as a road. Or maybe he’d lied.

I wondered about it as I got into the Seville.