Liar

27

“Come in,” I called.

It was Mary, and by the hall light I could see she had a rather festively colored, comfy-looking robe on. She sat next to the bed, and took my hand. “You poor thing,” she said. “Anything I can get you?”

“I’ll be all right,” I said.

She sat next me, reminiscing for a little while about the numerous childhood injuries I had sustained, recalling some scrapes and bumps and a rather spectacular fall from a tree. All the while she softly stroked my hair the way my father used to do when I was little, whenever I had had a particularly bad day, and I wondered drowsily if she had comforted him in this same way when he was a boy. I don’t remember falling asleep or hearing her leave the room.

She didn’t wake me the next morning to go to Mass, but she took Travis to St. Matthew’s with her while I slept in. Later they dropped me off at my house, where I got into the Karmann Ghia, put the top down and headed for Huntington Beach. They were going shopping-in the Mustang-while I went to talk to the DeMonts.

I took the coast route, even though Pacific Coast Highway was bound to have heavy summer traffic. As it turned out, I didn’t have to pay too high a price for choosing it over the inland route; PCH was crowded, but the traffic moved. No local would think of expecting more.

I crossed the bridge over Anaheim Bay, passed the wildlife refuge and took my last good look at nature until I reached Warner Avenue. For the next few miles, the highway is dominated by a motley assortment of buildings: houses, bars, surf shops and restaurants.

Technically, Huntington Beach begins on the left side of the highway just over the bridge, the right side belonging to Surfside and Sunset Beach. But growing up in an area where there are now high school classes that will teach you how to hang ten, I had long ago developed other ideas about true local geography. For me, the real Huntington Beach begins when you get within sight of the pier. The two beaches on either side of that pier boast some of the most well-known surfing territory on the coast. That’s Huntington Beach.

Before long, I was at the edge of the oil fields that brought on the first boom years in Huntington Beach, back in the 1920s. There were still big platforms just off the coast, but fewer and fewer signs of drilling on shore. Most of the oil fields had given way to developments packed with large, imitation villas in pastel stucco on streets with names like “Sea-point” and “Princeville” and “Castlewood.”

I took a last look at the water before turning left on Golden West, still thinking about my surfing days, wondering if I d ever work up the nerve to paddle out again.

The DeMonts lived in a section of the city that was older that the ones I had just passed; their homes were on one of the numbered streets between Main and Golden West. Although the neighborhood was older, that didn’t mean the homes were-it soon became apparent that most of the original structures on these streets had given way to new buildings. The result was a mixture of housing: many of the lots had condos and apartment buildings on them; others, large single-family dwellings; a few were smaller, older homes. There was even a strip of colorful faux Victorians.

I turned right on Acacia, found the street I was looking for and slowed when I came to the address for Leda DeMont Rose and her father, Horace-a corner lot. I got lucky with parking and found a space not far away, then walked back to the corner.

It was a large house, though not among the very newest on the street. Judging by its design, I thought it probably had been built in the 1970s. I studied the addresses and realized that Robert’s home was on the same side of the street, at the beginning of the next block, on the opposite corner of the intersection. His was a single-story crackerbox that was probably built in the 1940s. My guess was that a similar house had originally occupied Leda’s lot.

While Leda’s property was neatly kept, her brother’s was a little less so. Robert’s place could have used a coat of paint, and looking at the brown, patchy grass in his yard, I saw that no one could accuse him of wasting water on a lawn. The place wasn’t so far gone that you’d call it an eyesore, but it didn’t look like the owner had a lot of domestic enthusiasm.

I stood debating which household I should upset first, and decided that even in my current condition, I could take on a guy who was almost a hundred and live to fight another day. I wasn’t sure how old Robert was, but Gerald’s story about Robert’s arrest was enough to make me decide to save Robert for round two.

There was a low wooden fence around the front yard of Leda De-Mont’s home; I lifted the latch on the gate and made my way along a set of long, flat platforms set at right angles to one another. The platforms served as steps. On either side of each platform were carefully pruned bushes and shrubs that added privacy as well as greenery. The platforms ended at a deck that was concealed from the street by more plant life. At one end of the deck was a small rock grotto with a stream of water flowing through it. The water pooled at its base; the flow produced a soft gurgling, a not-quite-babbling brook effect.

Tall, ornate double doors stood across from the grotto. Looking at those doors, I made a set of predictions: cathedral ceilings, Italian marble entry, a huge stone fireplace, a loft, white walls and white carpet, and-not really going out on a limb here-lots of tinted windows on the ocean side, which was also the side that faced Robert’s place. I rang Leda’s doorbell.

I was so surprised when a young woman answered the door, I nearly forgot to congratulate myself on knowing what to expect inside. She looked to be about sixteen or seventeen. She was a pretty girl, with big brown eyes and light-brown hair, which she wore in a long braid. She had on jeans and a red tank top. She was about five-six or so, and slender.

“Hello,” I said. “Is Leda DeMont in? No, I’m sorry-is Leda Rose in?”

She pulled her gaze away from my bruised cheek and forehead, smiled and said, “Sure, just a minute.” She turned toward a hallway and shouted, “Grandma! It’s for you!”

“Who is it?” a voice called back.

“Irene Kelly,” I said, knowing the name probably wouldn’t mean anything to her.

I heard my name shouted back and forth a couple of times, then the voice in the background said, “I’ll be right there.”

Taking this for permission to let me enter, the young woman guided me to a seat on a white leather sofa.

“Would you like something to drink?” she asked.

“No, thanks. Do you live here with your grandmother?”

“No, I just come by on the weekends. I help her take care of my greatgrandfather.”

At this moment, Leda came out of the hallway. “Laurie?” she called.

“Over here, Grandma,” she answered.

Leda DeMont Rose was an older and slightly heavier version of her granddaughter. Her hair was cut short and the brown was a little less natural in shade, but their features were very similar.

She smiled at me and said, “I’m sorry, I don’t seem to remember where we’ve met.”

“We haven’t met,” I said, standing and extending a hand. “I’m Irene Kelly.” I took a breath and then launched into the story I had decided to use. “I was hoping to speak to you privately about a rather personal family matter.”

She raised a brow, then turned to her granddaughter and said, “Laurie, why don’t you keep an eye on old Grumpypuss?”

Reluctantly, and as slowly as possible, Laurie left us.

“Now,” Leda said. “What can I do for you?”

“Well, this is rather embarrassing, and I hope it won’t be too upsetting to you, but I need to talk to someone who might be able to give me some advice. I’ve been approached by a private investigator, a Mr. Richmond?”

She sat up a little straighter, but said nothing.

“Mr. Richmond claims to have some information of interest to a cousin of mine, Travis Maguire. You may think of him as Travis Spanning.”

Her lips flattened, but she didn’t say anything.

“The problem is that my own family has had very little to do with Travis. Even though his mother is my mother’s sister, we haven’t had much to do with her since the death of your own cousin, Gwendolyn.”

“The murder of my cousin,” she corrected.

“Yes. I’m sorry. But you see, my mother died not long after Travis was born, and my father didn’t like Arthur Spanning, so we never had much to do with him. My parents are no longer living, and I never heard the full story, so this isn’t a personal grudge of my own. My problem is, I suppose I could locate Travis, but before I do, I’d like to be a little more sure of Mr. Richmond. He said he worked for you.”

At that her mouth fell open in what was clearly unfeigned amazement. “He did? Why that lying scoundrel! I-I can’t believe it! Of all the unmitigated gall!”

“Excuse me?”

That man-that man is the last person I would ever hire to do any detective work for me, I can assure you! Don’t do a thing to help him! Oh! I blame him for-oh, for so much!“ she finished bitterly.

I waited.

“Mr. Richmond’s incompetence has been the cause of a great many ills, not the least of which is that my aunt’s murderer remains at large.”

“You’re speaking of Arthur Spanning?”

“No, of course not!” she said.

I was stunned. This was the last response I had expected.

“I don’t know what problem your father had with Arthur, but I can tell you that he never would have harmed Gwen.”

“Never harmed her? But he was a bigamist-”

“Yes. Yes, he was. And that was very wrong. Not that I don’t understand what led to that, but it was wrong. And that poor little boy-”

She stood up and paced, wringing her hands. “Do you think there is any chance you will find your cousin?”

“A very good chance,” I said.

She began pacing again. I decided to stay silent; she was apparently debating something with herself and I was too unsure of the territory to push her into answering questions.

“You’ve misjudged him, you know,” she said at last.

“My cousin?”

“No, Arthur. You’ve believed Richmond’s story, haven’t you?”

“Well, until I got here, I suppose I did,” I lied. “But I did think there was something about Mr. Richmond that seemed a little strange.”

“Forget Mr. Richmond. Perhaps,” she said, sitting down again, “I can do a little something to right an old wrong. Are you willing to keep an open mind, Ms. Kelly?”

“Yes, of course. And call me Irene, please.”

“All right, Irene.” Several moments passed before she spoke again. “First of all, let me tell you that your uncle Arthur never killed Gwen. If Arthur had wanted to end his marriage to Gwen, he would have divorced her. I haven’t seen him in years, but I knew Arthur then, my dear, and believe me, he would have never chosen murder over divorce. There was no reason for him to do so.”

“Her fortune-”

“Hah!”

“Pardon?”

“I said, ”Hah!“ Tell me, Irene, did you see the house across the street on your way in?” Yes.

“That’s my brother’s place. Robert DeMont. Do you know why this house looks better than that one?”

I shook my head.

“Because I married a wonderful man named Elwood Rose, and he wouldn’t let my father or brother involve him in any of their harebrained investment schemes. For a number of years, Gwen did not have such a protector, and my father and brother did a great deal of damage to that fortune.”

“I don’t understand.”

She sighed. “You’ve heard of my grandfather, Quentin DeMont-the man everyone called Papa DeMont?”

I nodded.

“He ruled that farm and everyone on it as if he were a king anointed by God. I loved him, and so did Gwen, but because my father argued with him so often, I wasn’t in Papa DeMont’s shadow the way Gwen was. You know that my grandfather raised her?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Well, my father was on the outs with Papa DeMont. Some of it was my dad’s own fault, but a lot of it was just that he wasn’t willing to be under Papa DeMont’s thumb. I later came to think that was a lucky thing for me.”

“How so?”

“Gwen never learned how to stand up to him, or anyone else, for that matter. And I think Papa thought he’d be able to take care of her forever, so he didn’t teach her the things she needed to know about life. She was this hothouse flower, you might say.”

“So when he died-”

“When he died, she was just about as lost as any one soul could be. Suddenly she was being asked to cope with a set of responsibilities she was totally unprepared for-a business she had never participated in.

“I was younger than Gwen, about fourteen years younger, but I swear to you, I often felt as if our age differences were reversed. I was almost thirty when Papa DeMont died, and Gwen was in her mid-forties. But I was married and raising kids, and you would have thought she was still in high school, for all she knew about getting along in the world.” She glanced toward the hallway and said, “I love my father, but I haven’t always been proud of him, and I am truly ashamed of how he took advantage of her after Papa DeMont died.”

“In what way?”

After a long silence she said, “He told her his favorite sad story, the one about how Papa DeMont didn’t love him-which was untrue-and what a rough life he had had, and on and on, giving her a spiel just as if he were panhandling back in his tramp days. Pretty soon she felt so guilty, she started opening her checkbook to him.”

“Did Arthur know?”

“They weren’t married yet. Gerald-Arthur’s brother? He used to try to warn Gwen, to tell her that there was a reason Papa DeMont never let my father have money-namely, it was spent before Daddy could fold it up and put it in his wallet. Bobby-my brother-was the same way. Both of them hated Gerald for that.”

“So if the handouts stopped when Arthur married her-”

“They didn’t. Arthur didn’t try to stop them until later. I’m not sure he realized what was going on at first-you know he was only sixteen?”

“Yes. I guess I’ve often wondered-”

“Why a sixteen-year-old boy would marry a woman that old?”

“Yes.”

She thought for a moment before answering. “I guess you would have to have known the two of them, and the situation there on the farm. It was a little world of its own, in many ways. In each of their cases, after their parents died, Gwen and Arthur had no other world, really. Gwen was afraid of most men-most people, really. She was so lonely.

“And Arthur-even as a boy, Arthur was the kind of person who wanted to be helpful. I guess he wasn’t any good in school-which I could never figure out, because he was smart, and don’t let anybody ever tell you otherwise. So when Papa DeMont let him help out in the gardens, he just-I don’t know, I’d say he changed. You could see how much happier he was to be there than at school. I think the schoolkids might have been mean to him, I don’t know. He never did like kids his age. He’d rather be around adults.”

“Were there any other children on the farm?”

She shook her head. “No. None that Gerald would let him spend any time with. So in his own way, I think he was lonely, too. He tried to make up for it by being helpful, I think, to get the adults to like him. If anyone else needed a hand, even when he was little, Arthur rushed to help them out.”

“And so he helped Gwendolyn?”

She nodded. “It was as if he was determined to do whatever he could to make her smile or laugh. To be honest, I don’t know anyone who made her smile more often. And when he got to an age where-well, boys get to be men, physically if in no other way, and if he hadn’t started thinking about the one thing that seems to take up most of the male brain, he wouldn’t have been normal, would he?”

“There weren’t any other women around?”

“You have to remember that Gerald kept as tight a rein on that kid as Papa DeMont kept on Gwen. Only I don’t think Gerald was above smacking Arthur around. He was a kid raising a kid.”

I thought of the photo of the wedding day, and wondered if that was why Arthur looked different-was his face a little swollen?

“Gerald made sure Arthur learned gardening and landscaping-and not the type of farmwork that would put him out in the fields or in the factory,” Leda was saying. “Gerald was proud if nothing else.”

“Forgive me, but Gwendolyn’s-” I hesitated, sought a word. “Gwendolyn’s availability might explain why she was his first sexual partner, but it wouldn’t explain why he married her.”

“Gerald. Gerald pushed that. It surprised me at first. At the time, I thought maybe Gerald figured he could control Arthur and Gwen’s money both-prenuptial agreement or no. I don’t mean to say that his intentions were bad. He was very fond of Gwen, and since he was one of Papa DeMont’s favorites, he was close to her, too. He was protective of her, and he resented what my father and brother were doing.”

“You had more than one brother, didn’t you?” I asked.

“I had two, but Douglas died in 1980,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Doug left home early on, and never had much to do with any of us. That may make him the smartest of the bunch. When he heard what had happened to Gwen, he was angry, and he fell for Richmond’s theory. But I think anyone who didn’t know the whole story would have believed what Harold Richmond was telling them. And of course, my father and Robert backed Richmond all the way.”

“Because they wanted the money?”

“Yes. If Arthur had been proven to be the killer, they were the next in line for money-and not just Gwen’s inheritance. They could have brought a civil suit against Arthur, and taken his money, too.”

“But you seem sure he wasn’t the killer. Why?”

“He loved Gwen. Maybe not in the way a husband should love a wife, but they were friends. He had his business. He could have left her a long time before she died and he would have been fine. But I think he was grateful to Gwen. She gave him a way to get out from under Gerald’s thumb-that was Gerald’s big surprise.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, Gerald sort of bullied Arthur. Ordered him around. Of course, Gerald was the head of the household after his folks died, and he took on a big responsibility at a young age. But he just couldn’t seem to understand that Arthur was growing up. Gwen saw it. And after the wedding, she stood up for Arthur in a way that just shocked Gerald-shocked us all, really. She encouraged Arthur to get a driver’s license and a car and to travel off the farm.”

“All the things she had never done?”

She nodded. “Exactly. And one day-I think this might have even been the day of the wedding-she told Gerald off in a way that maybe she had always wanted to tell Papa DeMont off. I had never imagined she had that much spine.”

“So Arthur felt indebted to her.”

“Oh, yes. And as he got older, I think he also saw how very much she depended on him. Maybe-”

But before she could finish her sentence, she was interrupted by a loud male voice roaring a random litany of oaths and obscenities that turned the white room blue and Leda Rose’s face red. It wasn’t just one cannonball of cussing that hit in a single shot; it was a rapid, rat-a-tat-tat, machine-gun-fire swear-o-rama. It was hard not to be impressed.

“Excuse me,” Leda said, but she was no sooner off the couch than a leathery wisp of a man wheeled himself into the room. This had to be Horace DeMont. He was closely followed by his great-granddaughter, who had her arms folded and a mulish look on her face.

You could have put three of him into that chair, and still had elbow room. He was wearing a bathrobe and pajamas, his head looked too big for his neck, and most of his hair had abandoned his mottled pate. You might not have thought he had any fire left in him until you looked at his face. There was so much anger burning there, it would probably keep Horace DeMont around long enough to get another look at Halley’s Comet.

“My father,” Leda said, having recovered her poise. She moved toward the back of the wheelchair.

“Who’s this?” he barked. There was nothing wrong with his ability to speak, but a minute earlier I had already heard more than enough to know that.

“None of your business,” she said, giving me a warning glance as she grabbed the handles of the wheelchair. “Why are you out here, Daddy?”

“I want apple juice, and that damned girl won’t get me any,” he said, taking his hands off the wheels, content to be pushed now that he had the attention of his daughter.

“We’re out of apple juice,” she said, guiding the chair back to the hallway.

Another string of expletives preceded them as they went down the hall, but they lacked the passion of the earlier performance.

“Poor Grandmother,” Laurie said, pushing a stray hair out of her eyes. “She has to put up with that all the time.”

“She must be very grateful for your help.”

She shrugged. “Somebody has to help her. Uncle Bobby’s too spaced out, fooling around with his inventions.”

“He’s an inventor?”

“Not really. To be an inventor, you have to make things that work, don’t you?”

I laughed. “I don’t know. I guess lots of inventors fail more often than they succeed while they’re working on their ideas.”

“Yes,” she said, “but they usually learn something from their mistakes, right?”

I left that one alone. “Do you visit him while you’re here?”

“Well, since his car problems, Grandmother has been making things for him to eat, and I bring them over to him. I hate it. He always wants to show me some new thingamajig that doesn’t work, or to be like his guinea pig or something. Nothing that would hurt me or anything, but it’s so weird. And then he says, ”No, wait! Wait! Just let me adjust this…‘ and that never works, either, so finally I just have to say, “Bye, Uncle Bobby, have a nice time!”“

“It sounds like your Grandmother has her hands full. Like I said, she must appreciate your help.”

She lifted a shoulder. “I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about maybe becoming one of those people who take care of old people, you know, maybe have a business doing that. It’s going to be a big business, you know. Because of all the people who are, you know, your age. The Baby Boomers. You’re all getting older.”

I laughed. “Not all of us, but for now, at least, I’d rather be in the group that is.”

She smiled. “Yeah.”

Within a few minutes, Leda came back out, looking weary. “Your great-grandfather is a mean old son of a bitch, Laurie.”

“No kidding,” Laurie said, apparently used to such proclamations.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Kelly, but I have a brother to feed and a nasty old man to calm down. I would talk to you more, but Laurie and I will be busy for a while now.”

“Please don’t apologize,” I said. “You’ve been very helpful. And I’ll tell my cousin what you said.”

“And avoid Mr. Richmond,” she added.

“Yes, I will. I wondered-since I’m on my way out anyway, would you like me to take your brother’s meal to him?”

Laurie and Leda exchanged a look that clearly said they had found a pigeon ripe for the plucking, and just weren’t sure if they had the heart to grab my feathers. “Oh, I couldn’t-” Leda began.

“Nonsense. Believe me, this is the least I can do for you after taking up your time today.”

“I’ll get it ready for you,” Laurie said, hurrying off to the kitchen before her grandmother could refuse a second time.

Leda smiled after her.

“You must be very proud of her,” I said.

“I am. She’s a good-hearted girl.” She looked up at me. “And your uncle is a good-hearted man. He deserves your forgiveness.”

“Yes,” I said, “I’m beginning to see that perhaps he does.”

“You know,” she said, “I didn’t get a chance to finish what I was saying before my father interrupted us. My dad provided a perfect example of what I was going to tell you, though.”

“I hope you weren’t about to tell me that,” I said, and she laughed.

“No, no. I meant, his situation is a good example. Until a few years ago, my father was strong and active. People always guessed him to be twenty years younger than he was. Then about five years ago, his health began to fail-and to fail quickly. It was as if those years caught up to him all at once. He hates being sick. He hates being dependent on me. He thinks of me as his jailer, not his helper. But I hate it, too. And I’m as much his prisoner as he is mine.”

Her face was set in angry lines as she said this. She looked away from me, and stared out the windows, toward her brother’s house. Gradually, her face softened, and her voice was quiet when she spoke again. “You might say, ”Just put him in a home, then.“ Maybe someday it will come to that. But right now, while I can still care for him, I can’t think of setting him aside, or leaving him to strangers-well,” she added with a smile, “not on most days.”

“No one could blame you.”

“And I can’t blame Arthur. Until you’ve been there-it’s hard to understand. But I think Gwen’s dependence on Arthur became like that. I think it made him feel confined. His business gave him his first taste of freedom. And Gwen learned to be a little more self-reliant, although if he left her alone too long, Bobby or Daddy came by looking for a handout.” She shook her head. “His so-called secret family-your aunt and your cousin-they gave him his real life, a more balanced life. I was so sorry that they didn’t stay together after Gwen was killed, although I can see why it would have been almost impossible. I’m sure your aunt felt very hurt and betrayed.”

“She did, but-things change,” I said faltering for a way to say more without admitting how many lies of one kind or another I had racked up in the last hour. “Leda, there’s so much I’d like to tell you, but I think I’ll wait until I can bring my cousin with me-if that would be all right with you? Perhaps we can come at a time when your father is sleeping or won’t be disturbed by us?”

She smiled. “That would be wonderful. I’ve never had a chance to meet Arthur’s son.”

Laurie arrived with a grocery sack but hesitated before handing it to me. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” I took it from her, said good-bye, and made my way across the street. About halfway across I had a sensation of being watched, and looked over my shoulder. I couldn’t see anyone looking out the tinted-glass windows, but I could have sworn that somewhere on the other side of that glass, Horace DeMont was boring holes in my back with his angry stare.

“Come in!” a voice called from a speaker near the front door of Robert DeMont’s home. I hesitated only for a moment before trying the door; it was unlocked. But as I opened it, I couldn’t see anyone waiting for me in the room beyond. That didn’t mean he wasn’t there-the room was not one that could be taken in at a glance. I had been able to guess the decor of Leda’s home, but even looking at the interior of Robert’s place, I wasn’t sure what I was seeing. Except for the spaces taken up by windows, the walls were lined with bookcases. Not all of these bookcases held books; many of the shelves were crowded with gadgets and tools. Apparently the books that had once occupied the shelves were stacked on the floor-not much of the floor was visible. A maze of worktables was covered with drawings, metal parts, gears, bottles of adhesives, soldering irons, magnifiers, cardboard boxes, clamps, more tools and a host of unidentifiable objects. The tables each had their own chairs; most were metal folding chairs, a few looked like used office chairs.

To my right was a door that seemed to open onto a hallway, and at the other end of the front room, another doorway, probably leading to a kitchen. No sign of DeMont.

I was about to call his name when I heard a toilet flush. I stepped inside and waited for a respectable amount of time. Just as I was about to call out, “Are you feeling okay?” I heard another flush. And another. About six in succession before he yelled, “Bring my dinner back here!”

Not especially anxious to obey, and wondering why anyone in such apparent gastric distress would want to eat-let alone eat in that particular room-I said, “I’ll just leave it on the kitchen table.”

“No you won’t!” he called and I could hear him moving down the hallway. He stopped in the doorway and looked at me. “A woman!” he grinned, “That’s great! Just what I need! What happened to your face? Oh, never mind, that’s a rude thing to ask.”

He was a big man, tall and broad-shouldered, probably in his late sixties or early seventies, but in good shape. Having heard that he was an inventor who needed to have his meals delivered, I suppose I had expected someone who would be frail and pale. He was tanned and fit and seemed perfectly capable of taking care of himself. Or anyone else, for that matter.

His hair was white, his eyes blue under snowy brows. He waved his hand to me in a “hurry up” motion and took off back down the hallway. “Come on,” he called over his shoulder, “I want to show you an invention that is going to save marriages all across America.”

What the hell, I thought, and cautiously followed, keeping my distance.

He walked into the bathroom and moved to the toilet. I was just about to turn right back around when he said, “Watch the toilet seat.”

As he stood there, facing the toilet in the classic standing male position, the seat slowly but steadily lifted. He turned to me, beaming. “Now watch!”

He moved away from it with a jaunty step and it flushed.

“Now you try it,” he said.

“Uh, no thanks,” I said.

He gave me a sly smile and said, “Okay, you big chicken. Watch this!”

He approached the toilet, turned his back on it-as if he were about to take a seat-and slowly but surely, the seat came back down. He lowered himself onto it, grinned at me, and got off. Again the jaunty step, and the toilet flushed.

“You see?” he said excitedly.

“Yes. Amazing.”

His grin faded. “What’s the problem?”

“What’s what problem?”

“What s the problem that is preventing you from being enthusiastic about a product that could revolutionize the sleeping habits of millions?”

“Sleeping habits?”

“Of course!” he exclaimed, as if I were the biggest dunderhead he had ever laid eyes on. “Every night, all across America, millions of women fall onto wet, cold porcelain surfaces. And why? Because some man has forgotten to put the seat back down! Now how is any poor gal going to get back to sleep after something like that happens to her?”

“It’s very thoughtful of you to try to be of help-”

“I hear a but coming!” he said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“A b-u-t. You like it, but-” He stretched the last word out.

“But it needs to rise and lower faster. By the time that seat was starting on its way down, most women would have already hit the porcelain. And I don’t even want to think about what will happen while a half-asleep man waits for that seat to rise all the way up.”

“Well, he better not rush it,” DeMont said, “”cause this thing is operated on an electrical pressure-sensitive mat and if he hits the mat instead of the toilet, he just might get electrocuted.“

“Some women might consider that a fitting punishment,” I said, “but I don’t think Consumer Product Safety is going to give it the old green light. Maybe you need to work a few of those little bugs out.”

He seemed so dejected at this, I added, “But I like your front-door setup. How did you know I was there?”

“I didn’t know it was you, exactly,” he said, reanimated. “But that’s a pressure-sensitive mat, too.”

“How does it work?”

“Anybody steps on it, it sends a signal to my recorder, which plays a little tape and that’s what you hear over the speaker.”

“ ‘Come in’?”

“Yes.”

“It greets everyone by saying, ”Come in‘?“ I asked.

“Sure.”

“But what if you don’t want someone to come in?”

“Why, you just lock the door,” he said. “That’s all.”

Unwilling to argue the possible shortcomings of that system, I said, “Maybe you should eat dinner in another room.”

“Okay,” he said cheerfully, and led the way to the kitchen.

The kitchen was far less cluttered than the rest of the house, but I had a feeling his sister and Laurie were responsible for its relative state of cleanliness. I set the bag down on the table as he went to a cupboard. I was wondering what story I should tell him to get him talking to me on subjects other than toilet seats and doormats when he said, “Sit down, Irene, I’ll get you a glass of my special power drink.”

But I stayed standing, and didn’t loosen my grip on the bag. “How do you know my name?”

He laughed, but didn’t answer right away. I watched him warily as he set two tumblers on the table and moved to the refrigerator. “Let’s see,” he said, pulling out a pitcher of something that had settled into several layers that were various shades of red. He walked over to a blender, poured the contents of the pitcher into it, put the lid on the blender, then stood back and clapped his hands. The blender began whirring.

“I put one of those doodads on its power supply,” he said, speaking up over the whine of the blender, “so you could start and stop it from anywhere in the room.”

I didn’t bother to point out that remote control of a blender was not worth much if you were already forced to stand next to it to fill it and empty it. I just nodded, watching the liquid in the blender turn a single shade of bright red.

But when he clapped a second time, the blender kept going. “Dag nab it!” he said. Given his father’s virtuoso swearing, it surprised me. He tried clapping again, and still it whined on. Finally he went over and pushed a button on the machine. That stopped it. He clapped again, and nothing happened. He pushed a button, and nothing happened. He took the lid off and peered down into it. “Wonder if the dang thing’s jammed?” he said, reaching for a knife.

“Uh, shouldn’t you unplug it first?” I said.

He turned and smiled at me-a big, immensely pleased smile. “That’s it!” he said, banging his hand on the counter.

The blender started up again. I quickly ducked beneath the table, while Mr. DeMont received an object lesson in the power of centrifugal force as the blender sprayed red juice everywhere. He fumbled blindly with the machine, finally turning it off. There was an eerie silence.

I crept up from my sheltered position. Other than a few spots here and there on my clothing I was, for the most part, unscathed. But Robert DeMont looked like he had been doing surgery in a MASH unit.

He reached for a dish towel and wiped the red liquid from his face. He looked over at me, grinned, and then began laughing. It was contagious. When we had brought ourselves back under control, he quickly made me lose it again by asking, quite innocently, “What happened?”

Once I had calmed myself, I said, “I don’t think the device could pick up the sound of your clapping while the blender was on. So you turned the blender off at the machine itself. The power to the blender was still on, the machine was off. You clapped again, and this time, without the noise of the machine to interfere, the power was turned off, too. You pushed a button, then, but without power, the blender wouldn’t start. That’s when you took the lid off. The button was still depressed. You smacked the counter-”

“And turned the power back on! Yes, yes! Now I remember! I smacked the counter because when you said, ”Unplug it,“ I realized what the problem was. I just chose an unfortunate way to express my excitement.”

He gathered a handful of paper towels and wet them down, I grabbed a sponge and together we managed to wipe up the worst of it. I looked up at the ceiling and winced.

“Don’t bother,” he said, following my gaze. “I’ll bring the ladder in and work on it later. Or maybe I’ll leave it as it is. It’s more interesting this way.” He looked down at himself and laughed again. “I’d better clean myself up a little, though. This stuff is a little sticky. I’ll be right back, Irene.”

“Not so fast! How do you know my name?”

The sly smile was back. “Over there, by the phone,” he said, pointing. Then he hurried out of the room.

I looked through the papers near the phone, and was nearly certain that he was simply stalling again, when I saw an envelope that made me feel a sharp sense of disappointment in a man who only moments ago seemed to be nothing more than a hapless gadgeteer.

It was a stiff nine-by-twelve manila envelope, the name “Robert De-Mont” handwritten across its face in large block letters. But it was the return address that caught my eye: Richmond and Associates. There were no stamps.

Walking slowly back to the table, I opened the already unsealed envelope and pulled out a good-sized stack of eight-by-ten color photos. There was a page of text, but for the moment, I ignored it. My attention was fully concentrated on the first photo: Briana, leaving her apartment in San Pedro.

Disappointment gave way to anger. There was no longer any doubt in my mind as to who had hired Harold Richmond. Robert DeMont had a lot to answer for.

I stared at the image of my aunt. I saw her as I had not seen her in life. In photo after photo, here was Briana: Briana walking down the street, cane in hand; Briana coming out of the Reyeses’ small grocery store; Briana going into St. Anthony’s Church; Briana getting out of a cab in front of St. Mary’s Hospital in Las Piernas. My fury rose with each piece of evidence that my aunt had been followed, spied upon. A lonely, shy old woman, vulnerable to the likes of Harold Richmond. Then came the worst of them all, the most intrusive-a photo of her weeping, leaning on Father Chris’s arm at a graveside. I heard myself make a strange little choking sound; my eyes blurred. I moved the heel of my hand across them and went on.

The next group were all taken outside my home. Rachel, Travis and me, getting out of Travis’s truck. There were photos of the camper, the house and the street, taken from different angles.

The camper-which was only in front of my house for a few hours before it was destroyed.

An odd set of noises I couldn’t quite make out seemed to come from several parts of the house all at once. I waited, but heard nothing more. I suddenly realized that I didn’t want to sit around chatting with Robert DeMont. I could look at the other photos later. For my own safety, I needed to get the hell away from him-and as fast as I could. What insane notion had led him to reveal the existence of the photos, I’d never guess, but I gathered them together now, stuffed them into the envelope and, taking it with me, hurried to the front door.

No sign of DeMont. I counted my blessings. I reached for the doorknob, turned and pulled. Nothing. Repeated the action, twice again, in the way of a person whose world isn’t working the way it should. I looked for some sort of deadbolt. Nothing.

Having once spent a few days having the tar beat out of me while being held captive in a small room, I don’t do well with locked doors. Claustrophobia and I have since had an ongoing unpleasant relationship, and DeMont’s locked door brought it on in a hurry.

I felt a kind of hysteria rising within me, and fought hard to keep it in check. I turned, telling myself to calm down, to try to find a back door, even as I heard my breath coming in short, quick gasps, as if I been running a race.

Blocking the hallway door was Robert DeMont. He was smiling.

I had an urge to tackle him, but instead I ran through the maze of tables to the kitchen door, hearing him shout, “Stop!”

I found the back door, yanked at it. It wouldn’t budge.

“They’re all locked,” I heard him say from behind me, “but there’s nothing to be upset about. I just want to talk to you, find out what you know.”

My heart was pounding in my chest.

“Let me out of here,” I said, hating how my voice shook. “Let me out!”

“It’s one of my inventions,” he said. “One button locks all the doors and windows of the house. Once it’s activated, I have to enter the secret code to turn it off.”

Christ. Trust this to be his one invention that worked. I was sweating. “I have a problem with enclosed spaces,” I tried, moving slowly back toward the kitchen.

He frowned, not making any attempt to block my way, but following me. “Are you sure? Richmond didn’t mention it in his report.”

I didn’t answer. I was trembling. My throat was closing up. I began moving toward the front of the house again, my steps shaky, but picking up speed.

“Where are you going?” he said, still following. “Let’s talk.”

“Open the goddamned doors!” I shouted. I stumbled past worktables, knocking two of them to the floor behind me. I heard DeMont shout something about his work, but paid no attention. My goal, straight ahead, was a set of closed, cream-colored drapes. There was light coming from behind those drapes. A large picture window. I set the envelope down, picked up a metal folding chair.

“Stop!” he shouted. “I’ll unlock the door!”

Too late. I had a good grip on the chair and was swinging that son of a bitch at that window as if I wouldn’t settle for anything short of a home run. There was a satisfying crash of glass-better yet, a rush of fresh air. Almost immediately I felt myself grow calmer. I yanked the drapes back and, turning my face away, took another couple of whacks at the glass. Now the opening was wide enough for me-I could get through without cutting myself.

I turned to pick up the envelope and saw Robert DeMont looking at me with the same sort of uncomprehending look he had on his face when the blender went wild. “Why did you do that?” he said. “I told you I would open the door.”

“First,” I said, stepping through the window, hearing the crackle of glass breaking beneath my shoes, “I don’t trust you.” Once outside the house, I took a deep breath. “Second, you paid someone to spy on my family. That would have been bad enough, but you probably paid for far more than that.”

“But I won’t harm you!” he said angrily. “Why break my window?”

I looked across the street. Laurie was coming out of Leda’s house. She stopped on the sidewalk, looking wide-eyed at the damage.

I looked back at him. “You destroyed our privacy, and now I’ve done a little damage to yours.”

I walked away, not waiting to hear his reply. I wish it would have been in purposeful strides, but it wasn’t. I felt sick to my stomach, and my knees were suddenly going rubbery on me. I managed to get to my car, yank the door open and plop myself into the driver’s seat. I wanted to start the car and drive off, but I was shaking. Thanking God that I hadn’t put the top back up, I just sat there, taking deep breaths, trying to slow down.

I glanced up to see Laurie crossing the street to his house. I folded my arms across the steering wheel and rested my head against them. Now that the adrenaline rush was over, every part of my body that had hit that wall the day before was complaining-but that wasn’t what kept me sitting at the curb.

Better not to drive, I knew, when I was feeling like this. When I was feeling like this, my ghosts would rise-the memories would come to me, and I would lose my way in them. I waited.

But while one or two images of my days in captivity quickly crossed my mind, I did not fall prey to them. I wanted to hope that this was some sign that I was making progress, but settled for being grateful that I got off easy this time. I straightened up, felt the warm ocean breeze on my face and was just about to start the car when I heard a voice say, “Are you okay?”

I turned to see Laurie standing next to the car.

“Yes,” I said. “Thanks.”

“I hope he didn’t scare you too bad. You don’t look so great.”

“I’ll be all right in a minute.”

“He told me that he had used his locking invention. What a jerk! I’m so glad you broke his window.”

“You are?”

“Yeah. He needs to learn that he can’t have things his way all the time. He’s just an overgrown spoiled brat! He can’t go around locking strangers inside his house for no good reason. No wonder it scared you.” She suddenly blushed and said, “It’s my fault. I should have warned you about the locks. He told me about that invention, but I have to admit…”

“You didn’t think it would work?”

“No,” she said. “It’s a first, I think.”

I laughed. “I can’t blame you. Did he show you the ceiling of his kitchen?”

She shook her head. I told her the story of the blender.

She laughed and said, “Oh, God, that’s so like him. He doesn’t think about the consequences of his actions. It’s all ‘I want this,” and ’I want that.“ Sometimes he’s just a younger version of great-grandfather, only Uncle Bobby doesn’t swear. Grandma is stuck taking care of two very selfish old men.”

“I hope she won’t be upset about the window.”

“No, I’ll tell her what happened. She’ll understand.”

I wondered if it were true. She seemed to look out for her older brother. “Does she make meals for him every day?”

She shook her head. “No, she’s only doing this until his car is fixed. Before he wrecked his car, he would take care of his own grocery shopping, or, you know, he’d go out to eat. I’m hoping she doesn’t spoil him too much.”

“What happened to his car?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. He got into some kind of accident a few weeks ago. I guess it, like, kind of embarrasses him. He won’t talk about it. He was going to try to fix it himself. God! Can you imagine? Probably have to drive it in reverse all the time!”

A few weeks ago. I tried to respond lightly, to keep the conversation going, but it was difficult to keep smiling. “I take it you talked him out of that idea?”

“No, Grandma had the car towed down to Sun Coast-this body shop on Beach Boulevard. Uncle Bobby was mad, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it.”

“Maybe he thought it needed to go to a specialist.”

“A Camry? I don’t think so-hey, are you sure you’re okay? You look a little pale again.”

A little truth wouldn’t hurt. “I’m just not very good about being locked in places.”

“No one could blame you for being freaked out. I mean, you go into this dude’s house, just bringing him something to eat, and he acts like something out of Frankenstein!”

I laughed. “It’s the inventor in him.”

“Oh, wow, you’ve seen that movie?”

“I read the book.” I steered the conversation back to Robert DeMont. “So your uncle was surprised to find the car gone from his garage?”

“Oh, man, it was so funny when he found out that it wasn’t there! He just about died! But if we had waited for him to do anything about it, Grandma’d be fixing him free meals forever!”

“Do you think Sun Coast does good work? I’m thinking of having this car painted.”

“Yeah, they’re good. But this car is so rad just the way it is-you aren’t going to paint it pink or anything like that are you?”

I grimaced. “Not pink.”

She laughed and gave me directions to Sun Coast. We talked for a little while longer, then she said she’d better go back to help her grandmother. She stepped away and said, “Hope you’ll come back. I could tell that Grandma liked visiting with you.”

“I promise I will. Tell her I’ll bring Travis.”

“Who’s he?”

“My good-looking cousin,” I said. “Much younger cousin.”

She smiled. “Cool!”

I didn’t think a body shop would be open on a Sunday, but I couldn’t keep myself from driving past it. I made my way over to Highway 39, Beach Boulevard. I didn’t have far to go before I came to Sun Coast. As expected, it was closed. I pulled up in front and saw several cars locked up behind its wrought-iron fence. None of them were Camrys. I’d have to come back on Monday.

I headed back to PCH. At a traffic light, I moved the envelope on the seat next to me so that it was tucked in more securely. I thought of Travis. With some distance between me and Robert DeMont’s house, I began to doubt myself. Maybe I should have stayed and talked to De-Mont, should have at least tried to figure out what he was planning next. I could have learned more. What assignment was Richmond working on now, I wondered?

With a little lane changing, I got past some slowpokes on Highway 1. In the clear, I asked for a little more from my old ragtop, and it delivered. I was anxious to get back to my family.