Innocent Little Crimes (34 page)

“Davis,” Lila screamed, “Davis, where are
you?” She spun in circles, dragging herself in spurts up and down
the edge of the water. The others joined her, racing down as soon
as the monstrous wave subsided. Jonathan and Dick waded out into
the water with careful strides.

“Find him, oh please, find him!” Lila
shrieked. She collapsed onto the wet sand and wiped hair from her
face. Cynthia stood a few feet away, still as a statue, her gaze
fixed out over the surf.

Lila felt someone’s arms lifting her. She
rubbed sand from her eyes and looked up. For a moment she was back
at college, on Davis’s rug by the warming fire.

“Davis . . . ?”

Peter shook his head. His eyes reflected
pain. “Are you all right?”

Lila nodded. Her teeth chattered
uncontrollably. Her body felt like a block of ice.

Peter studied her. “Wait here.” He ran to the
water’s edge to join the others.

Lila fell back down on the sand.
Anesthetized, she watched the scene unfold before her. A scene from
a horror film.

A sliver of daylight illuminated the water.
Clouds parted and broke up in mosaics across the pink expanse of
the dawn sky. At the water’s edge, six people plowed their arms
through the water, as if sifting through sand. Waves rhythmically
spilled at their feet, then receded on cue. She heard the cast
shouting impotently. Then another shout from off-stage. Two people
dragged something out of the water and up onto the beach.

She watched, emotionally vacant, as Peter
tried vainly to resuscitate the body. The rest of the group
assembled, as if in prayer, over what lay in their midst.

The camera angle was wrong, she thought in
irritation. She couldn’t see anything—just their backs, bent
over.

Like a circle of wolves engulfing their
prey.

Cynthia was right. It was over.

Chapter 29

September 12

Tacoma, Washington

“You’re darn lucky, you know that?” Ida
Ferrol glared at her son, Dick. She poured him a cup of tea from
her silver service and stared out the window at her manicured
lawn.

Dick listened to his mother’s rambling with
less than full attention. He was still shaky, replaying in his mind
the sentencing of the day’s trial, with Millie and his mother in
attendance at the back of the courtroom. Two years probation. No
jail time. Thank God! Although, he knew he should be down on his
knees thanking his mother. She was the one who came up with the
bail money and the smart-assed lawyer, some friend of hers from
church. But Dick knew he would never, ever be able to thank her
enough; she would make sure of that. Now that Millie was out of his
life, Ida Ferrol was unrelenting in her demand for adoration and
obedience. What could he do? The divorce would be final in two
weeks and Millie got nearly everything. So what? What did he need
from that dump of a place anyway?

Dick mustered a defeatist’s smile. The money
he had stashed away was confiscated, he had no job, and Penny
wouldn’t give him the time of day. His career in politics was
over—kaput. Even Lila would have been hard pressed to make his life
more disastrous. But, at least he avoided jail. Relief spread
through his limbs as his mother’s voice filtered into his head.

“. . . and be sure to trim back those heavy
branches as well. First thing in the morning. Dick, are you
listening?”

Dick focused on Ida. “Yes, mother.”

“And when you’re through, be sure to go see
my friend Larry. At the Hardware store. He’s expecting you.” Ida
sipped her tea with a look of distaste. Dick knew it wasn’t the tea
making her grimace. “You know, Larry’s being quite kind to offer
you a job, considering your lack of experience. I hope you
appreciate it.”

“I do,” Dick said, forcing his voice to sound
polite. “I really appreciate all your help, Mother.”

Ida grunted in reply.

Dick was washing dishes when Ida came in to
say goodnight. She surveyed the tidy room and showed her approval
with a brisk nod of her head. “See you in the morning.”

“Right.” Dick dried his hands and walked into
the den. All the furniture was early American, with dust covers on
everything. Even the carpet was covered with clear plastic runners,
in case someone tracked in mud. The quietness of this house still
unnerved him. Just last week, the girls had been over, even spent
the night. He never realized how much he loved them. How much he
missed hearing them laugh and play in the house. Millie was
agreeable to giving him weekends and holidays with the girls. At
least they were talking—that was something. Soon, he would get his
own place and figure out what to do with the rest of his life.
Maybe teach poli-sci at the college. He was qualified for that. And
to be around all the young coeds . . .

He checked to make sure his mother’s door was
closed, and then turned on the television, with the sound barely
audible. He scooted the footstool up close to the set so he could
hear.

Absently, he flicked through the channels,
avoiding the local news. The last thing he wanted to hear was the
play-by-play of his own trial. He hesitated at HBO—the only pay
channel his mother allowed herself. He flinched, recognizing the
unmistakable figure and face. With morbid fascination, he turned
the volume up and craned his neck to listen.

There was Lila, all alone on an immense
stage. Amazing how this small woman had yielded so much power over
his insignificant life. As he watched Lila move, it occurred to him
that all his troubles revolved around women. He always let women
rule him. Millie had tricked him into marriage. Lila had maneuvered
him into crime and litigation. Penny seduced him into treachery.
And his mother. The sooner he got out from under her influence, the
better. Here was his chance to start all over again, without women
manipulating his life.

On the screen, Lila seemed distant, although,
in the back of Dick’s head warning lights went off. Was he really
free? Or would she reappear again and cause him more grief? He had
to believe it was over; how else could he get on with his life?
Somewhere, deep in his gut, he felt pity for Lila. And that made
him feel even freer.

Dick turned off the set. Seeing Lila made him
lose all interest in watching TV. He let his mind wander back to
that fateful weekend. The events blurred in his head. That garish
castle. His so-called school buddies. The booze. That terrifying
game of Wolves. He would never, as long as he lived, forget the
sight of Davis going under that wave. He hoped the visions would
fade away forever. An ineffable sense of sadness suddenly engulfed
him and didn’t know why. Quickly, he put on his jacket and left the
house. A walk would clear his head.

Olympia, Washington

Millie kicked off her shoes and collapsed
onto the sofa. She propped her stockinged feet on the coffee table
and smiled. Being her own boss took a lot of hard work, but it was
paying off. Sales were up this week, the third week in a row. Her
clothing boutique, situated across from the Rainbow Cafe, drew in
more customers each day. Three months ago, when she signed the
lease agreement and gave notice at her job, she worried night and
day. Owning a shop was a risky venture, even though there would be
Dick’s alimony and child support. But Millie knew better than to
count on Dick. Her duties were little different from her last
job—purchasing merchandise, going to trade shows to view new lines,
keeping the books. The sense of accomplishment boosted her
confidence. In fact, she had already lost twenty pounds and
indulged herself with a new wardrobe. Funny, Lila was the one who
gave her the idea to open a store. But she did it on her own,
without anyone’s help.

“Hi, Mom. You’re home late,” Sally said, with
Debby trailing behind her. The two girls climbed onto the couch and
cuddled with their mother.

Millie hugged them. “I know, I’m sorry. It’s
been a long day. But things are going great. You should be proud of
your old mom.”

Debby giggled. “You’re not old, Mommy.”

“You look great, Mom,” Sally added. “Your
diet’s working.”

Millie nodded. “Thanks to you guys. You never
let me eat anything but carrot sticks. I’m going to turn into a
rabbit.”

Debby giggled again. “It’s not a school night
so can we stay up as late as we like?”

Millie shrugged. “Sure. Get into your
jammies.”

“Okay,” Sally said, as both girls bounded out
of the room. Millie yelled after them. “And put your clothes in the
hamper and brush your teeth.”

She listened to the sounds of the girls
running around upstairs. She compared the way she felt now to when
Dick lived in the house. What a difference. The tension was gone.
No more criticism and guilt. If the house was a mess, so what? If
she didn’t want to fix dinner, so what? The girls were easy, and
even though they missed their father, they were all much more
relaxed without his fury filling the house. In fact, ever since the
separation, Dick seemed kinder and more considerate to his
daughters. Maybe it was all for the best. In time, she would deal
with the loneliness that crept into her heart. She had her friends,
and many of them were divorced women. She would make it work.

Millie picked up the remote and turned
on the television. She was startled to see Lila’s face filling the
screen. Curious, she turned up the volume.
I’ll just watch for a few minutes
. Since that
weekend in March, Millie had pushed the image of Lila far from her
mind. She didn’t want to relive the terrible things that happened.
She thought about Della, wondered how she was. The thought of
phoning her flit through her mind, but she dismissed it. She was on
a positive streak now and Della’s depressed personality would only
drag her down. And Davis—poor, beautiful Davis. What a tragic
waste. Would she ever forgive herself for her part in Davis’s
death? The guilt sat heavy in her gut.

She studied Lila’s manner on the screen. Lila
strutted back and forth across the stage. Millie was surprised she
felt so detached. Lila was just another actress, a superstar who
had nothing to do with her world. Millie watched Lila play to the
packed auditorium. But in a few minutes her eyes began to close.
Such a long day . . .

Beverly Hills, California

Jonathan Levin parked his precious Mercedes
in the breezeway space provided him by the landlord. He hated not
having a real garage. The car was the only thing left of his former
life. And he didn’t want the grime and soot to ruin the paint
job.

He ambled up the concrete back stairs to his
second-story apartment. Lucky he’d found this place in the flats of
Beverly Hills. It was in the section south of Wilshire that had
once housed famous stars, but that was decades ago. These old,
ratty apartments should have been torn. What mattered to Jonathan
was the cheap rent and having a Beverly Hills postmark. He looked
around cautiously. L.A. wasn’t the place it used to be. No
neighborhood was safe anymore.

As he scoured the refrigerator looking for
something to eat, he thought about the week’s taping. What a bore.
Directing Daytime was the pits, but it brought in steady money. His
show was a tired old soap, a TV staple for over thirty years,
churning out the same old “drek.” The plots were tired and the
actors more so. But at least it was a job. He was squirreling away
every cent for the day he could start the move up again. When he
got done paying off all his debts he would buy another house.
Prices were at an all-time low; everyone was leaving L. A. ever
since the last earthquake. Maybe he could find something in the
hills. A foreclosure. A lot of smart-ass show biz folk were in over
their heads now. There must be thousands of houses for sale. He
couldn’t ride up a street without seeing those signs, one after
another. He could make a killing. And this time, he’d be careful.
No living way over his head.

He thought back to the day he had
called his old agent, Evans, on the phone. He forced out an apology
over his bad behavior and asked Evans if he would consider being
his agent again. He really needed a job and promised not to act
like an asshole. Evans, miraculously, knew of a job, but it was
Daytime. Jonathan remembered the tone of Evans’s
voice
. You better not refuse this one,
Jonny.

After a futile search for something to eat,
Jonathan pulled out a beer and popped the top. He would rather be
at Spago’s with a gorgeous young thing, sipping vintage wine. But,
at the moment, the only action in his life came from what he
garnered vicariously across the street. Thinking about it, he felt
a tug of arousal. He walked over to the window and pulled up the
blinds. He picked up the binoculars and positioned himself. After a
few moments, he heaved a sigh. The lights were out.

The past few weeks he got off to watching a
couple going at it in the bedroom with the shades up. It gave him
the most amazing rush. Not even going to porn movies in the
afternoon turned him on like this. He found himself driving home,
looking in the windows of buildings as he passed by. Imagining
buildings full of people having sex. He dreaded the weekend. If
only he could find a woman, any woman, as background music for his
loneliness.

He put down the binoculars and drank his
beer, looking around him with distaste. A boring apartment with
boring furnishings. It killed him to sell his house with all those
antiques. And his wine cellar, too. He finished the beer and ate a
piece of moldy cheese.

Jonathan checked the messages on the machine
with a mixture of hope and apprehension. Maybe someone would call
with a better job offer. Oh, how he’d love to break his contract.
Or maybe it would be Evans, telling him he lost out on a big one,
again. His stomach knotted. Maybe he should just switch careers
altogether, leave this depressing town. No messages except for a
recorded spiel for a time-share in Palm Springs.