Double

7: McCone

When I arrived at ten the next morning, the Casa del Rey’s lobby was much less crowded than it had been the afternoon before. Guests sat around on the heavy Victorian furniture; a few of them wore convention badges; some of them looked hung over. A Japanese family with two little girls in fluffy pink dresses posed for a photograph in front of — strangely enough — the rental-car counter. Otherwise all was quiet.

I stopped a bellboy and asked the way to the hotel offices. He indicated a door marked PRIVATE to the left of the registration desk. I crossed the lobby and went through it, finding that all luxury stopped just over the sill.

The carpet was gray and institutional, the walls devoid of pictures. The only furnishings were a bank of steel file cabinets and a secretary’s desk. An unkempt young woman sat hunched over a typewriter, dabbing white correction fluid onto the paper. When I asked for Elaine, she motioned wordlessly at one of the doors in the opposite wall. I went over and knocked, and Elaine’s voice called for me to come in.

She and two other women were seated at a cloth-covered table from room service, the remains of breakfast in front of them. Elaine immediately got up and fetched me a chair. She told the others who I was, then said, “Sharon, these are fellow members of the Professional Women’s Forum executive committee — Karyn Sugarman and June Paxton.”

Karyn Sugarman, a willowy, long-haired blonde, nodded at me. She lounged in her chair with a fashion model’s grace, her black sleeveless dress reinforcing her stylish appearance. The dress completely eclipsed my crisp white pants and blue silk blouse that had seemed very sophisticated when I’d put them on at home. If I’d been alone in the room with her, I’d probably have felt like a teenybopper, but as it was, June Paxton neutralized Sugarman’s effect.

Paxton was probably in her mid-fifties — at least fifteen years older than Sugarman, I guessed — and everything about her was round. She had a plump little face, china-saucer eyes, and a roly-poly body. Her hair was nondescript brown, done up in tight little curls, and she wore bright turquoise polyester that must have come straight off the rack in a bargain basement. When she smiled, though, it was with genuine friendliness, and her blue eyes sparkled.

“Sit down,” Elaine directed me. “Can I get you something to eat?”

“No, thanks. I’ll take some coffee, though, if you have any.”

She poured coffee from a silver pot, and I watched her closely. Although she was as immaculately groomed as ever — wearing pale pink today — there still were dark circles under her eyes that spoke of a bad night, and her hand shook as she passed me the cup. I frowned, wondering what was wrong in my friend’s life; if I could get her to talk about it, maybe I could help.

“Are you sure you don’t want something to eat?” June Paxton asked in a motherly way. “I think there’s a croissant left over.”

“Really, no. I’m visiting my family, and my mother forced a big breakfast down me.”

“It’s just as well,” Karyn Sugarman said. “The croissants were tough. How on earth can this hotel make a croissant the consistency of shoe leather, Elaine?”

Elaine merely shrugged — wearily, I thought.

“Probably made them with margarine instead of butter,” Paxton said, reaching for the object under discussion. “If no one else wants it?”

We all shook our heads.

I said to the table in general, “So what has your executive committee been deciding?”

“Nothing earthshaking,” Sugarman said. “We just went over the program for next week’s dinner meeting. It’s to be held here at the hotel.”

“How often do you meet?”

“Once a month for dinner, although we have occasional breakfasts with speakers,” Elaine said.

“What kinds of speakers?”

“Oh, anyone whose talk might be beneficial to the membership. Time-management people, financial planners, small-business consultants...”

Sugarman took up the conversation. “Once we even had a color consultant come in — one of those people who charge you a couple of hundred dollars to tell you what color clothes to wear.”

“When you could figure that out for free by holding the clothes up to your face,” Paxton said. “If you turn green, it’s no go. Otherwise—”

“Well, June, some people like to be told.” The way Sugarman looked at Paxton’s bright polyester dress clearly said she thought she could benefit from such a consultation. “Anyway, the speakers aren’t the real purpose of the Forum. It’s more social, in a business sense, of course.”

“How do you mean?”

“Networking.” When I looked blank, she went on. “The men in this country have always had old-boy networks — from the Jaycees on the small-town level, right up to the President’s buddies who get the Cabinet positions or the fat defense contracts. Now that women are moving into the professions and going into business for themselves, we need that kind of thing too. The Forum helps us establish the necessary connections.”

“I see.”

Sugarman’s mouth twisted sardonically. “Of course, we don’t go in for it on the same level the men do. For instance, none of us feel compelled to take off on a retreat like the Bohemian Club members. Running around in the redwoods and putting on skits wearing the opposite sex’s clothing is not for us.”

Paxton popped the last piece of croissant into her mouth and said around it, “Don’t be such a stuffed shirt, Karyn. I’ve always wanted to see someone like Henry Kissinger dressed up in heels and a miniskirt.”

Sugarman snorted.

“Well, I wouldn’t mind hiding out in those redwoods — there’s no telling what you might see.”

“That’s racy talk for a widowed grandmother of three.”

“The old urges don’t give out when you get the first gray hair, Karyn.”

“Ladies, please.” From Elaine’s expression, I gathered this sort of bantering went on all the time.

“Anyway,” Sugarman said, “the networking concept really works. Take me — I’m a psychotherapist. Suppose I have a patient who — in addition to all sorts of weird hang-ups — needs to get his financial records in shape. I send him to June, who’s a C.P.A.”

“Yes,” Paxton said, “and when the tax auditor comes to look at the guy’s books, I recommend he stay at the Casa del Rey.”

“And,” I said, picking it up, “when the tax auditor runs amok in the flower beds here, and Elaine has to apprehend him, she sends him to Karyn for therapy.”

Paxton beamed at me. “It’s simple, you see.”

“Well, it sounds like a fine idea to me.”

“It is.” Sugarman nodded emphatically, tossing her mane of tawny hair. “It’s time we took advantage of the same methods men do. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

I studied her, wondering how she would be as a therapist. Maybe my brother John could benefit from a few sessions with her... but no, John would never put up with it. He was like the rest of us McCones, preferring to let our private demons rest undisturbed deep in our psyches, in the hope that if they went unmolested, they wouldn’t surface.

Glancing at Paxton, who was picking through the croissant flakes that remained in the bread basket, I decided it was easier to picture her going about her chosen profession. I could see her with her ledgers, placing neat round figures in long straight columns, and telling her clients — between explanations of debits and credits — about a perfectly divine recipe she’d tried the night before.

I looked back at Elaine, about to ask when we would start the grand tour she’d promised, but saw that she was far away again, wrapped up in some private worrisome thoughts of her own. Elaine, I wondered, are your private demons becoming restive?

The door opened suddenly, and the hotel manager, Lloyd Beddoes, stuck his head in. “Elaine?”

She started and looked up.

Beddoes came into the office. He wore a crisp vanilla-colored suit that accented his slim waist and broad shoulders. “I need to talk with you. There was a security problem out at the bungalows last night. Drunks traipsing around after midnight and annoying the guests.”

“Of course, Lloyd.” She got up slowly, as if not fully awakened from her reverie. “We were just winding up.”

Karyn Sugarman was gathering her purse and briefcase, ignoring Beddoes. June Paxton, however, was staring at him in open admiration. She put a hand to her hair and patted her curls.

Elaine looked at me. “Sharon, I’m sorry, but I guess the tour will have to wait.”

“That’s okay. There’s plenty else I can do.”

Beddoes said, “I’ll see you in my office, Elaine,” and went out.

Paxton stood up. “My goodness, every time I see that man I can’t help thinking what a truly fine figure he cuts!”

“June, for God’s sake.” Sugarman rolled her eyes.

“Well, he does. Like I said, the old urges... Elaine, he’s not married, is he?”

“No.”

“I’d sure like to get to know him better. Couldn’t you arrange an intimate little gathering for some of your good friends?”

“I don’t think you’d like Lloyd,” Elaine said curtly.

“Oh, you just say that because he’s your boss and he gives you a hard time.”

“Come on, June,” Sugarman said. “Let’s get out of here so Elaine can go to her meeting.”

“But—”

“She’s right, you know. You wouldn’t like Lloyd.”

“Why not?”

Sugarman exchanged a look with Elaine that could only be termed guarded. “Lloyd has some... strange interests.”

“Interests?”

“Hobbies.”

“Like what?”

Sugarman hesitated.

“Like what? You brought it up — now tell me.”

Sugarman gave a resigned sigh. “Like pornography. Among other things.”

“Oh, that. A lot of people are into that.”

“Maybe so, but it’s not your cup of tea.”

“You Jungians think you know it all.”

“We certainly do.” Sugarman caught Paxton’s arm and moved her toward the door. “Nice to meet you, Sharon. Elaine, I’ll escort June to her car. That way, Mr. Beddoes will be free to run his hotel in peace.” She paused, looked back at Elaine, and added, “And remember, we have to talk about that other matter soon.”

Elaine nodded wearily. “Yes, I know.”

They went out, Paxton’s voice chirping good-natured protests.

Elaine smiled wanly at me. “I’m sorry about the tour.”

“That’s okay. Your job comes first.”

Her drawn face showed real dismay, however, and I smiled reminiscently, remembering the days when I’d worked for her at Huston’s. Elaine had been more a big sister than a boss — always there for those on her staff, always ready with the word of advice, the listening ear, or simply the commiserating pat on the shoulder. She’d helped me through numerous family crises; she’d counseled others about their love lives; she’d loaned money, given rides home, and gone to bat with management when an employee’s performance had been adversely affected by personal problems.

I would never forget the night when, leaving the store at ten-thirty, I’d encountered her in the cosmetics department where she’d once been a saleswoman. One of the new clerks was in tears over an enormous cash shortage, and Elaine was sitting beside her on the floor, calmly going through the cash register receipts. The other woman was doing more snuffling and crying than helping, but Elaine was unperturbed. She kept saying in soothing tones, “It’s all right. We’ll fix this if it takes all night. I know you didn’t steal the money.”

That was Elaine; she’d cared deeply for the people around her. And I suspected, in spite of whatever might be troubling her, that the same concern and consideration persisted to this day.

Now she asked me, “Are you planning to come to my panel on hotel security?”

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

“Good. I’m sure to be finished with Lloyd by then.”

At the mention of Beddoes, I wanted to ask her if it was true about him being interested in porn, as Sugarman had indicated. Somehow it didn’t fit with his elegant appearance. But time was running short, and we’d have an opportunity to discuss that later. “In the meantime,” I added, “I’ll stroll up to the mezzanine and see what’s happening.”

It was quiet up there, with no one staffing the registration desk and only about a dozen people wandering through the displays in the room behind it. I spotted the good-looking lie-detector salesman and remembered he’d promised me a demonstration, so I went over to his display and he cheerfully consented to hook me up to the polygraph apparatus.

Soon I was seated beside the table, the sensors attached to my arms, watching the steel pens chart my truthfulness. A small crowd gathered as I answered such questions as how long I was in town for, was I married, and would I be interested in dinner at a little seafood restaurant on Coronado.

I lied, saying, “forever,” “yes,” and “no,” and the pens zigzagged all over the chart.