“Yes.”
“Isn’t that a little unorthodox?”
“Why? We also have — had — a joint bank account.”
A real charmer, thought the policeman, whose name was Aubrey Winthrop. She also had great legs and a pretty face. Maxwell arrived as Armand’s body was being carried out of the apartment. Ruth accepted his hug as Aubrey wondered if there was anything going on between the two of them. But after further examination of Maxwell as he heard him consoling the widow, he decided they were just good friends, Maxwell having the kind of unappealing physical qualities that would consign him to the role of “good friend” for eternity.
Maxwell said to the policeman, “Forgive me for intruding, but the doctor and her husband and I have been good friends for many years. His death is a terrible shock. Why, only yesterday he crowed about swimming twenty lengths in his club’s swimming pool.”
The policeman clucked his tongue and said to Ruth, “Will you authorize an autopsy?”
“What for?”
“Some families permit an autopsy, especially in the case of a sudden, unexpected death.”
“Young man,” said Ruth authoritatively, “there is no such thing as sudden, unexpected death in my private canon. As a doctor, I know that death can strike at any time. Death is unavoidable. It comes to all of us. My husband always said he thought he’d die young.”
Maxwell agreed wistfully. “Yes, he always thought he would. The way he lived life to the hilt: drinking, eating, whor...” he caught himself, “...worn out by high living...”
“...And snorting crack,” said Ruth matter-of-factly.
Aubrey shot her a quizzical look and then decided against further investigation of her statement. He suspected she was pulling his leg. He wished he could pull hers.
A few days after the funeral, Ruth and Maxwell were brunching on the porch of a restaurant in West Hollywood. The topic under discussion was always a pressing one, their financial state. “Thank God for Armand’s insurance,” said Ruth as she bit into a buttered bagel. “It was even more than I dreamt. It’ll cover the funeral, the payments on the apartment, I can settle some of his debts, and...” she went suddenly silent. The way she looked, he was afraid she was about to go teary on him.
“What’s wrong, Ruth?”
“That cow he was seeing.”
“You’ve found out who she is?”
“She could be one of half a dozen. I’ve been through his papers, his address book, his Rolodex at the office. How that bastard covered his tracks! But I’ll tell you this — and may he burn in hell — he bought her an awful lot of expensive trinkets. And I have to pay for them.” She sipped her Bloody Mary. “She was madly in love with him.”
“How do you know that, if you don’t know who she is?”
“She sent him notes. I found some hidden away in the drawer where he kept his sports shirts.” There was a small smile on her face. “I don’t blame him for keeping them.”
“Gee Ruth, that’s very generous of you.”
“They said things I never said to him. I’m a doctor. I’m clinical. Cool. Self-contained.”
“You’re beautiful. You’re very beautiful.”
She shrugged. “The notes are all heat and passion. I was never like that with him. There’s nothing special about me. Not as a doctor. Not as a woman. But I loved Armand, I guess I just didn’t tell him often enough.”
“Did he tell you often enough?”
“Occasionally. We married very young. We were both innocent, unsophisticated, but we wanted each other desperately. And after five or six years, it began to wear off. Maybe if I’d been able to have children. But oh, what the hell, that’s in the past. Armand is dead. The insurance has me solvent again. I can hold my head up again. But once that money’s gone...? Who knows. What a way to live.”
“You should work at increasing your practice. You say you don’t meet expenses...?”
“That’s right. I don’t. I don’t specialize. Maybe if I had gone in for pediatrics...”
“It’s not too late, is it?”
“Right now, I have no enthusiasm for anything but this Bloody Mary. What about you, Maxwell? I can help you with a little cash. I won’t have much after I square all the debts.”
“Oh no no no. I can manage. I’m substituting for four weeks on Where Are My Children? They’re doing a leprosy story. I’ve got the hero at a leper colony off the coast of Madagascar and I’m going to keep him there until he’s found by Mike Wallace and he gets on Sixty Minutes and wins a five-million-dollar advance for his story from Simon and Schuster.”
“Sounds like fun.” She smiled. “And then what?”
“And then I pray my agent finds me something else. Oh God, why do I kid myself. I’m too old-for this town. They don’t want writers over thirty. They don’t want anybody over thirty. I have grey hair.”
“You’re a good writer.”
“There are plenty of so-called good writers in this town. Ah, let’s not get morbid. What we need are some laughs. We need Betsy Bering!”
“And who is Betsy Bering? She’s a new one on me!”
“She’s a nut I met when I was having breakfast the other morning at Angelo’s. I’d seen her there a few times and then we finally struck up a conversation. She’s a very funny lady. Very eccentric. And I suspect she’s very rich.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Her jewels. Very rich. I’ve been to her apartment.”
“Oh? Has it gone that far?”
“Don’t be cute. She invited me to tea. For want of anything better to do, I went.”
“Is she pretty? How old?”
“She’s pretty and she’s probably late thirties, early forties. She saw us at Armand’s funeral.”
Ruth’s eyebrows arched. “What was she doing at the funeral?”
He laughed. “The obituary. She thought it was so funny and she figured you probably wrote it, and it’s her kind of off-the-wall humor, so she wanted to see what you looked like. Anyway, she likes funerals.”
“One of those.”
“She called some local funeral parlors and finally found Dume Brothers, and they told her where and when the services were taking place.”
“Did she talk to me? Some strangers paid their condolences. I don’t remember any pretty woman, though.”
“She was going to, and then she decided not to. You were surrounded by so many friends.”
“Friends,” said Ruth with a snort. “That flood of invitations has certainly trickled down to a faucet drip.”
“You refused so many of them.”
“They were mostly his friends. You’re my only real friend, Maxwell.”
“I love you very much, Ruth. I wish you’d...”
She interrupted him abruptly. “Don’t. Please don’t. I’m not ready.”
He blinked his eyes rapidly and then said, “Betsy Bering asked me to bring you for drinks tonight. Say yes. I think you’ll enjoy her. She’s something new, someone fresh.”
“Does she do anything? Does she have a profession? Was she or is she married?”
“She’s divorced, a couple of years ago. She got a lot.”
“That’s what she told you.”
“I’ve got no reason to disbelieve her. What do you say?”
Betsy Bering lived in a very exclusive apartment building in Beverly Hills. Her apartment was simply, albeit tastefully furnished. It had two bedrooms and two full baths. The guest bedroom had a desk in it, and on the desk was a word processor that looked as though it was in frequent operation.
“I’m trying to write a novel,” explained Betsy after giving Ruth the tour and mixing vodka martinis. “You know, something awful that’ll become an instant bestseller like that Steel woman and Ivana. I read dozens of them before plunging in on my own, but they’ve left me intellectually paralyzed. Like when I go shopping, I find myself thinking in terms of heavy-breathing prose.”