We shared an elevator with a stunned-looking Swedish family. Iona Bedard’s suite was at the south end of the sixth floor. A black-haired woman shoved the door open, said, “You’re on time,” turned her back on us, and marched to an easy chair. Propping her feet on an ottoman, she reclaimed a smoldering pink cigarette from an ashtray.
The living room was bright, wide, and cold, with a long gray view of Century City. Furnished with the same ecru-to-topsoil formula as the lobby. Petra muttered, “Now I’ll be invisible,” and shut the door.
We stood around as Iona Bedard puffed and gazed at a chalky sky. An end table was piled with fashion magazines and glossy monthlies that pushed high-priced toys. Atop the stack was a sleek platinum lighter. A tray near her feet held a pitcher of iced tea and an empty glass. Iona Bedard didn’t invite us to sit and we stayed on our feet.
Petra said, “Thanks for meeting with us, ma’am.”
Bedard sucked in smoke and let it trail out of her nose. Midfifties, tall and leggy, she had wide, dark, heavily lined eyes that matched her ebony bouffant. Her black-and-pink houndstooth jacket and gray jeans were tailored to a bony frame that shouted self-denial. Her skin boasted of nicotine and sun exposure. The exception was a flat, glossy brow. That and the odd paralytic tilt along the outer edges of her eyelids screamed Botox.
She said, “I’m going to help you people. If you want to solve my brother’s murder, take a good hard look into my ex-husband. Do you have something to write on?”
Petra produced her pad.
Iona Bedard said, “Myron. Grant. Bedard. Fifty-seven years old, six feet tall, two forty, though he lies and claims to be lighter. His addresses are-write this down: 752 Park Avenue, Apartment 13A, New York 10021, Crookback Ranch, Aspen Valley, Colorado 81611, and an apartment in London that he calls a flat because he’s pretentious. Nine Carlos Place, Mayfair, W1, I don’t recall the crazy English postal code but it should be easy enough to find. Do you have all that down?”
“I do, ma’am,” said Petra. “Why should we be looking at Mr. Bedard?”
“Because he’s always despised Lester.”
“Personality conflict?”
“Baseless hatred,” said Bedard, as if explaining to an idiot. “Lester wasn’t the strongest person. Myron has no tolerance for weakness.”
Petra wrote something down. “Could you be more specific as to a motive for murder, ma’am?”
“Hatred isn’t sufficient?”
“Did Mr. Bedard and Mr. Jordan have any recent conflict?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me.”
“But you don’t know of any specific-”
“I’m trying to help you, dear. If I knew more, I’d tell you.”
“Where is Mr. Bedard at present?”
“I have no idea.”
Milo said, “Your son said he was in Europe.”
“If that’s what Kyle said, then I’m sure it was true. At the time Kyle said it.”
“Meaning?”
“Myron moves around. Locate a bevy of sluts and he won’t be far.”
Petra said, “He moves between his three residences?”
“And resorts and rented yachts and private jets and whatever whim of the moment seizes him.”
“Who owns the house on Hudson Avenue?”
Iona Bedard’s eyelids lowered. Her eye shadow was smoke-colored and glossy. She shifted her attention to Milo, then me, as if Petra had worn out the welcome mat. “That monstrosity is Myron’s as well.” Back to Petra: “I didn’t mention it because I assumed you knew about it. And because you’ll never find him there. He hates Los Angle-is. Fancies himself a waahrld traahvelar.”
“Anyone live there besides Kyle?”
“Kyle would prefer a small apartment appropriate for someone of his age. Myron refuses to pay for one.”
“Not a generous man.”
“When it comes to his own needs, he’s lavish.”
“Are you saying Mr. Bedard murdered Mr. Jordan and flew off to Europe?”
Bedard’s sigh was long, theatrical, world-weary. “People like Myron don’t do for themselves.”
“So we’re talking a contract killing.”
“I’m offering you insight, dear. Connect the dots.”
“Any idea who Mr. Bedard would hire for something like that?”
“I don’t consort with people like that.”
“Mr. Bedard’s motive would be resentment.”
“Myron despised Lester. Throughout our marriage, Lester was an issue for Myron.”
“In what way?”
“My helping Lester ate at Myron. What was I asking? Basic lodging for a family member who’d encountered more than his share of misfortune.”
“The apartment on Cherokee,” said Milo. “Lester lived there for free?”
Iona waved her cigarette. “Only one small apartment in a twenty-unit building. You’d have thought I was seeking to lease the Taj Mahal.”
“Mr. Bedard objected but he gave in.”
“It’s not as if Myron ever earned a dime. What reason did he have to object? And Lester earned his keep. He managed the building.”
“Mr. Bedard inherited his wealth,” said Petra.
“My family was by no means middle-class, dear, but we know the value of work. My father was a top financial advisor for Merrill Lynch and my mother was a world-class beauty and gifted painter who never went out in the sun without a parasol. Culture was an enormous component of my upbringing.”
No reason for her to smile, but she did. The movement created a network of facial creases in random spots, as if her head was tethered to invisible strings, manipulated by an unseen puppeteer. “Myron’s family had the means to acquire culture but they lacked the motivation. Most of the objects of quality in my father-in-law’s house were purchased at my suggestion. I have a degree in Art History from Weldon College. I’ll say one thing for the old man, he was willing to listen. Obviously not a genetic trait.”
Petra said, “Anything you could tell us about Mr. Jordan’s history would be helpful.”
“What do you mean by ‘history’?”
“Who he was, his friends, his interests. How he got involved with drugs.”
Iona Bedard flexed the pink cigarette, watched the smoke wiggle upward. Lifting her glass, she glanced at the pitcher.
Milo filled her glass. She drank, ground out her cigarette, pulled out a fresh smoke. Glanced at the platinum lighter.
Milo lit her up.
Three inhalations later, she said, “Lester’s essence went beyond his illness.”
“I’m sure it did,” said Petra. “But it would still be helpful to know-”
“Lester’s history is that he was a perfectly normal young man who had the misfortune of growing up in a family where normalcy wasn’t sufficient. My father was Bertram Jordan.”
Pausing to let the fact sink in.
She said, “Senior partner in Merrill’s main San Francisco office? My mother was a Dougherty. Without her, the Palace of Fine Arts would be nothing. Lester’s older than me. He wasn’t the student that I was but his gift was music. All he wanted was to play music but that was an anathema to my parents. They meant well but their disapproval was hard for Lester.”
“What instrument did he play?” said Petra.
“Clarinet, saxophone, oboe. He dabbled in trumpet, as well.”
“We didn’t find any instruments in his apartment.”
“Lester hadn’t played for years. His dreams were crushed.”
“By your parents?”
“By life,” said Iona Bedard. “Someone with a stronger constitution might’ve endured but Lester was artistic and sensitive and artistic people often lack backbone.”
I thought back to Jordan’s surly demeanor. Maybe dope and the passage of time had changed him. Or his sister was delusional.