"This and that. I have some investments."
"Ooh," she said. "That sounds rich. I bet you're not as rich as Tony."
"No argument there."
Her hand trailed up my arm, tickled my chest, touched my lips, withdrew.
"Why am I still living there," she said. "Well . . . after the divorce, I had my own place. Up in Los Feliz hills, a really cool place. Tony got it for me because of the gates and the security—it was a real safe place. Or at least we thought so. Tony wanted the best for me."
"Sounds like a friendly divorce."
"He was sweet. . . . Anyway, me and the kids were in this great old house in Los Feliz—lots of land, all these fancy details, this gigantic bathroom with a view of the hills. And close to Hollywood, so one day I took the kids to the Egyptian Theatre to see A Bug's Life—it was cool, they had this whole sideshow next door about bugs and stuff, computer games, toys, Bax and Sage went crazy. Afterwards we went out for dinner and ice cream and it was late when we got home and Sage was already sleeping on my shoulder and Bax was pretty close to conking out. Anyway, I turn the key and we walk into the house and instead of greeting me with a big bark the way she always did, Bingles—that's our dog—was— this gorgeous standard poodle who won a ton of shows—instead of greeting us, Bingles is lying in the entry hall, not moving, with her tongue stuck all out and her eyes real dull."
"Oh boy," I said.
"I freaked, Alex. If the kids hadn'ta been with me, I would've screamed. Baxter runs over to shake Bingles, but I could tell from the way her tongue was sticking out that she was gone and I'm screaming at him not to touch her and then Sagey wakes up and starts crying and then I smell it. This horrible gas smell. I got us all out of there fast, called Anita. She sent a driver for us, brought us out here, sent some specialists to Los Feliz. Turns out there was this massive gas leak—the house was old and the pipes weren't great and somehow the main flue got clogged or something. They said it was lucky we left when we did because all the windows were closed because of it was a cold night. They said we could've died in our sleep. Or if I'da lit a match, the whole place could've gone up. They fixed the problem, but we've been here ever since. Eventually, I'll get another place—but closer to Tony because ... he is their dad."
"Scary," I said."Close call. Just like today." She rubbed my thumb with two of her fingers, and the gems in her rings glinted. "There must be an angel looking down on me, or something."
She finished the rest of the bagel. "Anyway, that's how Hollywood Me became Malibu Me again."
"You never did say how you got from Vegas to Malibu."
"Oh, that," she said, wiping crumbs from her lips. "After they wouldn't make me a headliner, I got bored and decided to see what I could find in L.A., figured I'd try modeling or acting or something. I had some money saved up, got myself a neat apartment in the Marina, hit the agencies. But they didn't want full-figured girls, and I didn't want to do sleazy stuff, you know?"
I nodded.
"Nudies, hard-core— I mean the body's beautiful, but you have to keep standards. . . . Anyway, I checked out a few agents for commercials, but they were all losers. I'd started thinking about taking a boring job or something. Then one day I saw this ad in the paper offering good money for being in a psychology experiment. And I said, Girl, if there's one thing you know, it's psychology. 'Cause back when I danced, it was all psychology. Fix your eyes on certain guys in the audience and play for them, pretend you know them and they know you. It set the tone—so you could be ... realistic, you know? It made it more real, and that pleases the audience, and when the audience is happy, everyone's happy."
"Connecting," I said.
"Exactly." She rolled my thumb some more. "So I figured, what the hey, it might be fun doing some psychology. So I checked out the ad, and the guy running it was really sweet and it turns out all he wanted me to do was be in a room with some guys—just be myself—and see what they would do."
"That's it?"
"He—the psychologist—was measuring reactions to what he called stimuli. For commercials, ads, whatever. I guess he figured I was pretty stimulating. Another good thing, it was down in Newport Beach, so during lunchtime I got to sit on the sand and chill. I've always loved the ocean; there isn't much of that in Phoenix."
"All you had to do was sit there and he paid you?"
"That was it," she said. "Like modeling, but better. 'Cause there was no photographer making me twist in weird positions. And Ben—the psychologist—was a sweet, sweet guy, never made a move on me. Which, for me, is a twist, you know?" Squeezing my thumb.
I said, "I'll bet," and she grinned.
"At first, I figured he was just waiting for the right time, but then I could see he just wasn't into it, so I started to think he was gay. Which was fine, I like gay guys—I mean I wasn't disappointed or anything like that. I am not like that."
Suddenly her voice hardened, as if I'd accused her of something. Her nail dug into my thumb, and I lifted it gently.
I said, "Men come on to you even though you don't encourage it."
"Exactly. You listen, don't you? I mean really listen."
"On good days."
"He's like that, too—Ben. A good listener. Anyway, I did this experiment for a month or so, and finally he did ask me out. But not like a come-on. More like father-daughter, being friendly, wanting to know how I enjoyed the job. He took me to the Ivy at the Shore. He was a perfect gentleman, wanting to know me as a person, we had a real good time even though I didn't feel any—you know: sparks. And then—and this is the karma part—we're leaving to get into his car, waiting for the valets to bring it up, and this other car drives up. This gorgeous maroon Bentley Azure, and another guy gets out—older, really well-dressed, really well-groomed—but mostly I'm looking at the car, 'cause how many of those do you see—chauffeur, chrome wheels, a million coats of lacquer. But Ben is staring at the guy who gets out. He knows him. And the other guy knows him, too—the two of them start hugging and kissing and I'm thinking I was right, he is gay. Then Ben says, Cheryl, this is my father, Tony, and the other guy bows and kisses my hand and says, 'Enchanted, Cheryl. I'm Marc Anthony Duke'—which shocked me. Because once I heard the name, of course I connected it to the face, but you don't expect someone like Tony to know someone like Ben, let alone be his dad. Ben doesn't even go by Duke—he uses the real family name. And he's nothing like Tony—I mean nothing. You couldn't have two guys more different."
She paused to catch her breath. Licked her lips, threw back her shoulders, and thrust out her chest. "Anyway, that's how I met Tony and I must've made an impression, because the next day, he called me. Said he'd gotten Ben's permission—which was a twist, right? So cute. He asked me out, and the next thing I know, we're flying to Acapulco, and the rest, as they say, is history. Basically, he swept me off my feet."
"Whoa," I said.
"Whoa, Nelly," she said. "Now you tell me something, and be honest, okay?"
"Okay."
"I'll bet when I told you I'd been married to Tony you figured I'd posed for him and that's how he discovered me, right? You figured I was a Treat of the Month?"
"Not really—"
"Oh, yes you did," she insisted, slapping my wrist. "'Everyone assumes that. And that's okay. But Tony always told me I was his special treat. Did you know I'm the first woman he had babies with since Ben and Anita's mom died? And I gave him beautiful babies."
"Adorable."
Her fingers spider-walked to my wrist. "You're very nice— So what kind of investments do you do?"
"I own some properties."
"Sounds profitable."
"I get by."
"Nice," she said. "Good for you. Having time to hang out. But you're intellectual, I can tell that. I have a sense for people. So what else besides boating do you do for fun?"
"Play a little guitar."
"I love music— Tony's tone-deaf, but he pretends to like music. For parties, you know? He brings in the best live bands. Catch 159, Wizard, the last one we almost got the Stone Crew."
"Sound like incredible parties."
"Sometimes," she said. "Other times it was a thousand strangers invading and stuffing their faces, and all these tramps from the magazine shoving their tits in your face. Sometimes it was for causes—like charity, you know—and Tony would let other people come in. Like retarded people, burn victims. Thank God I won't have to deal with that anymore."
"Because of the divorce," I said.
"That and Tony doesn't throw parties anymore."
"How come?"
"Things change." She freed my hand, ate more bagel. "I am definitely going to bloat up."
"I doubt that. So did Ben turn out to be gay?"
She stared at me. "Who cares?"
"Not me, just making conversation."
"Well, he's not," she said. "He's just one of those, you know—not into it. Like a priest."
"Asexual."
"There are people like that, you know."
"Life would be pretty boring without variety," I said.
She smiled. "You like variety?"
"I thrive on it."
"Me, too. . . . Seeing as we both thrive on it, would you like to get together or something?"
"When?" I said, touching the side of her face.
She drew away. Smiled. "How about right now—no, just kidding, got to get back to feed the kids before someone accuses me of neglecting them. But maybe someday you could glide by in your little canoe and I could just happen to be on the beach. Maybe wearing this." Tapping the bag with the bikini.
"That sounds very good," I said.
She reached into a bag, brought out a small appointment book, wrote down a number, tore out the page.
"This is my private cell phone."
"I feel privileged," I said, taking the slip.
She reached out, took my face in both her hands, kissed me too hard on the mouth, pressing her teeth against my lips and ending with the merest swipe of tongue. "This has been very cool, Alex. Lately, no one seems to be appreciating me. Bye, now."
30
HYPOTHESES CONFIRMED:
Ben Dugger used his experiment to pick up women—young blondes. Relinquished his catch when Dad asserted a preference.
Snaring women but acting the "perfect gentleman." Asexual—at least in the beginning. Something off sexually—Monique Lindquist's laughing aside about his not wanting to talk about sex rang in my ears.
So did Cheryl Duke's remark about not wanting to be judged neglectful: definitely worried about losing her kids. The accidental gas leak. Living at the estate as the Duke family called the shots.
Black Suit also bunking down there. Playing tennis. More than just hired help.
Threads of suspicion—a net. But nothing that told me why Lauren and the others had died. Nothing to tell Milo.
As I drove back home I wondered how I'd recount the day to Robin.
Hey, hon, I played frogman and spent most of the afternoon flirting with a much younger woman. Cheryl's private number was wedged in my wallet. There was no reason for her aroma to linger in my nose, but I kept catching whiffs of suntan lotion and good perfume.
I arrived just before five. Spike greeted me at the door with a dismissive snort, but no sign of Robin. He led me into the kitchen and groused until I fed him some leftover brisket, and that's where I found the note: "Taking a nap, alarm set for six-thirty." I checked the answering machine. Four messages, none from Milo. Booting up the computer, I plugged in "Anita Duke," came across the personal website of another woman with the same name—a computer programmer in Nashville—offering the universe a peek into her private life. Why do people do that?
The Anita I was looking for merited a dozen hits, almost all of them citations I'd already pulled up—the transfer of executive power from father to daughter. But down at the bottom of the list, a two-year-old citation from Entertainment News caught my eye:
Duke Magazine Exec Weds: Magazine heavy Anita Duke ties the knot with boyfriend in Malibu ceremony . . .
I downloaded and printed.
In a star-studded, ocean-view ceremony this past weekend, the only daughter of magazine tycoon Marc Anthony Duke was married to her companion of several years. Anita Catherine Duke, 33, a graduate of Wellesley College and Columbia University Business School and newly appointed CEO of Duke Enterprises, was given away this past Saturday by her father and stepmother, Sylvana, as she tied the knot with Kent Irving, 31, former president of M'Lady's Couture, an LA. garment manufacturer, and now Projects Manager for Duke Enterprises. The nuptials took place under a veil of secrecy at the posh Shadowridge Lodge in the hills of Malibu, but sources cite the attendance of several showbiz heavies including
The rest was all famous names and catering details. No mention of a honeymoon. Or of Brother Ben's presence at the happy event.
M'Lady's Couture.
The rag trade. Lauren's turf before Kent Irving had married himself into the Duke family.
Now I did need to talk to my friend the detective.
I got hold of him at the robbery-homicide room.
"Oh, happy days," he said. "Despite my express instructions, Andy Salander has split. I was trying to reach him to see if he knew more than he originally told us about Lauren's schmatte connections—I've spent the bulk of the past two days downtown, dead-ending on that. No one at the Fashion Mart remembers her doing runway work, and none of the modeling agencies ever signed her up. Which probably means another lie—her real gig was hooking, and who's going to admit being involved with that? I did find a couple shirts at discount, but that's about it for productivity."
"Funny thing you should mention the rag trade. Ben Dugger's brother-in-law used to be involved in that. Outfit called M'Lady's Couture."
"Oh," he said. "Well, how about you just borrow my badge and give me a few days off in Palm Springs?"
"You hate the desert."
"I hate this case more. . . . M'Lady's Couture . . . I've got the Mart directory right here, hold on. ... Nope, no listing, let's try the phone book. . . . Uh-uh—zilch."