Sadness was just one of the emotions in the mix, Deirdre thought, blinking back her own tears. She’d barely begun to sort out the other feelings.
Her mother kissed her on the forehead. “Isn’t it just like him? Couldn’t die like a normal person. Had to make a production out of it.” She wrapped her arms around Deirdre and rocked her, not something Deirdre could remember her mother ever having done. She’d never been one for kissing boo-boos. Instead she’d clap her hands and assure Deirdre she was fine, even when it was obvious that she was not.
Gloria held her at arm’s length and gently tucked a lock of hair behind Deirdre’s ear. “And yet life goes on, doesn’t it?” There. That was more like it. “Act four. Act five. Your father always insisted that a really good story makes you care about what’s going to happen to the characters after the movie ends.”
“He was full of good advice,” Deirdre said.
“For everyone but himself.”
The doorbell rang. Henry went to answer it.
“I hope that’s not another reporter,” Deirdre said. “They were camped outside yesterday, and the police have been—”
She was interrupted by Henry’s return. Following him was a woman about Deirdre’s age with a mane of shoulder-length, lion-colored, perfectly layered hair. She had on brown work boots and a raincoat and carried a hard hat and a clipboard, a sturdy canvas bag, and a walking stick.
“Mom? Deirdre?” Henry said. “This is the insurance adjuster.”
“Sondra Dray,” the woman said. Her canvas satchel thunked on the floor when she set it down to shake hands with Gloria and then Deirdre. The thick belt on her coat was hung with tools—a heavy-duty flashlight, a tape measure, a pry bar. “I was just telling Mr. Unger”—Mr. Unger? Deirdre’s stomach turned over, and it was a moment before she realized Sondra meant Henry, not Arthur—“that I’ll need at least a few hours to complete my inventory. The sooner I get started, the sooner I’ll be done.”
“Here, I’ll take that.” Henry picked up the satchel and led her out through the kitchen door.
“Your brother can be a gentleman when he feels like it,” Gloria said.
“He can also be a jerk.”
“That,” her mother said, “is not news.” She returned to the stove and turned the burner back on.
“You’re cooking?”
“Now don’t you start with me,” Gloria said, shaking a fork at Deirdre. “Your brother’s already been there. I may not be a gourmet chef, but I’ve always been able to put together a perfectly serviceable breakfast. I could have been a short-order cook.”
Deirdre snorted a laugh. “I’m not questioning your competence. But bacon? You once told me it has more carcinogens, ounce for ounce, than tobacco.”
“Not this bacon. This”—Gloria lifted a strip of what looked like pink-and-white rubber—“is soy based. Nothing toxic in it. And it doesn’t taste bad as long as you forget that it’s supposed to be bacon.” She glanced sideways at Deirdre. “Don’t look at me like that. I do remember what bacon tastes like. And yes, I do miss it.”
The truth was, whatever it was that her mother was cooking, it smelled yummy. Deirdre’s mouth watered.
Gloria went on, “I also brought organic eggs and whole-grain bread. Or I have granola, too. Would you rather have that?”
“Just bread.” Her mother’s granola was so healthy it tasted like wood chips. Deirdre opened the bag of bread and put two slices in the toaster.
“Your brother told me what happened. About your finding him.” Gloria shuddered. “About the police.”
“Someone killed him. And the police actually think it could have been me.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Gloria looked out toward the pool. “Whatever else you can say about the police, they are not complete fools. Why would they think you killed him? It’s absurd. You got along. Unlike plenty of other folks who might have wanted to kill your father at one time or another. Myself included.”
Her mother was always so definite, regardless of whether her opinion was informed or not. For once Deirdre found that reassuring. “You weren’t here,” Deirdre said. “You have an alibi.”
Her mother lifted a strip and checked the underside. Then she removed strip after strip of soy bacon from the pan and laid them on a paper towel. “I’m glad you called Sy.”
“He talked to you?” Deirdre asked.
“Henry told me.”
“Sy went with me to talk to the police.”
“He’s the real deal. Defended Timothy Leary. Emily Harris. Patty Hearst.”
“Joelen Nichol.”
“Joelen Nichol.” Her mother broke an egg into the pan. It sizzled and spat. She lowered the heat. “I hear she’s turned up again.”
“Mom, Sy said something to me that I didn’t understand. He said he helped me stay out of trouble then. And I got the impression he was talking about the night Joelen’s mother’s boyfriend was killed.”
Her mother’s hand froze in midair above the egg carton. “One egg or two?”
“Two.”
“So what is she doing?”
“Joelen? She’s living with Bunny—again or still, I don’t know which. Selling real estate. Dad had an appointment to talk to her about putting the house on the market.”
“He did, did he?” Gloria broke the second egg into the pan.
“Sounds like you’re surprised that he’d hire her.”
“With all the Realtors to choose from? Yes.”
“I thought you were friends with her mother.”
Gloria tucked a wisp of hair into her turban. “Friends? Me and Elenor Nichol? Whatever gave you that idea?”
Deirdre took in her mother’s makeup-free face, baggy clothing, and battered leather sandals with rubber-tire soles. The only hint of vanity was the turban hiding her shorn hair. The idea that her mother and Elenor Nichol had been bosom buddies was preposterous.
“Something she said. When reporters and police showed up here, Joelen drove me over there and Bunny helped me dress up so I wouldn’t be recognized. She said you were chorus girls together at Warner Brothers.”
Gloria gave a shrug, allowing that it was true. “We worked at the same studio, along with a lot of other people.”
“You and Daddy went to her parties.”
“Us and half of Hollywood.” Gloria bit her lip and poked at the eggs, breaking one of the yolks. “Poor thing. After the scandal, she had quite a lot to deal with. I think your father helped her out where he could. Got her a cameo in Towering Inferno. He was one of her many admirers.” She stated that last part as if it were just a fact. “It was a mistake, letting you stay over there whenever you wanted to. I was . . . distracted.”
It struck Deirdre, not for the first time, that her mother’s transformation—from wisecracking broad who took her scotch straight on the rocks and bought tailored suits from the same exclusive designer as Pat Nixon, to New Age acolyte in sackcloth—had always felt like some kind of penance. But neither the old chic-but-prickly Gloria Unger nor this new dowdy-but-outwardly-serene version had even the slightest bit in common with Bunny Nichol. And Bunny was shrewd enough to know that. So why pretend otherwise?
Gloria shook the pan, loosening the eggs, and with a practiced gesture flipped them. Smiled. She reached into the overhead cupboard and pulled down a plate. Deirdre got out some silverware and a napkin and sat at the kitchen table while her mother slid the eggs onto the plate along with strips of soy bacon and the toast, which had popped. “Bon appétit!”
Deirdre picked up a piece of the soy bacon and nibbled on it. Salty. Sweet. Crisp, not greasy. Not awful at all, just odd. She stuffed the entire piece into her mouth and chased it with a bite of egg. “Did you know that Dad named me his literary executor?”