“I did.” Her mother went to the sink and ran the water. “He asked if I thought it was a good idea.” She shot Deirdre a quick glance as she scrubbed the pan. “I know. Not something you’d have volunteered for. Don’t panic. I’m here to help. We can take a quick first pass through his papers—shouldn’t take more than a day or two if we put our minds to it. With the fire, there’s less to deal with.”
That was an understatement. Deirdre dragged a piece of wheat toast through the yolk and put it in her mouth.
Gloria picked up a dish towel. Leaning with her back against the sink, she started drying the pan. “Have you and Henry made plans for the funeral?”
“I talked to the mortuary, but I didn’t know what to say about a service. The coroner is supposed to release Dad’s body today.”
“Right,” her mother said, drying her hands, snapping the dish towel and folding it smartly. “Finish your breakfast. Then get me the phone number of the funeral home and find me your father’s Rolodex. We’ll schedule a service for day after tomorrow. Keep it simple. Tasteful. I’ll get some of his friends to say a few words. I’ll have food delivered to the house for after. And after it’s all over, how about the three of us drive out to Paradise Cove? Scatter your father’s ashes in the sea. He always said he was part fish. Then I’ll take you and Henry to Holiday House. I haven’t been back there in ages. We can order cracked crab and champagne and sit out on the patio and toast your father’s memory.”
Gratitude pulsed through Deirdre. Henry had called the insurance company. Her mother was offering to organize the funeral and help sort through Arthur’s papers. At least she wasn’t going to be on her own acting out the role of the dutiful daughter, something she’d never been very good at anyway.
“Holiday House. That sounds perfect,” she said. And it did. Her father would have loved to see them toasting him, the consummate celebrity wannabe, at the storied celebrity hangout. It was where JFK and Marilyn, Liz and Eddie, Frankie and Ava had supposedly shared intimate tête-à-têtes and then slipped off to the attached no-tell motel. Its ultramodern design of glass and steel and stone and spectacular view would have made it a tourist attraction if the maître d’ hadn’t courteously but firmly barred anyone who smacked of tourist or, even worse, paparazzi. Deirdre had a soft spot for it as well. She’d once handled the sale of a photograph by Man Ray of a weather-beaten shipwreck washed up on a stretch of beach that could only be viewed from the Holiday House patio.
“That’s it then. Decided,” Gloria said with a wry smile. She sat at the kitchen table opposite Deirdre, took a deep breath, and bowed her head. Her lips moved in a whisper as she rubbed together the thumb and fingers of her left hand. This was Gloria’s way of maintaining her cherished tranquility, reciting a mantra and fingering the string of prayer beads that for years she’d worn wrapped around her wrist. Portable valium, Arthur used to call them. One hundred and eight beads, four lapis lazuli and the rest turquoise.
Only now there was no string of beads wrapped around Gloria’s wrist.
Chapter 24
Missing something?” Deirdre reached across the kitchen table for her mother’s hand and dropped two of the beads she’d found among the ashes on the floor of her father’s garage office into Gloria’s upturned palm. “Three guesses where I found them.”
Her mother’s eyes snapped open, but she didn’t say anything.
“You weren’t late because you had car trouble. You were here yesterday. It was you I saw up there in the window before the fire, wasn’t it?”
Gloria pursed her lips and rubbed her fingers together. “Along the road to truth, there are only two mistakes you can make. Not starting. And not going all the way.”
Serenity could be so irritating. “Did you set the fire?”
Gloria reared back as if she’d been slapped. “Of course I did not set the goddamn fire. Do you think I’d have been up in your father’s office if I had?”
That, at least, made some sense. “Then what were you doing up there? And why didn’t you come in? You could have at least—” What? Shown up? Said hello? Been there for Deirdre and Henry?
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I—” Gloria moved to embrace her.
“Sorry?” Deirdre sobbed and pushed her away. “You never think of anyone but yourself.”
Her mother held up her hands and backed off. “Okay. Fair enough. You have every right to be angry. Let me try to explain. I got back yesterday.” She swallowed. “And actually I did call. I called because I wanted to be sure you and Henry weren’t going to be here when I arrived.”
Deirdre felt her jaw drop. “Because?”
“Because . . .” Tension drained from her mother’s face. “Deirdre, I knew you’d be going through your father’s papers. I was trying to protect you and your brother from what you might find.”
“I don’t need protecting. And Henry certainly doesn’t. And why now? How long’s it been since I’ve seen you? Months? And then only because I drove to Twentynine Palms.” Her mother flinched, but Deirdre kept going. “Besides, if you were trying to protect us, that train left the station a good long time ago.”
“Deirdre, Deirdre. Don’t.” Her mother gave her a long, mournful look. “Holding on to anger is like holding on to a hot coal.”
“Spare me the bumper stickers. Why were you up in his office?”
“Deirdre, your father never meant to hurt you.”
“What were you looking for? His creepy snapshots?”
Gloria blinked. “Snapshots?”
“You didn’t know? He was bringing young women, some of them just teenagers, up to his office and taking their pictures. And I can only imagine what else.”
“Teenagers?” Creases deepened between her mother’s eyes. “I don’t believe it.”
“The photographs got destroyed in the fire, but I saved one of them.” Deirdre went into the laundry room and got the Polaroid she’d left on the shelf. She slammed it down on the kitchen table.
Her mother recoiled. “Oh my.” She stared at the photograph for a moment, then across at Deirdre. “Joelen Nichol.”
“She’s the only one I recognized.” Deirdre turned the picture over to show her the asterisks written on the back. “He even rated them. See?”
“And you think your father would . . . with your best friend? You can’t seriously believe that.” Gloria took the picture from Deirdre and held Joelen’s face under the light. “She was a beautiful girl, wasn’t she? And I don’t doubt that she was”—she paused for a moment—“precocious, in some respects. Frankly, I wasn’t thrilled that you and she were such close friends. But I had no idea that anything like this was going on.” She put the picture down on the table and looked hard at Deirdre. “I don’t know everything that your father was getting up to. I didn’t want to know because I was leaving him, and it would have been just one more thing to be furious about, and I knew enough already. It would have been like drinking poison and wanting him to die.” Realizing what she’d said, Gloria shook her head. “I don’t mean that literally, of course. I’d never have wanted him to . . . I mean . . . I just meant that metaphorically. But here’s the thing. Joelen was still a teenager when this picture was taken. And whatever else Arthur may have been, he was not a pedophile.”
Chapter 25
I’m back.” At the sound of Henry’s voice, Gloria shot up from the kitchen table. The dogs tumbled into the room and swarmed at her feet. She reached over to the counter for two pieces of raw soy bacon. They’d barely hit the floor before the dogs had scarfed them up.
“Is the insurance adjuster done out there?” Gloria asked Henry.
“She’s done with the garage downstairs. Other than the bikes and the car, there wasn’t a whole lot more to claim. Now she’s upstairs, working on the office.” Henry helped himself to a piece of fake bacon. Sniffed. Took a bite. Chewed. Pulled a face. “What is this?”
“It’s healthy,” Deirdre said. “Mom brought it.”