Enough space for three large seating areas and a like number of Persian rugs. Damask couches, tapestry chairs, a few leather pieces thrown in for variety, inlaid tables strategically placed.
Myron Bedard uncapped a silver ice bucket. “Drink, anyone?”
“No, thanks.”
“Ditto.”
“Then, I’ll drink alone.” Mixing himself a bourbon Manhattan on the rocks, he ambled over while sipping, dropped into one of the sofas, kicked off his loafers, half reclined.
A longer swig of his cocktail evoked a thumbs-up and a sigh of pleasure. “Just discovered this stuff-Knob Creek, Jim Beam premium booze. The best they had on the plane was Wild Turkey, and we’re talking a Gulfstream.”
Licking his lips, he extricated the maraschino cherry, bit down, wiped scarlet juice from his chin, swallowed. “Why’s everyone standing?”
Milo and I sat down as close to him as the layout allowed. Kyle hesitated for a moment before placing himself far from all of us.
Myron said, “Aw, c’mon, kiddo, it’s been months,” and motioned him closer. Kyle chewed his lip, found an armchair perpendicular to Myron’s sofa.
Milo said, “For starts, let’s hear about the relationship between Mary Whitbread and Lester Jordan.”
Neither Bedard responded.
“All of a sudden, the plague of shyness?”
Myron said, “I suppose I should be the one to tackle that.”
Kyle said, “Good guess, Dad.”
“Son, maybe you should go calculate or something.”
“The kids’ table?”
“Kyle, I’ve never shielded you, but some things are best said in private.”
“I’m aware of everything, Dad.”
“Humor me, son.”
Kyle didn’t budge.
Myron said, “It’s a matter of propriety, Kyle.”
Kyle played with his shoe. The toe was cracked.
Myron said, “Is that the style, now? Affected poverty?”
“I don’t give a shit about style, Dad.” A trace of whine raised the young man’s pitch. More moody adolescent than budding research scientist.
Being with a parent could do that.
Myron said, “And I never pressured you in that regard, did I, Kyle?”
Kyle didn’t answer.
Milo said, “Why don’t you take a breather, Kyle, but stick around.”
Before Kyle could answer, Myron sprang up, drink sloshing, placed himself, once again, between us and his son. He touched Kyle’s cheek. Kyle stiffened. Myron withdrew his hand but kissed the same spot.
Kyle’s chin twitched.
“I’m sorry, son. For any iniquity you can think of at present and the multitude that haven’t yet crossed your mind but are sure to. However, you might consider putting it in context. I’m fifty-seven, habitually overindulge in food and liquid refreshment, despise exercising, ignore my cholesterol. So my longevity is-”
“Dad!”
“-in serious question. Therefore, if I-”
Speaking quickly but with a mild slur. Wild Turkey hadn’t been too rough for an in-flight appetizer.
Kyle said, “Stop it, Dad. I hate when you do that.”
Myron crossed his heart. “Mea culpa. My eternal mantra.”
He tousled Kyle’s hair. “C’mon, bro, give me a little dignity and chill for a while.”
Kyle shot to his feet and stomped away.
“We’ll chat later, son. I want to tell you all about Venice.”
With the young man gone, Myron said, “He’s ambivalent about me, how could he not be? But I love him unconditionally. If I had to have only one kid, he’d be the one. Well behaved from day one-never had the imp in him. And, brilliant, I’m talking a whole different intellectual stratosphere. He’s only twenty-four and a year away from a Ph.D. in plasma physics. I can’t even comprehend what that is.”
Paternal pride gave way to tension that halved the width of his mouth. “Must be a generation-skipping thing. As Father frequently told me. He was a scientific type, too. Self-taught but a bushel-peck of patents to his name. Kyle thinks he’s anti-materialistic but he’ll be loaded, despite himself, probably some high-tech invention. One day you’ll open up Forbes there he’ll be, on the big-list. When that happens, I hope he likes me a little. Do either of you have kids?”
“No, sir,” said Milo.
“It’s educational. There’s a good chance that I’ve been a shitty father. Back then, of course, I thought I was a pretty good father.”
“Back when, sir?”
“When Kyle was young. I was never controlling or dominating but I do have a tendency to be impulsive and I suppose that could be…” Hoisting his drink, he emptied the glass, returned to the bar, poured a double. By the time he got back to the couch, half was gone.
“Your impulsiveness affected Kyle?”
“It’s complicated, Lieutenant.” Bedard’s eyes closed and his breathing slowed.
“How so?”
Bedard didn’t move. Milo’s head-cock told me to take over.
Mention of Peterson Whitbread had caused Bedard to seek the refuge of his house. Once inside, he’d wanted Kyle gone.
I said, “Impulsive as in taking Kyle along to see your mistress?”
Bedard’s eyes fluttered open. “Mistress.” The word amused him. “Mary was a nice stopover, nothing more.”
Milo said, “You have a lot of those?”
“What can I say, I love women. Adore each and every one of them.” Bedard drank and cracked ice with his teeth and used one hand to outline the guitar-contours of the female form. “I guess you could say I’m enamored of half the world-what’s that, three billion? Minus one-my ex-wife. Lord, can you imagine working your way through that mass of femininity? The concept’s staggering.”
Hoisting again, he said, “Here’s to the X chromosome.”
Milo said, “When did you start stopping over at Mary Whitbread’s?”
“Let’s see…way back-fifteen years or so.”
“Are you still doing it?”
“She’s over fifty. Far too mature for me.”
“She was a stopover but you sold her four buildings.”
“So I did.”
“Quid pro quo?”
Bedard laughed. “Mary paid fair market value. The fact that no agent’s commission was involved gave me a bit more flexibility and she didn’t need to wait for financing.”
“She paid cash?”
“A cashier’s check to be exact.”
“How much are we talking about?”
“Hmm,” said Bedard. “That long ago, I’d say…a million, million five.”
“Where’d she get that kind of money?”
“I have no idea. What has she done to get you so interested in her?”
“Who initiated the sale?” said Milo.
“All questions, no answers, eh? The decision was mutual. Mary was living in Carthay Circle, had sold some apartments in the Valley and was looking to trade up, possibly go the owner-occupied route. We’d owned the duplexes long enough to make a nice profit but as pure rentals, the returns weren’t optimal. I didn’t want to waste time on properties with less than a dozen units, so the timing was perfect.”
Rocking his glass, he stared at the wave motion. “It’s like playing Monopoly, one trades houses for hotels. There’s a school of thought that says hold, never sell, but I find that uncomfortably static.”
Another tightening of his lips.
I said, “Your father’s school of thought?”
Little eyeglass lenses flashed as he focused on me. “You’re playing psychologist with me. But yes, you’re correct. And no doubt Father would insist he was right. Those four buildings have got to be worth five, six mil. But I did fine on the ones I bought.”
Adolescent strain in his voice. Kyle had told me his father and grandfather loathed each other. Cashmere and silk were nice, but they made for poor bandages.
He said, “I’m still intrigued by all the interest in Mary. Is it because Patty Bigelow lived in one of the duplexes? There’s no mystery to that. I sent Patty to Mary after she had to leave here.”