Authors: Elizabeth Adler
Rose nodded, understanding. “She’s upset, heartbroken perhaps.”
Harry did not think Bea was heartbroken. He filled Rose in on Lacey Havnel’s background as told to him by her daughter, and also the fact that Bea was probably now a rich young woman since she stood to inherit everything her supposedly wealthy mother possessed, as well as the insurance, though he had yet to check out that information. “Including,” he added, “the burned-out wreck of a house we can see from here.”
He walked over to the window and Rose went and stood next to him. They looked over the lake. Firemen were still sifting through the wreckage making sure nothing smoldered.
Harry said, “They found her mother, you know. She’s at the morgue now.”
Rose turned and stared at him, stunned. Somehow he had just made it real for her.
“The poor child,” she said quietly, feeling bad because she had not wanted to take her in. “What happens now? There’ll be a funeral I suppose.”
“Not for a while. We have to complete our inquiries first, into the cause of the fire.” Harry shrugged, leaving the exact reason for stalling vague.
“Oh.” Rose looked shocked. “That makes it even worse. Of course we’ll do all we can to help her. I’ll get Wally to go pick her up if you like.” Rose wasn’t sure it would be a task her husband would enjoy, but she could not go herself, she was needed here for her family.
“No need. Not yet. And anyhow we can have social services take care of that.”
“Maybe she’ll need a limo,” Rose said with a hint of a grin, thinking of the Ritz-Carlton.
Harry was looking across at the island, remembering Bea half drowned in the water. “So who owns that island?” he asked.
“I really don’t know,” Rose said, surprised. “I’ve never been asked that before, never thought about it either I suppose. It’s just a place the kids always swam to as soon as they were old enough. There’s a fair current under that still water, as you no doubt found out, Detective.”
Harry was very aware of Rose standing close to him, aware of the faint smell of clean linen, of just-washed hair, of a “good life” that hung around her. He had never met a woman like Rose Osborne. She had not come on to him, she had not in any way set out to attract him, yet he found himself attracted. He reminded himself that she was the busy wife of a famous writer; that she was the mother of four children, one of whom drifted into the kitchen as they spoke. But Rose Osborne was a sexy woman. Harry wondered if she knew it.
Diz stood in the kitchen doorway, hands stuffed into shorts pockets, T-shirt on backwards, feet bare—those were his sneakers on the kitchen table. There were several deep scratches on his legs and arms—gained, Harry guessed, from hurling himself out of the fig tree and into the water to try to rescue Bea.
Diz said, “What’s going on?”
“Hey, Diz.” Harry stepped forward, offering his hand. “I was thinking of applying for a medal for you, after that rescue attempt.”
“It was you that saved her.” Diz shook his hand reluctantly.
His was sticky with fig juice and Harry wanted to wipe his own on the back of his pants but restrained himself.
“Anyhow,” Rose said, fetching a piece of paper towel dipped in water for Harry. “Guess what. You’re to have a new sister for a week.”
Diz’s gingery eyelashes blinked in horror. “What? Another girl!”
Rose explained about Bea, and what was to become of her. “So we must all do what we can to help,” she added.
Diz eyed his mother carefully. Then he looked at Harry. He was thinking about the blond snake of a girl he’d watched from a distance. “Are you two sure you know what you’re doing?” was all he asked.
Later, when she thought about it, and talked to Wally about it and her other children chorused their disapproval and reluctant acceptance, Rose was not sure that she did.
17
How sweet that Rose Osborne is. I mean, how could you find anyone nicer, more willing to give of her time and energy and her sympathy, than plumply pretty Rose? Is the woman merely stupid? Willing to be used? After all, Bea Havnel is not her responsibility. And nor for that matter is she Harry Jordan’s. One is a housewife and mother; the other is a cop. And now they have taken on the job of straightening out a “disturbed” young woman when in fact neither of them need have bothered. Jordan could have simply passed her over to social services; Rose could have said no. But those are the ways life turns, on small seemingly simple decisions, almost always made impulsively. Would the Osborne family’s destiny be different had Rose not talked them into “caring for” the twenty-one-year-old orphan?
Meanwhile, I am keeping watch, getting closer to my goal, keeping to myself, in the background of real life. I don’t like that kid, though. He’s a nosy little fucker and he’s far smarter than anyone but me thinks he is. It seems clear now that I will have to take care of him first, which is troubling because it’s bound to sharpen up public interest in the Osborne family.
I am asking myself that question as I remember the fire-ravaged house that was once home to the glitzy drug-addicted woman who had more money than she ought to have from a “business” which, though dangerous, provided her with that money, though first it was simply gained from three husbands who fell for her cheap line of flaunting and glitter, always laughing, always ready to drink anybody under the table, always the party girl, even at age fifty-two. Which is what Lacey Havnel was when she died. Right there, in that terrible house.
It was a cadaver dog that finally located her body, not exactly in the ruins, but just outside. As though, Detective Jordan was heard to say, she had been trying to escape the fire. Odd, that she was found outside, and with a broken knife blade in her eye.
How do I know that?
Of course, I know everything about that woman. I also know that daughter better than she knows herself. I know exactly what happened, and trust me, it’s not what Bea Havnel told those cops. Those detectives are being bamboozled, and I, for one, am enjoying watching events unfold.
Who, I wonder, in the end, will be the smarter. Detective Harry Jordan? Or me?
18
Mal wasn’t taking Harry’s defection lightly. There was a responsibility to loving someone. Being “in love” is a decisive act. You choose to be in love. His duty was to her as well as his work, yet somehow, same as always, his job had come first. Wounded from what she deemed as her rejection, Mal went immediately to the rue du Cherche-Midi, her favorite shopping street in all of Paris. She did not lead the kind of high-society life that needed avenue Montaigne couture which anyhow she could not have afforded, but much preferred the chic funkiness of the Left Bank boutiques. Especially the shoes. No need for a huge outlay when stores like L.K.Bennett sold the very same shoes the lovely young British duchess wore. Or was she a countess? Soon to become a princess and after that, queen. Anyhow, that Kate bought her shoes from the same shop on London’s King’s Road, and if they were good enough for a princess, they were good enough for Mal. Not to say that Maude Frizon didn’t have a nice little quirky sandal or two, and Sabia Rose made only the best and most expensive lingerie in Paris, and maybe the world. One pair of chiffon boy-shorts there and she had exhausted her budget.
On to Galeries Lafayette, where she was distracted for a while by the outdoor stands showing glorious costume jewelry going for a song. A clunky ring with pearls and shiny stones, and a necklace that looked to be made of expensive Limoges crystal leaves but was of course fake, put her budget back on course. Not that she really had one. Heartbreak never has a price.
But it did make a woman hungry. Shouldering her way along the street, Mal stuck out her arm to signal a taxi. Miracle of miracles, in Paris, one slid to a stop immediately. Mal tossed in her shopping bags and climbed in after them.
The driver gave her a raised-eyebrow glance. “Madame?”
Oh. Right. She was supposed to go somewhere. “Véfour,” she said, out of the blue.
Le Grand Véfour was only one of the oldest, most expensive, and most revered of Paris’s restaurants. It was lunchtime, she had no reservation, and anyhow she really couldn’t afford it. It was a place to be taken to by a rich and attentive lover, something she did not have. Too late, the traffic thinned and they were already there.
A valet opened her door and Mal stepped out. She paid off the taxi, overtipping wildly in her new panic because what she should have done was gotten right back in and told the driver to drop her off on boulevard Saint-Germain, where there were dozens of decent inexpensive eateries, but she had acted like the grand dame and now she must carry it through.
She was escorted into one of Paris’s oldest and most revered restaurants, grand with gilt and cherubs on the ceiling, yet intimate with its burgundy booths, some of which bore small brass plaques with the names of famous customers from the past: Colette, Alexander Dumas, even Napoleon!
Mal’s shopping bags were gently removed, her warm jacket whisked away, a small table along the wall found for her. “Madame is lucky, a cancelation,” the headwaiter murmured as he handed her the menu, then asked if she would care for something to drink.
“Oh, Perrier, please.”
Mal smoothed her hair then, worried that her lipstick had worn off in the long spree of shopping, quickly fished her Burt’s Bees Peony lip balm from her purse and smudged it over her mouth. She took a sneaky peek at herself in the mirrored wall. She was still wearing the blue scarf! A quick glance round told her that was okay, half the men in this place were still wearing their scarves. Obviously it was the accessory du jour.
Perking up, she took in her surroundings, which she was free to do without being accused of staring since every booth and table was occupied with happy-looking diners, sipping wine, and chattering away in various tongues, some of which she did not recognize. One thing was sure, though, the women looked good, and the men were not bad either. Lucky women, Mal thought with a frown. With their men.
Summoning the waiter, she ordered a glass of the house champagne. The waiter arrived minutes later with a chilled glass and the bottle of Taittinger. Of course the champagne house owned the place. He filled her glass gently, allowing the tiny bubbles to fizzle and the aroma of the wine to come through. Mal thanked him, took a sip, and sat back and relaxed. Harry Jordan did not know what he was missing. She pictured him in Ruby’s, eating yet another cheeseburger and downing another Bud. Maybe she would get him to progress to Stella Artois, add a little of the Euro spirit to his Boston cop life.
The waiter brought small dishes of what he called “
amuse-gueule,
” little nibbles to “tempt her appetite.” Slivers of artichoke in a lemon and oil dressing and tiny chicken wings.
In between sips, she studied the menu and decided to splurge on oysters and then a fish called “
rouge,
” which turned out to be red mullet. She would choose dessert or cheese later.
This is great, she told herself, sitting up straight at her single-woman table, discreetly eying her fellow diners. She was the only person dining alone. Some businessmen, of course, that was to be expected; and at least one pair of lovers, directly across from her on the opposite side of the room, holding hands under the table, eating with their eyes linked. Tricky, Mal thought, enviously. She must learn how to do that.
A basket of breads that smelled deliciously of the oven arrived and with it a round flat dish of butter. She took a roll and broke off a piece, layered on the butter, and put it in her mouth. Oh. My God. Where did they get this delicious yellow creamy sweet ever so slightly salted butter that if she ever was lucky enough to live here and dine in this place more often, would ruin her usual diet. Never had she wanted butter more.
Sitting back, she took a contented sip of the champagne. Odd, how quickly it disappeared when you were having a good time. Was she having a good time? Okay, so she was. The only trouble was she was projecting how it would be if she were with Harry, and she had come to realize it was never going to happen. Harry would never come to Paris. They would never sit in a gorgeous restaurant like this, holding hands under the table while gazing adoringly into each other’s eyes and eating divine food.
She summoned the waiter for a second glass of champagne. What the hell, she thought, remembering that old saying, in for a penny, in for a pound, or was it about burning your boats? Stuff like that, anyway. She might as well forget Harry and just enjoy her lunch.
A phone rang somewhere. She took another sip, noticed heads were turning in her direction. Oh my God, that was her phone. “Sorry, sorry,
je m’excuse
!” She waved an apologetic hand at them, fished the phone from her cavernous bag … why had she gotten a black phone, she could never find the friggin’ thing. Finally she had it. She breathed a sigh of relief and pressed the one button.
“Mal, are you there?”
She closed her eyes, leaning back in her burgundy padded velvet banquette, the phone clasped to her chest. It was Harry.
“Of course I’m here,” she said, smiling to herself, “and you’ll never guess where I am either.” She lowered her voice and tucked the phone under her hair, keeping Harry close to her. “Are you calling to say you are getting on that plane?”
“Not this time, Mal. I just wanted to say…”
The phone went dead. Mal rattled it furiously, clamped it to her ear again, but he was gone. She couldn’t call him back from here, it would be positively rude and to the French, no doubt indiscreet, to call one’s lover from a public place so everyone could hear you fighting about getting on a flight and getting your ass over here to be with her …
She would call him back later, if she could ever get him, of course. You never knew where Harry might be from one minute to the next.
Still, he had called her. And she was surrounded by beautiful people so she might as well people watch, and enjoy a fabulous meal in one of Paris’s most beautiful restaurants. And the hell with Harry. Well, almost. Anyway, the food was fabulous! Oh God, she was so alone without him.