Silent Partner

32

The same vine-crusted fieldstone walls and mentholated air, the same long, shady stretch past the wooden slab sign. This time I was driving- L.A. legitimate. But the silence and the solitude and the knowledge of what I was about to do made me feel like a trespasser.

I pulled up in front of the gates and used the phone on the stand to call the house. No answer. I tried again. A male mid-Atlantic voice answered: “Blalock residence.”

“Mrs. Blalock, please.”

“Who shall I say is calling, sir?”

“Dr. Alex Delaware.”

Pause. “Is she expecting you, Dr. Delaware?”

“No, but she’ll want to see me, Ramey.”

“I’m sorry, sir, she isn’t-”

“Tell her it concerns the exploits of the Marchesa di Orano.”

Silence.

“Would you like me to spell that, Ramey?”

No answer.

“Are you still with me, Ramey?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Of course, I could talk to the press instead. They always love a human interest story. Especially one with heavy irony.”

“That won’t be necessary, sir. One moment, sir.”

Moments later the gates slid open. I got back in the car and drove up the fish-scale drive.

The verdigris roofs of the mansion were gold at the peaks where the sunlight made contact. Emptied of tents, the grounds looked even more vast. The fountains threw off opalescent spray that thinned and dissipated while still arcing. The pools below were shimmering ellipses of liquid mercury.

I parked in front of the limestone steps and climbed to an immense landing guarded by statuary lions, recumbent but snarling. One of the double entry doors was open. Ramey stood holding it, all pink face, black serge, and white linen.

“This way, sir.” No emotion, no sign of recognition. I walked past him and in.

Larry had said the entry hall was big enough to skate in. It could have accommodated a hockey stadium: three stories of white marble, rich with moldings, flutings, and emblems, backed by a double-carved white marble staircase that would have put Tara to shame. A concert-hall-sized chandelier hung from the gold-leaf coffered ceiling. The floors were more white marble inlaid with diamonds of black granite and polished to glass. Gilt-framed portraits of dyspeptic-looking Colonial types hung between columns of precisely pleated ruby velvet drapes tied back with beefy gold cord.

Ramey veered right with the smoothness of a limousine on legs, and led me down a long, dim portrait gallery, then opened another set of double doors and showed me into a hot, bright sun-room- a Tiffany skylight forming the roof, one wall of beveled mirror, three of glass that looked out onto infinite lawns and impossibly gnarled trees. The flooring was malachite and granite in a pattern that would have given pause to Escher. Healthy-looking palms and bromeliads sat in Chinese porcelain pots. The furniture was sage and maroon wicker with dark-green cushions, and glass-topped tables.

Hope Blalock sat on a wicker divan. Within her reach was a bar on wheels holding an assortment of decanters and a crystal pitcher frosted opaque.

She didn’t look nearly as robust as her plants, wore a black silk dress and black shoes, no makeup or jewelry. She’d drawn her hair back in a chestnut bun that gleamed like polished hardwood, and she stroked it absently as she sat at the very edge of the divan- barely lowering rump to fabric, as if daring gravity.

She ignored my arrival, continued staring out through one of the glass walls. Ankles crossed, one hand in her lap, the other gripping a cocktail glass half-filled with something clear in which an olive floated.

“Madam,” said the butler.

“Thank you, Ramey.” Her voice was throaty, tinged with brass. She waved the butler away, waved me toward a chair.

I sat opposite her. She met my gaze. Her complexion was the color of overcooked spaghetti, overlaid with a fine mesh of wrinkles. Her aqua-blue eyes could have been beautiful but for sparse lashes and deep, gray sockets that made them stand out like gems in dirty silver. Frown lines tugged at her mouth. A halo of post-menopausal down encircled her unpowdered face.

I gazed at her glass. “Martini?”

“Would you care for a splash, Doctor?”

“Thank you.”

The wrong answer. She frowned, touched one finger to the pitcher and dotted the frost. “These are vodka martinis,” she said.

“That will be fine.”

The drink was strong and very dry and made the roof of my mouth ache. She waited until I’d swallowed before taking a sip, but took a long one.

I said, “Nice sun-room. Have them in all your homes?”

“Just what kind of doctor are you?”

“Psychologist.”

I might have said witch doctor. “But of course. And just what is it you want?”

“I want you to confirm some theories I have about your family history.”

The skin around her lips turned white. “My family history? What concern is that of yours?”

“I just got back from Willow Glen.”

She put her glass down. Her unsteadiness made it rattle against the tabletop.

“Willow Glen,” she said. “I believe we used to own land there, but not any longer. I fail to see-”

“While I was there I ran into Shirlee and Jasper Ransom.”

Her eyes widened, squeezed shut, and reopened. She gave a hard, forced blink, as if she hoped she could make me disappear. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then why did you agree to see me?”

“The lesser of two evils. You mention my daughter, make vulgar threats about going to the press. People of our station are constantly subjected to harassment. It behooves us to know what kind of baseless rumors are being circulated.”

“Baseless?” I said.

“And vulgar.”

I sat back, crossed my legs, and sipped. “It must have been hard for you,” I said. “Covering for her all these years. Palm Beach. Rome. Here.”

Her lips formed an O. She started to say something, shook her head, favored me with another hand wave, and gave a look that said I was something the maid had neglected to sweep up. “Psychologists. Keepers of secrets.” Brassy laugh. “How much do you want? Doctor.”

“I’m not interested in your money.”

A louder laugh. “Oh, everyone’s interested in my money. I’m like some bag of blood crusted with leeches. The only question is how much blood each of them gets.”

“Hard to think of Shirlee and Jasper as leeches,” I said. “Though I suppose, over time, you’ve been able to turn things around and see yourself as the victim.”

I got up, inspected one of the bromeliads. Gray-green striped leaves. Pink flowers. I touched a petal. Silk. I realized all the plants were.

“Actually,” I said, “the two of them have done quite well for themselves. Much better than you ever expected. How long did you figure they’d last, living out there in the dirt?”

She didn’t reply.

I said, “Cash in an envelope for people who didn’t know how to make change. A dirt lot, two shacks, and let’s-hope-for-the-best? Very generous. As was the other gift you gave them. Though at the time, I imagine, you didn’t view it as a gift. More of a throwaway. Like old clothes to your favorite charity.”

She shot to her feet, shook a fist that trembled so violently she had to restrain it with her other hand. “Who the hell are you! And what do you want!”

“I’m an old friend of Sharon Ransom’s. Also known as Jewel Rae Johnson. Sharon Jean Blalock. Take your pick.”

She sank back down. “Oh, God.”

“A close friend,” I said. “Close enough to care about her, to want to understand how and why.”

She hung her head. “This can’t be happening. Not again.”

“It isn’t. I’m not Kruse. I’m not interested in exploiting your problems, Mrs. Blalock. All I want is the truth. From the beginning.”

A shake of the gleaming head. “No. I… It’s impossible- wrong of you to do this.”

I got up, took hold of the pitcher and filled her glass.

“I’ll start,” I said. “You fill in the blanks.”

“Please,” she said, looking up, suddenly no more than a pale old woman. “It’s over. Done with. You obviously know enough to understand how I’ve suffered.”

“You haven’t a patent on suffering. Even Kruse suffered-”

“Oh, spare me! Some people reap what they sow!”

A spasm of hatred passed across her face, then settled on it, changing it, damaging it, like some palsy of the spirit.

“What about Lourdes Escobar, Mrs. Blalock? What did she sow?”

“I’m not familiar with that name.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to be. She was the Kruses’ maid. Twenty-two years old. She just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and ended up looking like dog food.”

“That’s disgusting! I had nothing to do with anyone’s death.”

“You set wheels in motion. Trying to solve your little problem. Now, it’s finally solved. Thirty years too late.”

“Stop!” She was gasping, hands pressed to her chest.

I looked the other way, fingered a silk palm frond. She breathed theatrically for a while, saw it wasn’t working, and settled down to a silent smolder.

“You have no right,” she said. “I’m not strong.”

“The truth,” I said.

“The truth! The truth- and then what?”

“And then nothing. Then I’m gone.”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Oh, yes, of course, just like your… trainer. With your pockets empty. And fairy tales come true.”

I came closer, stared down at her. “No one trained me,” I said. “Not Kruse or anyone else. And let me tell you a fairy tale.

“Once upon a time there was a young woman, beautiful and rich- a veritable princess. And like a princess in a fairy tale she had everything except the thing she wanted the most.”

Another hard, forced blink. When her eyes opened, something behind them had died. She needed both hands to bring her glass to her lips, put it down empty. Another refill. Down the hatch.

I said, “The princess prayed and prayed, but nothing helped. Finally, one day, her prayers were answered. Just like magic. But things didn’t turn out the way she thought they would. She couldn’t handle her good fortune. Had to make arrangements.”

She said, “He told you everything, the monster… He promised me… Damn him to hell!”

I shook my head. “No one told me anything. The information was there for the looking. Your husband’s obituary in 1953 listed no children. Neither do any of your Blue Book entries- until the following year. Then two new entries: Sharon Jean. Sherry Marie.”

Hands back on chest. “Oh my God.”

I said, “It must have frustrated a man like him, having no heirs.”

“Him! A man’s man, but his seed was all water!” She took a long swallow of martini. “Not that it stopped him from blaming me.”

“Why didn’t the two of you adopt?”

“Henry wouldn’t hear of it! ‘A Blalock by blood, m’girl!’ Nothing else would do!”

“His death created an opportunity,” I said. “Brother Billy saw that and seized the moment. When he showed up a few months after the funeral and told you what he had for you, you thought your prayers had been answered. The timing was perfect. Let everyone think old Henry had finally come through- in spades. Bequeathed you not one but two beautiful little baby girls.”

“They were beautiful,” she said. “So tiny, but already beautiful. My own little girls.”

“You renamed them.”

“Beautiful new names,” she said. “For a new life.”

“Where did your brother tell you he got them?”

“He didn’t. Just that their mother had fallen on hard times and couldn’t care for them anymore.”

Hard times. The hardest. “Weren’t you curious?”

“Absolutely not. Billy said the less I knew- the less any of us knew- the better. That way, when they got older and started to ask questions, I’d be able to honestly say I didn’t know. I’m sure you disapprove, Doctor. You psychologists preach the gospel of open communication- everyone bleeding all over everyone else. I don’t see that society is any better for your vile meddling.”

She emptied her glass again. I was ready with the pitcher.

When she’d finished most of the refill, I said, “When did things start to go bad?”

“Bad?”

“Between the girls.”

She closed her eyes, put her head back against the cushion. “In the beginning, things were lovely-exactly like a dream come true. They were bookends, so perfect. Perfect blue eyes, black hair, pink cheeks- a pair of little bisque dolls. I had my seamstress fashion them dozens of matching outfits: teensy gowns and bonnets, chemises and booties- their feet were so tiny, the booties were no larger than a thimble. I took a shopping excursion to Europe, brought back the loveliest things for the nursery: an entire collection of real bisque dolls, hand-printed wall coverings, a pair of exquisite Louis Quatorze cradles. Their bedroom always smelled sweet, with fresh-cut flowers and sachets that I prepared myself.”

She lowered her arms, allowing the glass to tilt. A rivulet of liquid ran down the side and speckled the stone floor. She didn’t move.

I broke into her reverie. “When did the troubles start, Mrs. Blalock?”

“Don’t pick at me, young man.”

“How old were they when the conflict became apparent?”

“Early… I don’t recall exactly.”

I stared, waited.

“Oh!” She shook a fist at me. “It was so long ago! How on earth can I be expected to remember? Seven, eight months old- I don’t know! They’d just started crawling and getting into everything- how old are babies when they do that?”

“Seven, eight months sounds right. Tell me about it.”

“What’s there to tell? They were identical but were so different, conflict was inevitable.”

“Different in what way?”

“Sherry was active, dominant, strong- in body and spirit. She knew what she wanted and went right for it, wouldn’t take no for an answer.” She gave a smile. Satisfied. Strange.

“What was Sharon like?”

“A wilted flower- ephemeral, distant. She sat and played with one thing over and over and over. Never demanded a thing. One never knew what was on her mind. The two of them established their roles and played them to the hilt- leader and follower, just like a little stage play. If there was a bit of candy or a toy that they both wanted, Sherry would just move right in, bowl Sharon over, and take it away. In the very beginning Sharon put up some resistance, but she never won, and soon she learned that, one way or the other, Sherry was going to triumph.”

That strange smile again. Applauding that triumph.

The smile I’d seen so many times on the faces of ineffectual parents saddled with extremely disturbed, aggressive youngsters.

He’s so aggressive, such a tiger. Smile.

She beat up the little girl next door, really demolished her, the poor thing. Smile.

He’s a real ass-kicker, my boy. Gonna get into serious trouble one day. Smile.

The do-as-I-feel, not-as-I-say smile. Legitimizing bullying. Granting permission to knock down, gouge, scrape, pummel, and, above all, win.

The kind of off-kilter response guaranteed to get a therapist hmm-ing and noting “inappropriate affect” in the chart. And knowing treatment wouldn’t be easy.

“Poor Sharon really did get knocked around,” Mrs. Blalock said.

“What did you do about it?”

“What could I do? I tried reasoning with them- told Sharon she needed to face up to Sherry, be more self-confident. I informed Sherry in no uncertain terms that this was no way for a young lady to behave. But the moment I was gone, they’d revert to type. I do believe it was a little game between them. Collaboration.”

She was right about that, but she’d gotten the players wrong.

She said, “I’m long past blaming myself. Their characters were predetermined, programmed from the very start. In the end Nature triumphs. That’s why your field will never amount to much.”

“Was there anything positive about their relationship?”

“Oh, I suppose they loved each other. When they weren’t fighting, there were the usual hugs and kisses. And they had their own little nonsense language that no one else understood. And despite the rivalry, they were inseparable- Sherry leading, Sharon tagging behind, taking her licks. But always, the fighting. Competition for everything.”

Strange phenomenon, mirror-image monozygotes… given an identical genetic structure there should be no differences at all…

“Sherry always won,” she was saying. Smile. “By the age of two she’d become a real little martinet, a little stage director, telling Sharon where to stand, what to say, when to say it. If Sharon dared not to listen, Sherry lashed out, slapping and kicking and biting. I tried to separate them, forbade them to play with one another, even got them separate nannies.”

“How’d they react to being separated?”

“Sherry threw tantrums, broke things. Sharon just huddled in the corner, as if in a trance. Eventually, they always managed to sneak back and reconnect. Because they needed each other. Weren’t complete without each other.”

“Silent partners,” I said.

No reaction.

“I was always the outsider,” she said. “It wasn’t a good situation, not for any of us. They drove me to distraction. Getting away with hurting her sister wasn’t good for Sherry- it hurt her too. Perhaps even more than it hurt Sharon- bones may mend, but once injured, the mind never seems to set properly.”

“Were Sharon’s bones ever actually broken?”

“Of course not!” she said, as if addressing an idiot. “I was speaking figuratively.”

“How serious were her injuries?”

“It wasn’t child abuse, if that’s what you’re getting at. Nothing we had to call a doctor for- clumps of hair pulled out, bites, scratches. By the time she was two, Sherry knew how to raise a nasty bruise, but nothing serious.”

“Until the drowning.”

The glass in her hand began to shake. I filled it, waited until she’d drained it, kept the pitcher at hand. “How old were they when it happened?”

“A little over three. Our first summer away together.”

“Where?”

“My place in Southampton.”

“The Shoals.” Item one on a list I’d just read in a social register: Skylark in Holmby Hills. Le Dauphin in Palm Beach. An unnamed flat in Rome. Her real children.

“Another sun-room,” I said. “A latticed pool house.”

My knowing shook her further. She swallowed hard. “You seem to know everything. I really don’t see the need-”

“Far from everything.” Refill. I smiled. She looked at me with gratitude. Boozer’s version of the Stockholm syndrome. “Bottoms up.”

She drank, shuddered, drank some more, said, “Here’s to glorious, glorious truth.”

“The drowning,” I said. “How did it happen?”

“It was the last day of holiday. Early autumn. I was up in my sun-room- I love sun-rooms- merging with Nature. I’ve had sun-rooms in all of my homes. The one at The Shoals was the finest, more of a pavilion, actually, an Old English look, comfy and warm. I was sitting there, looking out at the Atlantic- it’s a more intimate ocean, the Atlantic, don’t you think?”

“Definitely.”

“Compared to the Pacific, which is so… undemanding. At least that’s what I’ve always believed.”

She held her glass up, squinted, sloshed vodka.

I said, “Where were the girls?”

She tightened her grip on the glass, raised her voice: “Ah, where were the girls! Playing, what else do little girls do! Playing down on the beach! With a nanny- a slab-faced English pudding! I paid her passage from Liverpool, gave her my best old gowns, lovely quarters. She came with recommendations, the slut. Flirting with Ramey, with the hired help- with anything in pants. That day, she was batting her lashes at the groundsman and took her eyes off the girls. They snuck into the pool house- the latticed pool house- which was supposed to be locked and wasn’t. Heads rolled that day. They rolled.”

She emptied her glass, belched softly, and looked mortified.

I pretended not to notice, said, “Then what happened?”

“Then-finally- the pudding realized they were gone. Went looking for them, heard laughter from the pool house. When she got there, Sherry was standing by the side of the pool, slapping her knees. Laughing. The idiot asked where Sharon was. Sherry pointed to the pool. The stupid pudding looked over and saw one arm sticking out of the water. She jumped in, managed to pull Sharon out. The pool was filthy- ready to be drained until spring. Both of them got slimy- it served the slut right.”

“And Sherry kept laughing,” I said.

She let go of the glass. It rolled down her lap, hit the stone floor, and shattered. The shards formed a wet gemlike mosaic that transfixed her.

“Yes, laughing,” she said. “Such merriment. Through it all.”

“How seriously was Sharon injured?”

“Not seriously at all. Just her pride. She’d swallowed some water, the dumb cluck fiddled with her, and she vomited all of it up. I arrived just in time to see that- all that brown water shooting out of her. Revolting.”

“When did you realize it hadn’t been an accident?”

“Sherry marched up to us, thumping her little chest, saying ‘I push her.’ Just like that: ‘I push her,’ as if she was proud of it. I thought she was joking away her fear, told Ramey to take her away, give her some warm milk and soft biscuits. But she struggled, began screaming: ‘I push her! I push her!’- claiming credit! Then she broke away from him, ran over to where Sharon was lying, and tried to kick her- to roll her over, back into the pool.”

Shake of head.

Smile.

“Later, when Sharon was feeling better, she confirmed it. ‘Sherry push me.’ And there was a bruise on her back. Tiny little knuckle marks.”

She stared at the liquid on the floor with longing. I dribbled some martini into another glass and handed it to her. Eyeing the miserly portion, she frowned but drank, then licked the rim with the look of a child flouting table manners.

“She wanted to do it again, right in front of me. Wanted me to see it. That’s when I knew it was… serious. They couldn’t… had to be… separated. Couldn’t be together, ever again.”

“Enter brother Billy.”

“Billy always took good care of me.”

“Why the Ransoms?”

“They worked for us- for Billy.”

“Where?”

“In Palm Beach. Making beds. Cleaning.”

“Where did they come from- originally?”

“A place. Near the Everglades. One of our acquaintances- a very fine doctor- took in the feeble-minded, taught them honest labor, how to be good citizens. Trained properly, you know, they make the best workers.”

Everything scrubbed down with lye soap… all the clothes folded neatly, beds you could bounce a dime on… as if someone had trained them in the basics a long time ago.

Living near the swamps. All that mud. They’d have felt right at home on their dirt patch. Green soup…

“The doctor and Henry were golf chums,” she was saying. “Henry always made a point of hiring Freddy’s- the doctor’s- imbeciles, for grounds work, fruit-picking, repetitive things. He believed it was our civic responsibility to help.”

“And you were helping them further when you gave them Sharon.”

She missed the sarcasm, seized on the rationalization. “Yes! I knew they couldn’t have children. Shirlee’d been… fixed. Freddy had all of them fixed, for their own good. Billy said we’d be giving her- them- the greatest gift anyone could give while solving our problem at the same time.”

“Everyone comes out a winner.”

“Yes. Exactly.”

“Why did it have to be done?” I said. “Why not keep Sharon at home and send Sherry away for some kind of treatment?”

Her reply sounded rehearsed. “Sherry needed me more. She was really the needy one- and time’s borne me out on that.”

Two progeny in the Blue Book, 1954 through 1957. After that, only one.

My guesses turned to fact, the pieces finally fitting. But it sickened me, like a bad-news diagnosis. I loosened my tie, clenched my jaw.

“What did you tell your friends?”

No answer.

“That she’d died?”

“Pneumonia.”

“Was there a funeral?”

She shook her head. “We let it be known we wanted things private. Our wishes were respected. In lieu of flowers, donations to Planned Parenthood- thousands of dollars were donated.”

“More winners,” I said. I felt like throttling a little insight into her. Instead, I slipped on the therapist’s mask, pretended she was a patient. Told myself to be understanding, nonjudgmental…

But even as I smiled, the horror stayed with me. The bottom line, just another sickening, sordid child-abuse case, psychopathology fueling cruelty: a weak, dependent woman, despising her weakness, projecting that hatred onto the child she saw as weak. Seeing another child’s viciousness as strength. Envying it, feeding it:

One way or the other, Sherry was going to triumph.

She was tilting her head back, trying to suck nourishment from an empty glass. I was cold with rage, felt a chill in my bones.

Even through the haze of intoxication she picked up on it. Her smile vanished. I lifted the pitcher. She held up one arm, ready to ward off a blow.

I shook my head, apportioned more martini. “What did you hope to accomplish?”

“Peace,” she said, barely audible. “Stability. For everyone.”

“Did you get it?”

No answer.

“No surprise,” I said. “The girls loved each other, needed each other. They shared a private world they’d created. By separating them, you destroyed that world. Sherry would have had to get worse. Much worse.”

She looked down, said, “She put it out of her mind.”

“How did you go about doing it?”

“What do you mean?”

“The mechanics of the transfer. How exactly did you do it?”

“Sharon knew Shirlee and Jasper- they’d played with her, been kind to her. She liked them. She was happy going off with them.”

“Going off where?”

“On a shopping trip.”

“That never ended.”

The arm rose in defense, again. “She was happy! Better off, not being pummeled!”

“What about Sherry? What explanation did she get?”

“I… I told her that Sharon had…” She submerged the rest of her sentence in vodka.

I said, “You told her Sharon had died?”

“That she’d been in an accident and wouldn’t be coming back.”

“What kind of accident?”

“Just an accident.”

“At Sherry’s age, she would have assumed the drowning did it- that she’d killed her sister.”

“No, impossible- ridiculous. She’d seen Sharon survive- this was days after!”

“At that age none of that would have made a difference.”

“Oh, no, you can’t accuse me of… No! I didn’t- wouldn’t ever have done anything so cruel to Sherry!”

“She kept asking for Sharon, didn’t she?”

“For a while. Then she stopped. Put it out of her mind.”

“Did she stop having nightmares too?”

Her expression told me all my years of schooling hadn’t been wasted. “No, those… If you know everything, why are you putting me through this?”

“Here’s something else I know: After Sharon was gone, Sherry was terrified- separation anxiety’s the primal fear at three. And her fear kept climbing. She started to lash out, get more violent. Began taking it out on you.”

Another good guess. “Yes!” she said, eager to be the victim. “She threw the most horrid tantrums I’d ever seen. More than tantrums- fits, animal fits. Wouldn’t let me hold her, kicked me, bit me, spit at me, destroyed things- one day she walked into my bedroom and deliberately broke my favorite Tang vase. Right in front of me. When I scolded her, she snatched up a manicure scissors and went for my arm. I needed stitches!”

“What did you do about this new problem?”

“I started to think more seriously about her origins, her… biology. I asked Billy. He told me her lineage wasn’t… choice. But I refused to be discouraged by that, made improving her my main project. I thought a change of scenery might help. I closed up this house, took her back with me to Palm Beach. My place there is… tranquil. Rare palms, lovely big bay windows- one of Addison Mizner’s best. I thought the ambience- the rhythm of the waves- would calm her.”

“A couple of thousand miles between her and Willow Glen,” I said.

“No! That had nothing to do with it. Sharon was out of her life.”

“Was she?”

She stared at me. Began to cry, but without tears, as if she were a dry well, had nothing to draw upon.

“I did my best,” she finally said in a strangled voice. “Sent her to the best nursery school- the very best. I’d attended it myself. She had dance lessons, equestrian training, charm school, boat rides, junior cotillion. To no avail. She wasn’t good around other children; people started to talk. I decided she needed more of my individual attention, devoted myself to her. We went to Europe.”

A few thousand more miles. “To your place in Rome.”

“My atelier,” she said. “Henry gave it to me when I was studying art. On the way there, we took the grand tour- London, Paris, Monte Carlo, Gstaad, Vienna. I bought her a darling set of miniature luggage to match mine, had a whole new wardrobe made up for her- even a little fur coat with matching hat. She loved dressing up. She could be so sweet and charming when she wanted. Beautiful and poised, just like royalty. I wanted her exposed to the finer things in life.”

“To compensate for her origins.”

“Yes! I refused to see her as incorrigible. I loved her!”

“How did the trip go?”

She didn’t answer.

“Throughout all of this, did you ever consider reuniting her with Sharon?”

“It… came to mind. But I didn’t know how. I didn’t think it was best… Don’t look at me like that! I was doing what I thought was best!”

“Did you ever think of Sharon- of how she was doing?”

“Billy gave me reports. She was fine, doing just fine. They were sweet people.”

“They are. And they did a damned good job of raising her, considering what they had to work with. But did you really expect them to make it?”

“Yes, I did! Of course I did. What do you take me for! She was thriving! It was the best thing for her.”

Mayonnaise from a jar. Wax-paper windows. I said, “Until last week.”

“I… I don’t know about that.”

“No, I’m sure you wouldn’t. Let’s get back to Sherry. Given her social problems, how did she do in school?”

“She went through ten schools in three years. After that we used tutors.”

“When did you first take her to Kruse?”

She looked down at her empty glass. I rationed another inch. She polished it off. I said, “How old was she when he started treating her?”

“Ten.”

“Why didn’t you seek help before then?”

“I thought I could work things out myself.”

“What made you change your mind?”

“She… hurt another child, at a birthday party.”

“Hurt how?”

“Why must you know this? Oh, all right, what’s the difference? I’m already stripped raw! They were playing pin the tail on the donkey. She missed the donkey and got angry- she despised losing. Tore off her blindfold and stuck the pin into a little boy’s rear- the birthday boy. The child was a brat; the parents were nouveau riche social climbers, utterly without sense. They made a mountain out of a molehill, threatened to call the police unless I took her to someone.”

“Why’d you choose Kruse?”

“I knew him socially. My people had known his people for generations. He had a lovely home not far from mine with a beautiful office suite on the ground floor. Complete with a private entrance. I thought he’d be discreet.”

She laughed. A drunken, strident laugh. “I don’t seem to be much for… prescience, do I?”

“Tell me about the treatment.”

“Four sessions a week. One hundred twenty-five dollars a session. Payment for ten sessions in advance.”

“What diagnosis did he give you?”

“He never gave me one.”

“What about treatment goals? Methods?”

“No, nothing like that. All he said was that she had serious problems- character problems- and needed intensive therapy. When I tried to ask questions he made it very clear that everything that went on between them was confidential. I was forbidden to be involved at all. I didn’t like that, but he was the doctor. I assumed he knew what he was doing. I stayed completely out of it, had Ramey drive her to her appointments.”

“Did Kruse help her?”

“In the beginning. She’d come home from seeing him and be calm- almost too calm.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sleepy. Drowsy. I know now that he was hypnotizing her. But whatever benefits that brought didn’t last. Within an hour or two she was the same old Sherry.”

“Meaning what?”

“Defiance, foul language. That terrible temper- still breaking things. Except when she wanted something- then she could be the most charming little doll in the world. Sweet as sugar, a real actress. She knew how to twist people to her needs. He taught her how to do it even better. All the time I thought he was helping her, he was teaching her how to manipulate.”

“Did you ever tell him about Sharon?”

“He wouldn’t let me tell him anything.”

“If he had, would you have told him?”

“No. That was… in the past.”

“But eventually you did tell him.”

“Not until later.”

“How much later?”

“Years. She was a teenager- fourteen or fifteen. He called me late at night, caught me off-guard. He liked to do that. All of a sudden he’d completely changed his tune. All of a sudden it was imperative I be involved. Come in to be evaluated. Five years of going nowhere and now he wanted me on the couch! I wanted no part of such a thing- by then I’d realized that it was useless, her personality wasn’t going to change. She was the prisoner of her… genes. But he wouldn’t take no for an answer, kept calling me, badgering me. Dropping in to chat when I was entertaining guests. Pulling me aside at parties and telling me that she and I were a… what was the word he used?… a dyad. A destructive dyad. Two people on a psychological seesaw, trying to knock each other off. Her behavior affected mine; mine, hers. In order for her to stop doing all those terrible things, we needed to equalize our communications, find emotional homeostasis or some rubbish like that. I felt he simply wanted to control me, and I wasn’t about to give in. But he was like a… a drill. Kept at it, simply wouldn’t give up. Still, I was able to resist.” Prideful smile. “Then things got much worse and I caved in.”

“Worse in what way?”

“She started doing… teenage things.”

“Running away?”

“Disappearing. For days at a time- completely without warning. I’d send Ramey out for her but he rarely found her. Then, out of nowhere, she’d come crawling back, usually in the middle of the night, all disheveled, filthy, crying, promising never to do it again. But she always did.”

“Did she talk about where she’d been?”

“Oh, the next morning she’d be boasting, telling me horrid tales in order to make me suffer- crossing the bridge and heading over to the colored part of town, things like that. I never knew how much to believe- didn’t want to believe any of it. Later, when she was old enough to drive, she’d take off in one of my cars and vanish. Weeks later, the credit card bills and traffic tickets would start trickling in and I’d find out she’d been traipsing all over- Georgia, Louisiana, dull little towns I’d never heard of. What she did there God only knows. One time she went to Mardi Gras and came home painted green. I finally took away her driving privileges when she ruined my favorite car- a lovely old Bentley painted lilac, with etched windows. Henry’s gift to me on our tenth. She drove it into the ocean, just left it there and walked away. But she always managed to find a set of keys, be off again.”

One way or the other, Sherry would triumph.

No smile, now.

I remembered what Del had told me about the needle marks, said, “When did she get into drugs?”

“When she was thirteen, Paul had tranquilizers prescribed for her.”

“He wasn’t an M.D., wasn’t allowed to prescribe.”

She shrugged. “He got her those drugs. Prescription tranquilizers.”

“What about street drugs?”

“I don’t know. I suppose so. Why not? Nothing could stop her from doing what she wanted.”

“During this period, how often was Kruse seeing her?”

“When she chose to go. He billed me even if she didn’t show up.”

“What was the official schedule?”

“No change- four sessions a week.”

“Did you ever question him? Ask why years of treatment hadn’t improved her?”

“He… he was hard to approach. When I finally raised the issue, he got very angry, said she was irreparably disturbed, would never be normal, would need treatment all her life just to maintain. And that it was my fault- I’d waited too long to bring her in, couldn’t expect to wheel a jalopy into a garage and have a Rolls-Royce emerge. Then he’d start in again, pressuring me to come in for evaluation. She was getting worse and worse. He broke me down- I agreed to talk to him.”

“What about?”

“The usual rubbish. He wanted to know about my childhood, did I dream at night, why I’d married Henry. How things made me feel. He always talked in a low monotonous voice, had shiny things in his office- little toys that moved back and forth. I knew what he was doing- trying to hypnotize me. Everyone in Palm Beach knew he did that kind of thing. He did it at parties, at the Planned Parenthood ball- made people quack like ducks for amusement. I resolved not to give in. It was difficult- his voice was like warm milk. But I fought it, told him I didn’t see what any of that had to do with Sherry. He kept pushing. Finally I blurted out that he was wasting his time, she wasn’t even mine, was the product of some slut’s bad genes. That made him stop droning and he looked at me strangely.”

She sighed, closed her eyes. “My heart sank. Trying to resist him, I’d said too much, given him just what he needed to bleed me dry.”

“You’d never told him she was adopted?”

“I never told anyone- from the day I… got her.”

“How did he react to finding out?”

“Broke his pipe in half. Slammed his hand on the desk. Took me by the shoulders and shook me. Told me I’d wasted his time all these years and severely damaged Sherry. Said I didn’t care about her, was a terrible mother, a selfish person- my communications were perverse. My secretiveness was what had made her what she was! He kept going on like that, attacking me! I was in tears, tried to leave the office but he stood in the doorway and blocked me, kept hurling abuse. I threatened to scream. He smiled and said go ahead, by tomorrow all of Palm Beach would know. Sherry would know. The moment I stepped out the door, he’d call her, tell her how I’d lied to her. That broke me. I knew it would be the final straw between us. I begged him not to tell, begged him to have pity. He smiled, went back behind his desk and lit another pipe. Just sat there puffing and looking at me as if I were trash. I was whimpering like a baby. Finally, he said he’d reconsider on condition that I be honest from now on- completely open. I… I told him everything.”

“What exactly did you tell him?”

“That the father was unknown, the mother a tart who’d fancied herself an actress. That she’d died soon after the baby was born.”

“You still didn’t tell him about Sharon.”

“No, no.”

“You weren’t worried Sherry would tell him?”

“How could she tell him something she didn’t know? It was out of her head- I’m sure of that because she never mentioned it, and when she was angry she threw everything else in my face.”

“What if she chanced to open up an old Blue Book?”

She shook her head. “She didn’t like books, didn’t read- never learned to read well. Some sort of blockage the tutors couldn’t break through.”

“But Kruse found out anyway. How?”

“I have no idea.”

But I did: a college Careers Day, spotting his former patient. Discovering it wasn’t his former patient at all, but a carbon copy, mirror-imaged…

She was saying, “He bled me for years, the monster. I hope he’s writhing in eternal hellfire.”

“Why didn’t brother Billy fix that for you?”

“I… I don’t know. I told Billy. He always told me to have patience.”

She turned away from me. I doled out more martini but she didn’t drink it, just held her glass and straightened her posture. Her eyes closed and her breathing got shallow. A boozehound’s tolerance, but it wouldn’t be long before she passed out. I was phrasing my next question for maximum impact when the door swung open.

Two men stepped into the sun-room. The first was Cyril Trapp in white polo shirt, pressed designer jeans, Topsiders, and black Members Only jacket. California Casual betrayed by the tension in his white-blotched face and the blue steel revolver in his right hand.

The second man kept his hands in his pockets as he examined the room with the practiced eye of a pit boss. Older, mid-sixties, tall and wide- big bones padded with hard fat. He wore a doeskin-colored western suit, brown silk shirt, string tie gathered by a large smoky-topaz clasp, peanut-butter-colored lizard boots, and a straw cowboy hat. His skin tone matched the boots. Forty pounds heavier than Trapp, but the same hatchet jaw and thin lips. His eyes settled on me. His stare was that of a naturalist studying some rare but hideous specimen.

“Mr. Hummel,” I said. “How are things in Vegas?”

He didn’t answer, just moved his lips the way denture wearers do.

“Shut up,” said Trapp, pointing the gun at my face. “Put your hands behind your head and don’t move.”

“Friends of yours?” I said to Hope Blalock. She shook her head. Her eyes were electric with fear.

“We’re here to help you, ma’am,” said Hummel. His voice was badlands basso profundo, coarsened by smoke and drink, and desert air.

Ramey came in, all spotless black serge and starched white. “It’s all right, madam,” he said. “Everything’s in order.” He looked at me with tight fury and I knew who’d called in the goon squad.

Trapp stepped forward, waved the revolver. “Get those hands behind you.”

I didn’t move fast enough to suit him, and the weapon was pressed hard under my nose.

Hope Blalock gasped. Ramey went to her side.

Trapp put a little more weight behind the gun. Looking at all that metal crossed my eyes. I tightened reflexively. Trapp leaned harder.

Royal Hummel said, “Easy.” He came around behind me. I heard a ratchet slip, felt cold metal around my wrists.

“Not too tight, son?”

“Perfect. Uncle Roy.”

“Shut the fuck up,” said Trapp.

Hope Blalock winced.

Hummel said, “Easy, C.T.,” and patted the back of my neck. His touch bothered me more than the gun. “Close your eyes, son,” he said, and I obeyed. The pressure of the revolver was replaced by something tight and elastic around my head. Banding my eyes so tight I couldn’t open them. Strong hands gripped me under my arms. I was lifted so that only my shoe tips touched the floor, propelled forward like a kite in a headwind.

It was a very big house. They dragged me for a long time before I heard a door open, felt hot air on my face.

Trapp started laughing.

“What?” said his uncle, stretching the word to two syllables.

“How we got this joker. Fucking butler did it.”