“We’re here,” Ames said.
We pulled up in front of a house. The wolf jumped out and disappeared.
7
Laura Lonsberg lived in a condo just off of Venice Beach. She was on the fifth floor of the ten-story building. It was a three-bedroom with a balcony overlooking the Gulf. Her two daughters, she told us when she answered the door, were at school.
We were expected or at least I was. Her father had called from a gas station the day before and said I would be coming.
“You should have called,” she said, ushering us in. “I’m usually at work on Fridays.”
The living room was moderate in size, big enough for a comfortable bright sofa, some chairs, and a pair of lamps that might have been real Tiffany. The balcony door was open and we could hear the not-too-distant sounds of people on the beach and splashing in the water. A gull landed on the balcony railing, cocked his head to one side, and looked at me. Then he flew away.
Ames and I sat.
“Coffee?” Laura Lonsberg asked. “I’ve got some hot.”
“Fine,” I said. “Cream, sugar.”
“Black,” said Ames.
She left the room and I looked after her. She was in her late thirties, good figure, and the inherited dark blond hair of her father. She also bore a distinct resemblance to him that most people would say made her look plain. I thought she looked strong and determined. I didn’t think this was going to take long. She was back almost immediately with steaming blue mugs with the word “Illinois” scripted in orange across them.
She sat across from us, no coffee, legs crossed, hands folded.
“Where do you work?” I asked.
“Hospital, billing department,” she said. “I’ll save you time so we can get to the real questions. I have two children, daughters. My husband’s name is Danny Guffey. I met him in high school, Riverview in Sarasota. His family was poor. Danny’s father owned a small dry-cleaning store. My father thought Danny was after my money. He said he would give us nothing till he died. Danny didn’t care. My husband is a chiropractor, a good one, a very successful one. He has offices in Venice and in Bradenton, a secretary, a bookkeeper, and two assistants. We have two beautiful girls who along with my nephew will, to anticipate one of your questions, inherit most of whatever my father is worth when he dies.”
“You know what happened?” I asked after taking a drink of the coffee. The coffee tasted like raspberries.
“The girl, Adele, took my father’s manuscripts,” she said. “He wants no publicity so he hired a private detective to find her, one, I understand, who actually knows the girl.”
“I’m not a private detective,” I said. “I do know Adele. How well did you get to know her?”
Laura Lonsberg Guffey picked up a glass owl from the small table in front of her and looked at it as if it would give her an answer.
“Not well,” she said. “I bring the girls over every week or two when the great man feels a need to see them. My husband doesn’t go. Sometimes Adele was there. Sometimes we talked. She’s bright, has a lot of energy, and has been through a lot.”
“She told you about…?”
“Yes,” said Laura, rolling the crystal owl from hand to hand. “I read some of the things she was writing. I think my father’s right. She’s talented.”
I said nothing.
“Was I jealous?” she asked. “Not really. I can’t write. I’m not interested. My major interest in writing is those manuscripts and the future of my daughters. My father made it clear when I finished college and married Danny that I was on my own. I accepted that. I think he was right.”
“And your brother?”
“I’m not sure I know what you’re asking, but, yes, he was on his own after he got his B.A. He’s a C.P.A. in Sarasota.”
“But he lives in Venice?” I asked.
“He prefers it here and doesn’t mind the drive,” she said, putting down the ball. “You can discuss that with him. As to the rest of your ambiguous question, no, my brother was not happy to be sent into the world with a few dollars and a college degree.”
“Your father and brother get along?”
“I’d say so, but I wouldn’t call them buddies. Brad has one son, Conrad Junior. Conrad Senior is fond of him. Brad’s wife died when Connie was a little boy. Brad’s wife and the great man did not get along. She fought the few times they met so they stayed away from each other. Conrad Lonsberg, when his daughter-in-law died, condescended to attend the funeral but drove away when he saw reporters hovering at the funeral home for a glimpse of the famous literary recluse. In any case, the manuscripts, as I said, were they to exist would go to my girls and my nephew.”
Silence and then she added, “So, you see there would be no point in Brad or me wanting to take the manuscripts if that’s what you’re thinking. There’s nothing we can do with them. All we can do is sit and wait till he dies. Even Conrad Lonsberg has to die sometime.”
“You don’t love him?” I asked.
“The great man? He treated my mother reasonably well, but if you’re a girl looking for warm, fuzzy, and protection after her mother dies, Conrad is not the one to go to. Now for your next question. Was I worried about Conrad changing his will and putting Adele on it? The answer is ‘no.’ That’s not the way my father thinks. Read his books or his poems. He thinks people have to learn to take care of themselves. His grandchildren seem to be an exception.”
“Any idea why Adele might want to take your father’s manuscripts?”
“Adele’s a sharp kid, more than a kid, but Conrad knows how to hurt,” she said, putting the owl gently back on the table. “He wouldn’t touch her body, but he could play some painful games with her mind if he wanted to. He knows how to hurt.”
“Not one of your favorite people on the planet?”
“No,” she said simply. “Anything else?”
“Mickey Merrymen,” I said.
“Who?”
It sounded like an honest “who” to me, but I went on.
“Friend of Adele’s.”
“No. The only other person I ever saw her with was an old woman who drove her to Conrad’s a few times. I didn’t get her name, but she drove a big car and wore too much makeup. That it?”
“All I can think of,” I said. “Ames?”
“Conrad, the great man,” Ames said. “You don’t call him father or dad.”
“I don’t think of him that way,” she said. “Father is a word you earn by being one.”
“You think much of his writing?” Ames asked.
“He is a great man,” she answered with a shake of her head. “I really believe that even when I say it with a touch of sarcasm. A great writer.”
She gave us the address of her brother’s business office in Sarasota and we left. Back in the car, I asked Ames what he thought.
“One good real hug from her father would take away most of the bitterness,” he said.
“That simple?”
“In this case, I think maybe so.”
The conversation ended and we drove back to Sarasota.
It was late in the afternoon when we got back. We stopped at the Texas Bar and Grille for a quick bowl of chili. I called Brad Lonsberg’s office and asked if I could come over for a while.
“Sure,” he said. “I’m working on something now. Give me half an hour.”
The early-afternoon crowd was straggling into the Texas, some wearily glancing up at the television set where the news was on with no sound, some talking business or baseball. Some not talking.
The phone rang while we were finishing our chili. I noticed but didn’t pay any attention until Ed called over, “Lew, it’s for you.”
I left Ames working on his chili, moved to the bar, and picked up the phone.
“Fonesca,” I said.
“Adele,” she answered.
“How did you know I was here?” I asked.
“You weren’t at your office. I’ve just been looking.”
“Why?”
“Because you’ve been looking for me,” she said. “Don’t. By the time you find me they’ll all be gone.”