Deirdre opened the front door. The rain had stopped and the air was much cooler. Up and down the street, outside lights were on but the windows in most of the houses were dark. In the distance a siren wailed.
Get rid of it. That was easier said than done. Where? The police would easily find it if she put it out in the alley with the trash. The trunk of her car seemed the safest bet, for the moment at least.
Deirdre took her time feeling her way over the uneven paving stones, pulling the bag across the dark courtyard and out to the street. She opened her car trunk and heaved the bag inside. Then she pressed the trunk lid down until the latch clicked. At least it was out of the house. Later she’d figure out how to dispose of its contents.
She returned to the house and crawled back into bed. This time she fell asleep almost instantly.
SUNDAY,
May 25, 1985
Chapter 10
The phone started ringing the next morning at eight thirty. Deirdre missed the first call and the second. The third got her out of bed. She caught the tail end of her mother leaving a message as she stumbled into the living room. “. . . I’ll be there as soon as I can. By late tonight, I hope. Henry, Deirdre? I love you both.”
Before Deirdre could pick up the phone, her mother hung up. Seconds later, the phone rang again. Deirdre grabbed it. “Hello?”
“Hello, Gloria?” Not her mother. A man’s voice.
Deirdre took a breath. “No. This is her daughter, Deirdre.”
“Ah, Deirdre. This is Lee Golden, a friend of your dad’s.” Deirdre knew the name. A set designer? “I just heard what happened and I wanted to reach out to you and Henry . . .” Deirdre sank into Arthur’s lounge chair and held the phone away from her ear. When the phone went quiet, she thanked Lee Golden for calling and promised to let him know about funeral plans.
That was the first of a deluge of calls she took that morning. There’d been an article about Arthur’s death in the paper. Callers danced around what they really wanted to know: How on earth could Arthur have drowned during a daily regimen that he claimed kept him as fit as any thirty-year-old? Deirdre thanked each caller, took names and phone numbers, and tried to get off the phone as fast as possible. Finally she surrendered and let the answering machine pick up, half listening as message after message was recorded.
None of it woke Henry, who lay on the couch in exactly the same position Deirdre had left him the night before. Deirdre let the dogs out and filled their food and water bowls. There wasn’t much in the way of people food in the house other than leftover Chinese. Desperate for coffee, Deirdre found a dust-covered percolator in one of the kitchen cabinets, along with an unopened can of Maxwell House, its sell-by date long past. Soon the pot started to rumble and pop, sending out wafts of reassuring coffee aroma.
The doorbell startled her. Her first thought: the police were back. She wasn’t dressed. Hadn’t even combed her hair. At least the bag with her brother’s pot was no longer in the house. She waited for the doorbell to chime again but it didn’t. By the time she opened the door and looked out, no one was there, but four cellophane-wrapped food baskets were lined up just outside.
One by one, Deirdre carried them into the kitchen. One was from Linney’s Delicatessen. Bagels, cream cheese, lox, babka, some rugelach. The card read Condolences from Billy and Audrey Wilder. Arthur would have been over the moon.
She poked open the cellophane wrapping and sniffed. The smell took her back to Sunday mornings when she’d stood, holding her father’s hand in front of the sloping glass deli counter at Nate’n Al’s on Beverly Drive, watching the clerk hand-slice belly lox from a long filet and dollop cream cheese into a container. He’d wrap up four whole smoked, bronze-skinned butterfish, which Arthur would fry the minute he got home. She remembered the feel of warm bagels through the paper bag she carried to the car.
She hooked a bagel and took a bite. Closed her eyes. It had the perfect chewy crust, soft inside, and yeasty taste. In San Diego there was no such thing as a decent bagel, and you were lucky if you could find packaged, precut smoked salmon.
When Deirdre returned to the living room, Henry gave a phlegmy cough and turned over, his arm dropping like deadweight off the edge of the couch. He mumbled something, pushed himself up, and looked around. His expression said Huh?
“Morning, sunshine,” Deirdre said. “Mom called.”
Henry scowled. Then registered that she was eating. “What’ve you got there?”
“Billy Wilder’s bagel.” Deirdre took a bite. “Mmmmm. Delicious. Hungry?”
Henry uttered a profanity that Deirdre chose not to hear, then he rolled off the couch and stumbled toward the bathroom.
Coffee aroma reached Deirdre. She went into the kitchen for a cup and was on her way back when the phone rang again. She paused to listen to her father’s greeting. Beep.
Another well-meaning friend of Arthur’s, this time a woman, Just calling to say how sorry I am to hear . . .
Henry was back, standing in the doorway and scratching his crotch. “So what did Mom say?”
“She said she’ll try to get here by tonight. Take a shower, then get yourself a bagel and coffee.”
“Coffee? You made coffee?”
Twenty minutes later, Henry was in the kitchen pouring himself coffee and eating a bagel. The dogs started barking and swarming the front door, and seconds later the doorbell rang.
Deirdre went to answer it. Standing on the doorstep was Sy Sterling, still trim but with a toupee where for years he’d worn an elaborate comb-over. Sy dropped his briefcase and held open his arms. Deirdre choked up and let herself be folded into a soft hug, enveloped in the scents of aftershave and cigar.
When she pulled away, Sy drew a handkerchief from his trouser pocket, blew his nose, and wiped away his own tears. “Such a pair we are.”
She nodded and dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “Everyone keeps saying it, but it really doesn’t seem real.”
“It should not happen,” Sy said, squinting at her, his eyebrows sprouting white hairs like sparklers. “Arthur swam every damned day.” He shook his head and his gaze shifted over Deirdre’s shoulder.
Henry had come up behind Deirdre. He held two cups of coffee. “We’re still in shock,” he said. He gave Sy one of the cups and took his briefcase. Deirdre closed the door behind them as Sy followed Henry inside.
“You?” Sy said, giving Deirdre a sympathetic look. “You found him.”
Deirdre’s throat tightened and she swallowed a hiccup.
“You should have called me right away. I could have been here for you. They took him—where?”
“To the city morgue,” Henry said.
Sy shuddered. “Of course. Unattended death. There will be an autopsy. And then?”
“Westwood Memorial Park,” Deirdre said.
“Good. Your father? He would want his urn next to Marilyn’s. You called Gloria?”
“She’s on her way,” Deirdre said.
“Good, good.” Sy harrumphed. “Well, of course none of this is good. But it is what it is. Come, children.” He headed for the dining table. “We need to talk.” He settled into the chair at the head of the table, pulled a cigar from his pocket, and chewed on it. Then he sat back, shifted the cigar to the other corner of his mouth, and chewed on it some more. In all the years Deirdre had known Sy, she’d never seen him actually light a cigar.
“I promised your father, if anything happened to him, I would be here for you. A promise I hoped I would never have to keep.” He reached across the table to clasp Henry’s and Deirdre’s hands. The diamond in his chunky pinkie ring caught the light. “I am here for you now. You know that? Right?” He gave Deirdre’s hand a squeeze and held her gaze for a few moments, then shifted his attention to Henry. For a moment his expression seemed more questioning than reassuring. Then he sat back. “So.” He undid the two straps and unlatched his battered briefcase.