Serpentine

Chapter 25

He took Franklin west to La Brea, continued on Hollywood Boulevard, passing the elegant, vintage apartment buildings and newer rectangles that made up the skimpy residential section of the boulevard.

A right onto Laurel rewarded us with congestion due to work crews that weren’t working, followed by a crawl up to Mulholland and a right turn that granted us isolation and clarity.

He sped to the spot Du Galoway had guesstimated, pulled to the left and parked, and we got out of the car.

Interesting sky, the western half a lucid blue so saturated with pigment it bordered on lurid, the eastern section a mirage-like mass of smoke-colored clouds. Probably ocean currents doing half the job. The separation was almost artificial.

Below all that, the Valley was a vast circuit board, brown and white and beige, with dots of coral red where tile roofs sprouted like spores.

Milo phoned Val Des Barres.

She said, “On my way.”

Minutes later, a white Mazda CX SUV appeared from the east, rolling slowly. Val Des Barres stopped five yards from where we stood, stuck her hand out the driver’s window to wave, and pulled over behind the unmarked.

Milo went to open her door. She got there first, smiled and said, “Thanks,” paused for a moment before following us to the edge of the drop.

Sunglasses blocked her eyes. She wore another shapeless dress, no pattern, just green cotton, a dark shade just shy of black, with pockets below the waistline and frilly sleeves. The blue section of the sky was radiating sunlight and it highlighted gray strands in her dark hair, amplifying them, making them glow like electric filament.

She said, “So this is near where it happened.”

“Best guess,” said Milo.

“I’ve probably passed by here — what, ten thousand times? No idea something so horrid ever took place. We have had other incidents. Cars and motorbikes going over, mostly kids speeding in the dark. At night it’s a tough road if you don’t know where you’re going. Did it happen at night?”

“Most likely.”

“But you’re saying this couldn’t have been an accident.”

“Definitely not. What’s on your mind, Ms. Des Barres?”

“Your visit is,” she said. “I can’t seem to get it out of my head. The fact that something so terrible happened to a person who lived with us. The fact that it was Ellie Barker’s mother of all people. She seemed such a sweet person. I can’t help thinking Fate put us together.”

She turned and faced us. In the process, shifting herself inches closer to the edge. Milo guided her away.

She said, “Oh, my — thanks.” Off came the sunshades. Her eyes were soft, searching.

“Why did I call you? Because how can I ignore reality? How can I ignore the fact that this person — Dorothy — may have known my father? When you showed up, I was numb. Then it turned seismic. Emotionally speaking.”

She rubbed the side of her nose. Moved farther from the edge, rubbed again, blinked, folded her lips inward. “I called you, Lieutenant, because I can’t eliminate the possibility that my father was involved in something terrible.”

Milo’s eyes sparked for a second before returning to detective-impassive. During the moment of surprise, the blue half of the sky had turned his green irises aqua.

He tapped his thigh and waited. Valerie Des Barres looked at me. I played statue.

She said, “This is hard for me.”

He said, “Take your time.”

“Time won’t help... it’s too... I’m not saying I have any evidence, it’s just a... it’s more than a feeling.” She licked her lips. “Can we sit in my car? I’m feeling like my balance is slipping.”

Milo sat in the front passenger seat, I took the back and scooted to the right to see as much of Val’s profile as possible.

Tight jaw, the lips folding and unfolding, again. Dainty hands gripping the steering wheel.

She said, “All right, no sense putting it off. You remember what I told you about Father changing after Mother died.”

“Of course.”

“Radical change,” she said. “Looking back, I think he was depressed. I was ten, didn’t think in those terms. I did know he’d changed. Went to work, as usual, came home and did his best to be fatherly but he really couldn’t pull it off. He’d give me a token greeting, a hug, force himself to chat, and then he’d escape to his bedroom or his study, close the door and stay there. Bill and Tony were both away at school, so I spent a lot of time alone. Sometimes I wondered if it was something I’d done. Strictly speaking, I wasn’t neglected, he hired a couple of nannies to take care of me and they were okay.”

I said, “Not much of an endorsement.”

She swung around, surprised. As if she’d forgotten I was there.

“No, it’s not, they were adequate. By the book. All that solitude worked out fine, that’s when I really got into drawing. Sitting in my room all day — but this isn’t about me. It’s about Father. Basically, he left me.”

She turned back to Milo.

“After a few months of that, the other change began. All of a sudden he began going out at night, and in the morning, at breakfast, more often than not, there’d be a woman at the table. Then women, plural. Two or three, sitting around nibbling toast. Blondes, he always liked blondes. My mom was a blonde. She was English, fair-skinned, blue-eyed. Bill and Tony’s mother was American and also blond. So there we were in the morning, Father, blondes, and me.”

Milo said, “That musta been jarring.”

“At first. I got used to it.” Pained smile. “I’m good at getting used to things. They were pretty nice to me, I got a lot of ‘Oh, how adorable.’ ‘Isn’t she the sweetest.’ That kind of thing. My nannies didn’t approve, they were old-school, one was French, the other was German. They’d whisk me away as soon as I finished my cereal. Sometimes Father would take the blondes with him, or he’d leave them behind and they’d be gone by the afternoon. Then that started to change and they’d be around for days. Then weeks.”

She fiddled with her hair. “The biggest changes were the ones Father made to himself. He used to have this cute little mustache. Like David Niven — do you know David Niven.”

Milo said, “The Pink Panther.”

“Sure, there’s that. Also lovely, earlier films like Bonjour Tristesse — I’m a bit of an antiquarian. Anyway, Father’s mustache always amused me. I’d tickle him under the nose and he’d be good-natured about it and pretend to sneeze and I’d just love that. Then all of a sudden he stopped shaving and got all grizzly and then one day he’d trimmed around all the hair and showed up with a rather satanic goatee. Black. Like his hair, he’d begun coloring everything. His attire changed, as well. He’d always been conservative. Suits to work, blazers on the weekend, dress shirt and tie for supper. Now he was wearing brightly colored — okay, garish — silk shirts with buccaneer sleeves, plus tight bell-bottom pants way too young for him and patent-leather shoes with big heels in crazy colors.”

She shivered. “I thought it was ludicrous but of course I’d never say anything. I would catch the nannies raising their eyebrows but they knew better than to insult the boss. And the blondes were all over him. Tony this, Tony that, you’re so cool and out of sight.”

I said, “Trying to be young and hip.”

“Trying far too hard. I found it sad. And confusing. Accepting a caricature of my father. But he must’ve liked the attention because he held on to that look for years. All through my adolescence, you’re with something long enough, you get used to it and I did. The world seemed to be going casual, anyway, so it wasn’t that. And eventually, he toned down — more tasteful casual clothes. But the hair and the beard stayed black.”

Her knuckles blanched around the wheel. “I was a quiet, obedient kid but when I got older — twelve, thirteen — I found myself drawing secret caricatures of him and the blondes. Writing mean-spirited captions. Then I’d immediately shred them and toss them in the trash. That lasted until I was fourteen, fifteen. That’s when his health began giving way. First there were heart issues, then arthritis, he got bowed over and moved more slowly. Basically the aging process, maybe accelerated by fast living. Then, when I was twenty-one — right after my twenty-first birthday, he got cancer. First prostate, which they said was curable, he had surgery and was supposedly cured. But he was never the same — listless, he gained weight. No more blondes, I’m assuming it affected his masculinity. Then, when I was twenty-three, came the stomach cancer, which wasn’t curable. That’s when things got horrific. The pain, wasting away.”

I said, “You’re a young woman and you’re dealing with it.”

“I’d just graduated college and was living at home.” She fussed with her hair some more, twisting, tugging. “I never left, just turned inward, found my own space — internal space. That’s when my stories and my art took off — not that I wouldn’t have traded all of that for Father to get well. But he didn’t. And it drove me creatively — I had to have some kind of escape.”

“Of course.”

“I really did,” she said. “By the time I turned twenty-four, he was terminal— Would you mind if we go back outside? I’m feeling a little closed-in.”

We left the Mazda and walked to the rear of the unmarked. Valerie Des Barres, paler by several shades, pretended to study the bifurcated sky. Milo and I studied her. He was back to drumming his thigh.

Her nostrils flared as she inhaled and blew air out audibly. The sound merged with the gentle prod of trees by a brief gust of warm breeze.

She said, “He was on his deathbed, doctors and nurses were coming in and giving him morphine. My brothers had flown in the previous week thinking this was the end. When it wasn’t, they returned to Chicago. I remember thinking, Father disappointed them again.”

I said, “Your brothers thought he’d let them down?”

“Oh, yes. The whole blonde thing offended them profoundly. Whatever respect they’d had for him was gone. Ironically, though, Bill began imitating Father. Or at least that’s how it seems to me.”

Milo said, “He had a harem of his own?”

“No, no.” She laughed. “He just really got into chasing women. He’s been married and divorced four times, I can’t tell you how many girlfriends he’s had. But that’s neither here nor there. Yes, they resented Father but I didn’t — I firmly believe I’m being honest when I say that.”

Her hands folded across her chest. As if realizing the defensiveness that implied, she dropped them quickly, squared her shoulders and stood taller.

Martyr accepting sacrifice.

“So,” she said. “Deathbed scene. It’s a Sunday, the nannies are in church. No doctors around, just one of the nurses the hospice sends by but she’s not there in his room, it’s a huge house, who knows where she is? I’d been sleeping in the anteroom next to his bedroom, wanting to be close in case he needed me. I’d set up my drawing table, so it really wasn’t an imposition. There was no point remaining at his bedside, for the most part he was in and out of consciousness. And when he came to consciousness he just moaned in pain. He was down to skin and bones... so... I just couldn’t look at that all day. So there I am in the next room, sketching away, and I hear him croak my name and I rush in. He wasn’t moaning but I could tell from his face that he was in great pain. I said, ‘Let’s get you some medicine.’ He shook his head. Violently. I wasn’t sure what that meant — some sort of higher-level agony throe or he didn’t want any morphine? I was about to get the nurse when he let out this different — this hoarse noise, almost animalistic, and began waving a hand I thought had been too weak to even move. Beckoning me over. I sat on the edge of his bed and held his other hand. It was so frail and cold... he was breathing shallowly, I’m thinking this is it, I’m going to actually see it. Terrifying. Then all of a sudden he raises himself up and puts his lips close to my ear and frees his hand and clamps it around my arm.”

She touched her right biceps. “I mean clamped. I was amazed at how strong his grip was, his nails were actually biting into my arm but of course I didn’t say anything. He breathed a few times then, clear as day, he uttered the first words he’d spoken in a week.”

She walked away from us, stopped perilously close to the edge, froze for a moment and returned.

“Here’s what he said: ‘Bring the devil into your home, you’re the devil’s disciple.’ ”

Milo scrawled in his pad.

Val Des Barres shook her head. “What do you say to that? I figured he was delirious but his eyes were suddenly clear and they seemed full of intent. Struggling to communicate. I said something meaningless and mumbly and that really upset him. He actually moved what was left of his body into a full, upright sit, kept squeezing my arm, and waved his other hand in the air. Then he repeated it. Louder. Almost like an evangelical preacher.”

Milo read. “ ‘Bring the devil into your home, you’re the devil’s disciple.’ ”

“Word for word, Lieutenant. It’s not something you forget. I convinced myself it was delirium, shoved the whole incident to the back of my head, why wouldn’t I? But now that you’ve told me about Ellie’s mother, I can’t help wondering. Was he talking about something that actually happened?”

Again, she turned her back on us. “Did he do something evil himself?”

Milo and I said nothing.

Val Des Barres said, “And then, at eleven thirty-four p.m., he died.”

We let the quiet linger, broken by the breeze and a faint, miles-away traffic hum from the grid below.

“That’s it,” she said. “That’s all of it.”

Milo said, “We really appreciate your telling us something so difficult.”

“Does it mean anything? Based upon what you know?”

“No, ma’am. And a man on his deathbed...”

“Who knows what the brain cells are doing, I get that. That’s what I keep telling myself. I hope it’s true.”

She stepped up to Milo. “I needed to get it off my chest. You’re so kind, Lieutenant.” She took his hand, squeezed it briefly, let go with reluctance.

I wagered on his first comment when we were alone: My week for Mr. Popular. If they only knew.

He said, “We’ve got no evidence your dad did anything criminal but can you handle a tough question?”

“Sure.”

“Did you ever witness your dad injure any of the blondes?”

“Never.”

I said, “When the car went over the side of the road, you weren’t aware of it.”

“I wasn’t.”

Milo said, “No investigators ever showed up at your house.”

“Not that I ever saw. And I’m sure if it did happen, the nannies would’ve shielded me from it.”

She smiled. “That was my life, the helpless nerdy kid buffered from reality. I suppose that’s why I’ve never left.”

I said, “For the most part the blondes were nice to you.”

“When there was contact,” she said. “When they started hanging around for prolonged periods, walking to and from the pool and the tennis court in bikinis and skimpy outfits, it embarrassed me. Again, the nannies rushed me along but they didn’t have to. I thought it was gross — all that jiggling. But the funny thing is, I was in so much denial I never consciously associated Father with it. As in, This is what he wants. Pretty stupid, huh? I guess I needed to see him in the best image possible. Even with that ridiculous beard and those clothes.”

I said, “Were the nannies also tutors?”

“Was I homeschooled? Oh, no. I went to Evangeline — a girls’ academy over the hill in Studio City. It’s no longer there, got absorbed into Hollyhock and Bel Air Prep decades ago.”

“So you wouldn’t have been home for a good part of the day.”

“Did I miss seeing something? It’s certainly possible. All I can tell you is that I never witnessed anything violent or even conflictual. Just the opposite. Father seemed to be happier than he’d ever been, but it was an unsettling happiness for me. As if he was pushing himself too hard to be different. When I was older and learned what was going on in the world out there, I began wondering if that happiness had been helped along. If you know what I mean.”

I said, “Drugs.”

“Or alcohol. Or both. He could get spacy-looking and his smiles could get... the best word is flaky. Like he wasn’t really there. I talked to my brothers about it and they laughed at me and said, ‘What do you think? He’s probably stoned out of his gourd.’ But I saw no firsthand evidence of it. No joints or pills lying around and certainly no needles or anything truly gross. There was drinking. Beer, wine, cocktails. But everyone did that. Our home ec textbooks at Evangeline showed well-dressed families sitting around with the parents nursing from Martini glasses.”

Milo said, “The clan that imbibes together, jibes together.”

Val Des Barres, still standing close to him, took his hand again. “You’re a witty man, Lieutenant Sturgis. You’ve made this experience tolerable.”

Then she tiptoed, as if ready to kiss him, thought better of it and settled back on flat shoes.

Two people blushing.

I amended my bet. The initial comment would be My week for Mr. Romeo. If they only knew.

He let some time pass, asked if there was anything else she wanted to say.

“Just that I hope you find out what happened to Ellie’s mother. No matter where that leads.”

“You’re a brave woman.”

“That’s kind but I don’t think so,” she said. “If I was brave, I’d get out more.”