“About what?”
“The Mystery of the Blue Maze—Mr. Hookstratten said the school would publish five hundred copies to sell at the fund-raiser. And the lady said I could sell them out of Every Picture Tells a Story.”
“What’s that?”
“A store for kids’ books. Mr. Hookstratten says it’s a natural. He said publishers love it when a real kid writes a book, it could be a franchise. He said I should make it a little hard-edged, like maybe the girl’s grandma is dying.”
“That’s depressing.”
“It’s real. He said that’s the trend.”
Lucy glanced out the tinted window at the Beverly Center as they swooped toward the drugstore. She surveyed it with abstracted hauteur — as if she owned the dun-colored retail fastness and all the serfs who desperately congregated within. A man with an aluminum crutch stood outside the Hard Rock with a sign: SOMEONE HELP ME.
“That’s sort of why I wanted to come tonight. For research.”
“But Bluey isn’t dying.”
“I know that,” she said disdainfully. “It’s still good for research. Mr. Hookstratten says the When a Grandparent Dies books do really well in the marketplace.” Tull frowned at his cousin’s mercenary ways. “The Mystery of the Blue Maze. Isn’t that cool? Mr. Hookstratten said it’s better when you put a color in the title.”
“Shouldn’t it be green? A green maze?”
“That’s the cliché,” she said, sounding much like her brother. “Anyhow, green looks blue in the dark. I already have the cover — I get all my ideas that way. I always start with a cover. Want me to describe it?” Without waiting for an answer, she hunched like a witch ready to conjure. “It’s midnight, and a girl — I may name her Lucy — creeps toward the dark mouth of the maze. I’m calling it a maze, not a labyrinth, because Mr. Hookstratten said maze is less complicated. That with children’s books you could be ironic but not complicated. Anyway, Lucy — if that’s what I decide to name her — is in a long, flowing robe. She glides across the lawn, carrying a brass taper in her hand. The flame flickers across her thin, anxious, pretty face—”
“Did you hear about the tapir at the zoo?” he asked impetuously.
“I mean taper, as in candle …”
“It tore off the keeper’s arm.”
“I really don’t care.”
The spell was broken; her expression curdled as Tull gave rein to a diabolically mischievous impulse. Impious and inspired, he leaned across the front seat and reached upward. “Let’s talk to the man!” Epitacio smiled as the boy pressed a button on the roof console; a little arpeggio played, like the one that languorously strummed when he turned on his ThinkPad. Then came a Voice from the mystical GPS ether.
“Good evening, Mr. Trotter!” the Voice greeted, setting Tull to giggle. “How may I be of assistance?”
Lucy crossed her hairy arms and fumed.
“Trotter Junior here. Can you tell us our location?”
“Right now we have you on San Vicente and La Cienega,” said the Voice, absurdly mispronouncing the latter boulevard.
“And where are you?”
“Detroit, Michigan, sir!”
They pulled into the Rexall; Tull could barely contain himself. “We’re, uh, looking for someplace to eat.”
“All right, Mr. Trotter … let me just check my guide.… I have a Locanda Veneta, on Third? Let’s see — just bear with me, Mr. Trotter, while I pull this up — if you’re in the mood for meat, there’s Arnie Morton’s, on La Cienega …”
Tull, in the firm grip of a virulent strain of silliness, merely gaped at his cousin. Lucy violently froze him out.
“We’re actually in the mood”—now Tull looked at Epitacio as he said it—“for a Cedars salad. Where do you think we could get a nice Cedars salad?”
After a few moments’ interchange, he jumped out.
When Tull returned with his bag of Sno-Caps, the voice from the satellite had apparently long since departed. They doubled back to the hospital. Lucy waited until they were upstairs in the enclosed pedestrian bridge before speaking.
“Tull,” she said in low tones. “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about — about your father.”
“What about him?” he asked hesitantly.
“I’m thinking of using it for my story.”
“What story?”
“The Mystery of the Blue Maze.”
“Using what?”
“Do you mind if I ask you about him? For research.”
“Go ahead.”
They entered a kind of hushed sitting area, bordered by a wall of lithographs. He felt suddenly uneasy, and it wasn’t solely from the subtle shift in the balance of power.
“Well, would you mind — and you don’t have to answer — would you mind if I asked how he died?”
“You know how he died.”
“I have to ask — for journalistic reasons.”
“But you’re writing fiction.”
“It’s just the way you have to ask when you’re researching. So, do you want to talk about it or not?”
“In a snowmobile accident.”
“Where?”
“Where what?”
“Where did he pass away?”
“You know where he passed away. In New Mexico.”
“When?” She paused, then said, “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”
“Why wouldn’t I want to, Lucy?”
“I don’t know. I just don’t want you to be uncomfortable. I’m not that kind of writer — I don’t believe in forcibly interrogating a subject. You never get the truth that way.”
“This is bullshit.”
“Fine. You don’t have to answer.”
“March, the year I was born. ’Eighty-eight.”
“Then he passed away right after you were conceived.”
“That’s obvious, isn’t it?”
“Mr. Hookstratten said nothing is obvious. And what did your father do? I mean, for a living? You don’t have to answer.”
He wondered what she was up to. If it was payback for his earlier high jinks, she’d gone overboard.
“He studied the classics. He went to the Sorbonne in Paris.”
“A scholar. Really …”
“Why do you want to know?”
“My parents were having an argument. They were talking about Aunt Trinnie — you know, Mom’s always been jealous, she always thought Dad paid her too much attention or something. Anyway, Mom and Dad were having this fight. I think what happened was, Mom called to ask Trinnie if she wanted to name one of the dead babies — they give them names before burying them — and you can imagine what Trinnie said. Probably something really mean and funny. So Mom ran back to Dad and said she was trying to be friends with Trinnie but Trinnie was being a major bitch and that Trinnie should just get over it and get a life. Mom said Trinnie was putting on a big act and all that Dad and Grandpa Lou ever did was indulge her and she’d never get off drugs that way. Then Mom started talking about the tragedy of Edward and how much courage it took for them to raise him and how Trinnie could never face anything like that herself and was always running away — that it was sad what happened with Marcus — your dad — but that she had to take some responsibility, because she picked him in the first place and people don’t wind up together for no reason and Trinnie was probably better off it happened right away instead of later.”