The Bette Davis Club (16 page)

Vera and Ruby sit on the hallway floor. Ruby’s eyes are closed, and her stocking feet rest in Vera’s lap. Vera kneads the soles of Ruby’s feet. Both women look up when I exit the room. “Good hunting?” Vera says.

“Not bad,” I say, thinking I’ll keep my discovery to myself. “Thanks so much for your help.”

To this cryptic statement, Vera makes no comment other than a yawn. She stands, then helps Ruby up. Ruby puts her shoes back on, and a moment later we three say good-night.

Just before the two of them disappear through the stairway door, Vera stops and blows me a kiss. Instinctively, I reach up and catch it.

It’s midnight when I reach my room, but I’m not sleepy. My mind races with thoughts of Orson Welles, my father, Georgia.

I open the minibar and pull out two single-serving bottles of gin. Tomorrow, I’ll deal with Georgia in person. In the meantime, I put gin in a glass and sink down into the sofa.

The coffee table holds numerous advertisements for spa services in Palm Springs: hot stone this, aromatic that, mud facials, detoxification, exfoliation. I pick up a brochure and take a look. “We pamper you,” it says. I sip gin and envision a whirlpool spa filled with men and women drinking white wine and wearing disposable diapers.

“Let yourself go,” says another pamphlet. “Depend on us.” There it is again, that image of incontinence.

I wonder about the sort of people attracted to this type of thing. Then again, if I’m honest, I know I myself am attracted to it. In a whirlpool spa, you don’t have to think or be sad or grow old. You just float there, an amoeba with credit cards.

Eventually, I get into bed with my brochures and my drink. I lie there, half reading about herbal body wraps, half reflecting on all that’s happened this day, on all that’s happened in my life. I lie there, as I do every night, remembering Finn Coyle. After a while, I fall asleep.

In the morning, I wake up hungover and shaky. It’s early. I’m eager to confront Georgia, but there’s no way I can do that on an empty stomach. I decide to take a quick breakfast in the hotel dining room.

An older woman—well, older than I—sits at the next table. She’s expensively dressed in silk cropped pants and a silk top. A cashmere sweater is thrown over her shoulders with the indifference that comes from having money. She’s definitely not in Palm Springs because she loves women. I’m guessing she’s a well-heeled matron who’s here because she loves women’s golf.

In a curt Midwest accent, she harasses the waitress. “My coffee’s cold,” she says. “These eggs are hard.” (They look fine to me.) The woman goes on like this for several minutes, relentlessly bullying the waitress. She threatens to withhold a tip, threatens to complain to the manager.

I don’t believe the woman is that dissatisfied with either the food or the service. I think she’s upset about something in her own life, and she’s releasing that anger onto the waitress. People do that all the time in restaurants.

“Take these back,” she commands the waitress. “Tell that cook to try again.”

I feel for the waitress. There was a time in my life when I waited tables. I was in my late thirties, old enough that the little success I’d had as a model was drying up. I had few marketable skills, and it seemed like I’d never have what you might call a career.

“This is the worst service I’ve ever had,” the woman rants to no one in particular.

I can’t stand it any longer. I’m both hungry and nauseated. My head is pounding. I’m annoyed that this woman has advantages, yet no appreciation of those advantages. I resent that she obviously has money, real money, but the waitress and I don’t and most likely never will. There’s even something about the woman—the superior attitude?—that reminds me of Charlotte. Something that makes me want to reach out and hurt her, make her feel as lousy and damaged as I feel at this moment, as I have felt much of my life.

I twist round in my chair and face the woman. “Really?” I say. “In your whole life, this is your worst restaurant experience? How awful for you.”

She responds with a slight smile.

“I hope you don’t mind my asking,” I say, as if she were a famous movie star and I one of her fans, “but how old are you?”

She hesitates. “Not that it’s anybody’s business,” she finally says in that Midwest accent, “but I’m seventy-five.”

“Seventy-five years old,” I repeat.

She nods in a brittle, condescending way.

“Well, if you’re seventy-five,” I say, “you’ll be dead soon, won’t you?”

Her mouth makes a large O.

I’m an awful person, I know it. But there’s no stopping me now. I’m a loaded gun, and I’m going off. “You’ll be deader than the proverbial doornail,” I say. “Deader than the bleached bones of some long-deceased cow lying out in the desert. Deader than that lifeless pile of bacon sitting before you.”

She looks down at her side dish of bacon.

“And when that blessed moment comes,” I say, buttering a piece of toast, “why then—joy and jubilation!—the rest of us can enjoy our breakfast in peace.”

The waitress, who’s overheard all this, turns to her brightly. “More coffee?” she asks.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE WINDY CITY

A
fter I finish breakfast, I’m anxious about meeting with Georgia. On the one hand, I should probably let Tully know what I’m up to. Then again, he made it clear that Georgia is furious with him. So perhaps the smart thing is to stick with our plan and make initial contact with her by myself.

Of course, I haven’t seen Georgia in years. And now, having spent last night breaking and entering her suite, I’m about to knock on her door and tell her . . . what? That I was passing by? That I was out taking a stroll on the second floor of La Vida Loca hotel?

Well, that’s ridiculous. I can’t pretend I’m here by accident.

I remind myself I’m in Charlotte’s employ, and I’m here to speak with Georgia on Charlotte’s behalf. There’s nothing for it but to approach the situation as a professional. I’ll rap on Georgia’s door; she’ll open it, and we’ll exchange a few pleasantries (
“
Auntie Margo! How young you look!
”
). Then, in the manner of an experienced gumshoe, I’ll lay out the facts in evidence.
“You really should go home. Your mother wants her things back. Have you considered the Betty Ford Clinic?”

Minutes later, I’m walking along the second-floor hallway. There’s a high-pitched whine that gets louder the farther I go, and when I get to Georgia’s room, the sound is at full volume. I don’t rap on the door because it’s already wide-open. A maid is inside the room, vacuuming.

I double-check the room number. Sadly, I’m in the right place. I stand in the doorway and stare. The mess of last night has all been cleared away. The maid sees me and turns off the vacuum cleaner. The whining sound ceases.

“Yes, miss?” she says. Her face is as round as the moon.

“I’m looking for my niece,” I say. “She was here—in this room—last night.”

The maid puts a hand to her cheek. “Oh, my,” she says, her round face filled with sympathy. “Maybe ask the desk. Okay? They will know.” She doesn’t wait for my reply, but starts up the vacuum again and pushes it off toward the bedroom.

I step back into the corridor and stand there, stunned. This can’t be happening. Georgia has slipped through my fingers, taking
An Innocent Lamb
with her. Well, I never said I was a detective. Quite the opposite. I’m usually the last to know anything of importance whatsoever; half the time I can’t even follow the evening news.

Nevertheless, this is a miserable development. Charlotte and I agreed on a set fee of fifty thousand dollars, which was fine because I envisioned finding Georgia in twenty-four hours or less. Here it is, day two, and I patently haven’t found Georgia. That means my daily wages have been cut in half, from fifty thousand to twenty-five thousand. At this rate, I’ll soon be earning minimum wage. Worse, I haven’t a clue where Georgia might have gone. Another hotel? The home of a friend? Back to LA?

What, what,
what
do I do now? I slump against the wall.

Just then someone comes walking round the corner of the hallway—and oh God, I can’t believe it! It’s the old lady from the dining room, the one who was rude to the waitress. True, her behavior in the dining room was awful. But that’s no excuse for my own bad manners. I should not have said the things I did, should not have taken my unhappiness out on a stranger. I feel remorse at the way I treated her. It’s not the old lady’s fault that lately I drink too much or that I’m hungover or that . . . well, lots of things.

She comes closer. I nod to her. “How are . . . you?” I stammer.

She snorts. “I’m not dead yet, if that’s what you’re asking. Though you’ll probably tell me I could go any minute.”

“Umm, yes,” I say, fumbling for words. “I mean, no! No, I wouldn’t!” I take a breath. “It was inexcusable of me to say such a thing, and I very much apologize.” There. At least I’ve made an apology.

She pulls a keycard from her purse, all the while keeping an eye on me. “Is there some reason you’re standing near my room?” she says.

“
Your
room?” I say. I gesture toward the open door. “I’m looking for my niece. This was her suite.”

The woman raises her eyes to the ceiling. “You’re related,” she says. “Of course you are.”

“You know Georgia?” I ask, utterly confused.

“Is that her name? All I know is that child kept me up half the night. I’m here, right next door.” She waves her keycard at the room next to Georgia’s. “She made enough racket to raise the dead, not to mention those of us who’ve been told we’re next in line.”

“Quite,” I say. “I’m sorry she bothered you. I do know she’s no longer here.”

“Small blessings,” the woman says. “She and her playmates came home in the wee small hours, laughing and turning up the music REAL LOUD. I had to get out of bed, put my robe on, and come over and tell her that in Chicago, where I come from, we’re considerate of our neighbors. She didn’t hear a word I said. Except ‘Chicago.’ She heard that. She threw her arms around me and said, ‘I’m going to Chicago in the morning!’ I said, Honey, it
is
morning. It’s three a.m. Why don’t you and your friends toddle off right now, so I can get some sleep? Either she took my advice or she had an early plane, because when I got up at seven, she was gone.”

I walk downstairs to the lobby. I’m dying to discuss this latest development with Tully, when I look up and spot him across the room, buying a coffee at an espresso stand.

Tully sees me, grabs his drink, and comes over. “You should turn on your cell phone once in a while,” he says. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“Sorry,” I say. “Anyway, I have bad news. Georgia has left Palm Springs. I just found out she’s gone to Chicago.”

“Chicago?” Tully says. “I wonder what that means.” He lifts the round plastic lid off his coffee and blows on the hot liquid inside the cup.

“It means she had enough cash to buy a ticket to O’Hare,” I say.

Tully looks at his watch. “Okay. New day, new plan. We better get out to the airport, catch the next plane.”

“I’m not flying anywhere,” I say, my face flushing. Thinking about airplanes and airports always makes me nervous.

“You’re giving up?” Tully says.

“No,” I say. I smooth my hair and gaze around the room.

“Then why wouldn’t you—” Tully slurps his coffee and watches me. “Oh God,” he says, looking at me with sudden insight. “Christ. Are you . . . you’re not . . . are you afraid of flying?”

“Of course not,” I say. Tully continues watching me, and I know I’ve been found out. “Yes, all right. I have a phobia of air travel. But that’s not the only problem. I won’t leave my father’s car.”

“We’ll put it in a garage,” Tully says.

“No,” I say. “That’s not good enough.”

“Well, you can’t have it both ways,” Tully says. “If you won’t warehouse the car, we’ll have to drive.” He considers this scenario a moment. “That’ll take way longer than flying, but you know . . . maybe that’s not such a bad thing. We’ve been chasing Georgia in a rush, like it’s an emergency—when maybe what she needs is some space, some time to cool off.”

“You want to travel all the way to Chicago in the MG?” I say. “It doesn’t have any seat belts.”

“We won’t go on the interstate,” Tully says. “We’ll take the back roads, like before. We’ll cut over and pick up Route 66. Look, I get why you don’t want to abandon the car. It’s a classic. Cary Grant drove that roadster, it belonged to your dad—”

“Careful,” I say. “You’ll find a hidden value in the MG.”

“I already have,” Tully says. He gazes at me intently. “Plus, I need you.”

Needs me? For what?

“We need
each other
to find Georgia,” Tully says. “And I need you to tell me about the blue light, the starter switch, all that stuff.”

“You know about the blue light,” I say. “And the starter.”

“But you know more than me. About the car, I mean.”

I’m fifty-some years old. By this point in life, I’m expected to have attained a degree of maturity, some worldly wisdom that eluded me in my youth. But looking at Tully, imagining a road trip with him in the MG, I feel about nineteen.

I remember Vera telling Ruby that life gets boring if you don’t occasionally walk on the wild side. Is that what I’m feeling? Because despite my age, perhaps because of it, I feel a strong urge to walk—ride—on the wild side with Tully Benedict. Ride with him all the way to Chicago, Illinois.

And there’s more to it than that, much more. If I don’t go to Chicago, I lose the chance of earning fifty thousand dollars. I need that money. I need it if I’m to have any hope of hanging on to my shop in New York.

“All right,” I hear myself say to Tully. “We’ll drive to Chicago.”

An hour later, we head northeast out of town, toward Route 66.

We’ve been on the road only a few minutes when Charlotte calls. In an open convertible, it’s a tad difficult to converse on a cell phone. But I manage to explain to Charlotte that Georgia has decamped to Chicago. Tully and I are in pursuit.

“Ye gods and little fishes!” Charlotte says. “It will take you three or four
days
to get to Chicago by car. Can’t you—just this once—fly?”

I tell her no, I can’t. Of course, Charlotte knows why I’m frightened of air travel—it began for me at the age of ten, when I was torn from my home in California and flown overseas to exile in England. Does Charlotte, I wonder, ever think back on those events? How could she not?

“Tully and I are driving,” I say. “End of discussion.” Charlotte hangs up. I put away the phone.

I lean my arm on the car door and admire the passing scenery. Low plants, brittlebush, and flowering desert chicory punctuate the dry, purplish soil. I breathe in the warm, fragrant air. I feel restless and adventurous.

Over the next three days, Charlotte phones repeatedly to check on our progress. Most of what she says is so idiotic, I find I can converse with her while thinking about other things entirely.

One topic I ponder is how, this time, it’s different riding with Tully in the car. We get on well. We talk. Tully tells me about his interests, his philosophy of life. I share stories about my friendship with Dottie, even some bits about my financial troubles. I tell Tully I love the novels of Charles Dickens. He offers that he has every Beatles recording ever made.