Private Eyes

28

I got back to Sussex Knoll by four-fifteen. Noel’s Celica was parked in front, along with a brown Mercedes two-seater with a DODGER BLUE sticker on the rear bumper and a cellular antenna on the rear deck.

Madeleine opened the door for me.

“How is she?”

She said, “Upstairs, monsieur doctor. She eats a little soup.”

“Has Mr. Sturgis called?”

“Non. But others…” She cocked her head toward the front room and curled her lips in scorn. A conspiratorial gesture; I was an insider now.

She said, “They wait.”

“For whom?”

She shrugged.

The two of us crossed the entry. When we got to the room, she veered and kept walking toward the back of the house.

Glenn Anger and a heavyset bald man in his fifties were sitting in the overstuffed chairs, legs crossed, looking clubby. Both wore dark blue sack suits, white shirts and pocket squares, foulard ties. Anger’s cravat was a pink mini-print, the other man’s yellow.

When I was a few feet away they stood and buttoned their jackets. The bald man was six feet tall, with a power-lifter’s build gone slightly to seed. His face was square and beefy above an eighteen-inch neck, his tan every bit as good as Anger’s and the one Don Ramp had sported before life had ground him pale. The little hair he had was wispy and colored an insipid brown-gray. Most of it ran around the sides of his head and looked as thin as a greasepaint smear. A tiny, teased puff topped his crown.

“Well,” said Anger, “I suppose your work here is at an end.” Looking grimly satisfied. To the bald man: “This is one of the detectives hired to search for Gina, Jim.”

“Not exactly,” I said. “My name is Alex Delaware. I’m Melissa’s psychologist.”

Anger looked baffled. Then peeved.

I said, “Mr. Sturgis- the detective- is a friend of mine. I referred the family to him. I happened to be with him when we went to your office.”

“I see. Well, that’s-”

“Sorry for not clarifying, but given the urgency at the time, it didn’t seem important.”

“Well,” said Anger, “I suppose it wasn’t.”

The bald man cleared his throat.

Anger said, “Doctor- it is Doctor Delaware?”

I nodded.

“Doctor, meet Jim Douse, Gina’s attorney.”

One side of Douse’s mouth smiled. He shook my hand, exposing a monogrammed cuff. His hand was big and padded and surprisingly rough- weekends spent away from the desk- and he curled his fingers in a way that prevented much contact between our palms. Reserving judgment on how friendly he wanted to get, or the special care very strong men sometimes exercise so as not to inflict pain.

He said, “Doctor,” in a smoker’s rasp. The tips of two cigars protruded from behind his pocket square. “Psychologist? I use them from time to time in court.”

I nodded, wondering if that was an icebreaker or a threat.

He said, “How’s our little girl doing?”

“Last time I saw her she was resting. I’m on my way up there to check.”

“Cliff Chickering told me the terrible news,” said Anger. “This morning, in church. Jim and I came by to see if there was anything we could do. What a stinking thing- I never actually believed it would come to this.”

Douse looked at him as if introspection were a felony, then shook his head in a delayed show of sympathy.

I said, “Has the search been called off?”

Anger nodded. “Cliff said they stopped looking a few hours ago. He’s convinced she’s at the bottom of that dam.”

“He’s also convinced she put herself there,” I said.

Anger looked uncomfortable.

Douse said, “I’ve suggested to Mr. Chickering that any further theorizing should be backed up with fact.” Lifting his chin, he ran a finger around the interior of his shirt collar.

Anger said, “Damned accident is what it was, that’s obvious. She shouldn’t have been out there driving in the first place.”

I said, “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I’m going to see Melissa.”

“Give her our condolences, Doctor,” said Anger. “If she’d like us to come up, we will. If not, we’ll be available whenever she’s ready to tackle the transition- just let us know.”

“What transition is that?”

“Transfer of status,” said Douse. “There’s never a good time for it, but it needs to be done as quickly as possible. Routine procedures, paperwork. The government giving itself something to do. Everything’s got to be followed to the letter or Uncle Sam gets his dander up.”

Anger said, “She’s too young to deal with it. The sooner we get everything squared away, the better.”

“Too young to deal with paperwork?” I said.

“Too young to deal with the mechanics,” said Anger. “The burden of management.”

“She should be doing other things with her life,” said Douse. “Wouldn’t you say that- psychologically speaking?”

Feeling as if I’d been beamed down to a Senate subcommittee meeting, I said, “You’re saying she shouldn’t manage her own money.”

Silence dropped like a theater curtain.

“It’s complicated,” said Douse. “Lots of inane regulations.”

“Because of the size of the estate?”

Anger pursed his lips and busied himself with a jumpy-eyed appraisal of the Old Masters on the walls.

Douse said, “Unless it can be shown to me that you’ll have an extended role in the matter, I’m not able to go into details with you, Doctor. But speaking generally, let me say this: Without concrete proof of an actual act of decession, it will take substantial time to establish the validity of the heir’s tenancy and rights and subsequent transfer of ownership of those rights and the concomitant property.”

He stopped and watched me. When I didn’t move, he went on: “When I say substantial time, I mean just that. What we’re dealing with, here, is multiple jurisdictions. Everything from local up to federal- because of the dynamics of the tax code. And that’s just in terms of basic transfer. It doesn’t even start to consider the whole issue of guardianship- guarding her rights. There are matters of proxy ownership, various fine points of estate law. And, of course, the IRS always steps in and tries to plunder whatever it can, though with the trusts that have been established, we’re on solid ground regarding that can of worms.”

“Guardianship?” I said. “Melissa’s reached her majority- why would she need a guardian?”

Anger looked at Douse. Douse looked back at him.

Ocular tennis match. The ball finally landed in the banker’s court.

“Majority,” he said, “is one thing. Competence is another.”

“You’re suggesting Melissa’s incompetent to run her own affairs?”

Anger returned his attention to the paintings.

“ “Affairs,’ ” said Douse, “doesn’t even begin to describe it.” He swept an arm around the room. “How many eighteen-year-olds would be competent to manage something of this magnitude? I know mine sure wouldn’t.”

“Mine neither,” said Anger. “Add to that the emotional stress. The family history.” He turned to me. “You’d have a good handle on that.”

It sounded like an invitation. I didn’t RSVP.

Douse touched his bald head. “From where I’m sitting,” he said, “both as her attorney and as a parent, my educated judgment is that her resources would be put to optimal use just trying to grow up. God knows it’s going to be hard enough, considering.”

“That’s for sure,” said Anger. “I’ve got four at home, Doctor. All teens or tweens- we’re going through the wringer. Major-league hormone alert. Give an adolescent lots of money, might as well hand them a loaded gun.”

“Do you have kids of your own, Doctor?” said Douse.

“No,” I said.

Both of them gave knowing smiles.

“Well,” said Douse, playing with a jacket button, “as I said, that’s about all I’m free to divulge, barring an extended role for you.”

“What kind of role?”

“Should you choose to commit yourself to an extended course of psychological consultation- coordinating the management of Melissa’s emotional affairs in sync with Glenn’s and my stewardship of the financial aspects of her life, I’d be sure to see that your views were considered at all critical junctures. And well compensated.”

“Let me get this straight,” I said. “You’d like me to help you certify Melissa psychologically incapable of handling her own affairs so that a guardian can be appointed to manage her money.”

Anger winced.

“Wrong,” said Douse. “We don’t want anything. Our welfare isn’t what’s at stake here- we’re only thinking of hers. As longtime friends of the family, and as parents and professional managers. And we’re in no way attempting to influence your judgment or opinion. This conversation- which I might remind you originated spontaneously- simply reflects a discussion of issues that have acquired a certain sense of urgency due to unforeseen events. Plainly put, Doctor, we need to square things away damned quickly.”

“One thing you should be clear on, Doctor,” said Anger, “is that the money’s not Melissa’s yet. Not in a legal sense. She’d have a heck of a time getting hold of it before the process completes itself. And as Jim said, the wheels of bureaucracy grind slowly. The process will take a long time- months. Or even longer. In the meantime, her needs have to be met- the running of this household, salaries, repairs. Not to mention marshaling investments through a web of regulations. Things need to progress smoothly. As far as I can see, a guardian’s clearly the best way to go.”

“Who’d be the guardian? Don Ramp?”

Douse cleared his throat and shook his head.

“No,” he said. “That would contravene the spirit, if not the letter, of Arthur Dickinson’s will.”

“Who, then?”

More dead air. Footsteps thumped somewhere in the big house. A vacuum whined. The phone rang once.

“My firm,” said Douse, “has been of long service to this family. There’s a certain logic to seeing that continue.”

I said nothing. He unbuttoned his jacket, pulled out a small crocodile case, removed a white business card, and gave it to me gravely, as if it were something of value.

J. MADISON DOUSE, JR.

ATTORNEY AT LAW

WRESTING, DOUSE, AND COSNER

820 S. FLOWER STREET

LOS ANGELES, CA 90017

Douse said, “The founding partner was Chief Justice Douse.”

Leaving out the “my uncle” part. Confusing conspicuous discretion with class.

Anger blew it by saying, “Jim’s uncle.”

Douse cleared his throat without opening his mouth. The end result was a deep, bullish snort.

Anger hastened to repair: “The Douse and Dickinson families have been bonded by many years of implicit trust and goodwill. Arthur entrusted his affairs to Jim’s dad, back in the days when those affairs were even more complex than they are now. It’s in your patient’s best interests that she be taken care of by the best, Doctor.”

“Right now,” I said, “it’s in my patient’s best interests to marshal her emotional defenses in order to deal with losing her mother.”

“Exactly,” said Anger. “That’s exactly the reason Jim and I would like to see everything squared away as soon as possible.”

“The problem,” said Douse, “is one of procedural transfer- establishing continuity. Every step of the process as it currently operates was contingent upon Mrs. Ramp’s approval. Even though she had little to do in terms of a hands-on, day-to-day management role, legally- procedurally- we were required to interface with her. Now that she’s… no longer available, we’re obligated to-”

“Deal with her heir?” I said. “Must be a hell of an inconvenience.”

Douse buttoned his jacket and leaned forward. His forehead puckered and wrinkled and he sniffed like a tackle out for a quarterback. “I sense a… combativeness here, Dr. Delaware, that’s wholly unwarranted by the facts at hand.”

“Maybe,” I said. “Or maybe I just don’t like the idea of being asked to lie professionally. Even if your intentions are good. Melissa’s not incompetent- nowhere near it. She hasn’t a trace of thought disorder or any other mental disturbance that would impair her judgment. As to whether or not she’s mature enough to handle forty million dollars, who knows? Howard Hughes and Leland Belding weren’t much older when they took over their parents’ estates, and neither of them did too badly. And banks and law firms have been known to screw up handily, haven’t they? What’re the latest figures on the S-and-L mess?”

“That,” said Anger, coloring, “has nothing to do with-”

“Whatever,” I said. “The bottom line is, any decision to delegate management of Melissa’s money will have to be Melissa’s. And it will have to be voluntary.”

Douse pressed his fingertips together, withdrew them, repeated the gesture several times. It might have been a parody of applause. His eyes were steady and small.

He said, “Well, there’s obviously no need for you to assume the burden of assessment, Doctor. Given your reluctance.”

“What does that mean? Bring in the hired-gun expert witnesses?”

His face remained blank as he showed his cuff monogram and consulted a gold-and-rivet Cartier that looked much too small for his wrist.

“Nice meeting you, Doctor.” To Anger: “This clearly isn’t a good time to be visiting, Glenn. We’ll come back when she’s feeling more up to it.”

Anger nodded but he looked off-balance. None of his trophies had been for Overt Conflict.

Douse touched his elbow, and the two of them walked past me, heading for the entry. And came face-to-face with Melissa, who stepped out from behind a tall bookcase. Her hair was tied in a ponytail. She had on a black blouse over a knee-length khaki skirt, no stockings, black sandals. Something pink was clenched in her right hand- a balled tissue.

“Melissa,” said Anger, switching on a loan-denial sad-face. “I’m so sorry about your mother, hon. You know Mr. Douse.”

Douse held out his hand.

Melissa opened her palm and showed the tissue. Douse dropped his arm.

“Mr. Douse,” she said. “I know who you are, but we’ve never met, have we?”

“Sorry it has to be under these circumstances,” said the attorney.

“Yes. How kind of you to come. And on a Sunday.”

“Days don’t matter when it comes to something like this,” said Anger. “We came by to see how you were doing, but Dr. Delaware told us you were resting and we were just on our way out.”

“Mr. Douse,” she said, ignoring him and stepping closer to the attorney. “Mr. Douse, Mr. Douse. Please douse any ideas of ripping me off, okay, Mr. Douse? No, don’t even say a word- just leave. Right now- both of you-out. My new attorneys and my new bankers will be contacting you shortly.”

After they were gone, she cried out in rage and collapsed against me, weeping.

Noel came running down the stairs, looking scared and confused and eager to comfort. He saw her pressed to my chest and stopped midway down the flight.

I motioned him forward with a small backward movement of my head.

He stepped very close to her and said, “Melissa?”

She kept crying, pushed her head into my sternum so hard it hurt. I patted her back. It seemed inadequate.

Finally she pulled away, red-eyed, face blazing.

“Oh!” she said. “Oh, the bastards! How could they! How could they have the- She’s not even… oh!”

Choking on her words. She wheeled, ran to a wall, hit it hard with her fists.

Noel looked to me for counsel. I nodded and he went to her. She allowed him to guide her into the front room. The three of us sat down.

Madeleine came in, looking angry but smug, as if her worst assumptions about mankind had been confirmed. Once again. I wondered how much she’d heard.

More footsteps.

The other two maids appeared behind Madeleine. She said something, and they hurried off.

Madeleine walked over and touched Melissa’s head. Melissa looked up and pushed a smile through her tears.

Madeleine said, “I bring you to drink?”

Melissa didn’t answer.

I said, “Please. Tea, for all of us.”

Madeleine lumbered off. Melissa sat hunched under Noel’s protective forearm, jaw clenched, tearing the tissue to shreds and letting them fall to the floor.

Madeleine returned with tea, honey, and milk on a silver tray. She served, handing a cup to Noel, who guided it toward Melissa’s lips.

Melissa drank, choked, sputtered.

All three of us hurried to attend to her. The resulting flurry of arms was Keystonish; it might have been comical under different circumstances.

When the dust cleared, Noel again held the cup to Melissa’s lips. She took a sip, started to gag, put her hand to her chest, and managed to hold it down. When she’d finished a third of the cup, Madeleine nodded in approval and left.

Melissa touched Noel’s hand and said, “Enough. Thanks.”

He put the cup down.

She said, “The bastards. Unbelievable.”

“Who?” said Noel.

“My banker and my lawyer,” she said. “Trying to rip me off.” To me: “Thanks- thanks so much for sticking up for me, Dr. Delaware. I know who my true friends are.”

Noel remained confused. I gave him a brief replay of the interchange with Anger and Douse. Each word seemed to inflate his own anger.

“Assholes,” he said. “Better get yourself some new ones fast.”

“Oh, yeah,” she said. “I made it sound as if I already had someone hired- you should have seen the looks on their faces.”

Brief smile. Noel remained serious.

Melissa said, “Do you know any good lawyers, Dr. Delaware?”

“Most of the ones I know practice family law. But I should be able to get you a referral for an estate lawyer.”

“Please. I’d really appreciate it. And a banker, too.”

“The estate lawyer should be able to refer you to a banker.”

“Good,” she said. “The sooner the better, before those two worms try anything. For all I know they’ve already been filing some kind of papers against me.” Insight widened her eyes. “I’ll have Milo check them out. He’ll be able to find out what they’re up to. They’ve probably ripped me off already, wouldn’t you say?”

“Who knows?”

“Well,” she said, “they haven’t exactly shown themselves to be honorable. For all I know they’ve been ripping off Mother all these years…” Closing her eyes.

Noel hugged her tighter. She allowed it but didn’t relax.

Her eyes opened suddenly. “Maybe Don was in it with them- all of them scheming-”

“No,” said Noel, “Don wouldn’t-”

She cut him off with a slashing diagonal movement of one arm. “You see one side of him, I see another.”

Noel was silent.

Melissa’s eyes got huge. “Oh, God!”

“What is it?” I said.

“Maybe they even had something to do with… with… what happened. Maybe they wanted her money and…”

She shot to her feet, throwing Noel off balance. Dry-eyed, hands fisted. One fist rose to eye level and shook.

“I’ll get them,” she said. “The bastards. Anyone who hurt her will pay!”

Noel stood. She held him at arm’s length. “No. It’s all right. I’ll be all right. I know where I stand now.”

She began walking around the room. Circling, sticking close to the walls, like a novice skater. Taking wide steps and speeding her pace till it was nearly a jog. Scowling and extending her lower jaw and punching her hand with a fist.

Sleeping Beauty roused by the malignant kiss of suspicion.

Anger replacing fear. Incompatible with fear.

I’d treated an entire school that way the previous fall. Had taught her the same lesson years ago.

This child’s anger white-hot. The look on her face almost savage.

I watched and could think of nothing but a hungry animal in a cage.

Psychological progress, I guessed.