“Forget it.” She picked up her drink and carried it into the house.
“Sorry, Garth,” I said. “I’ve interrupted things.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll work on the news tapes this afternoon, bring what I have tonight.”
“You really want to do this?”
“It’s a privilege to be asked. I remember Emily Duchamps when she was taking a lot of flak. I believed in her then. I still do.”
“I believe in her, too,” I said. I sipped the Ramos fizz he handed me. It hit my empty stomach like a cold bolt, but it tasted good.
“Are you feeling sad, baby?” he asked.
“Yes. At the same time, I’ve met so many people who care deeply for Emily that I’ve begun to finally understand who she was. I feel some of her strength.” I handed him the glass. “Garth, she’s going to die. But she lived the life she wanted to. She left a mark. Who can ask for more?”
“Can’t ask for nothin’ more.” He kissed the top of my head. “I’ll see you tonight and we’ll set the city on its butt.”
Garth may sound like a patronizing son of a bitch, but I love him. I can say anything to him and face no risk. That’s a rare quality in a friend.
As I walked away from him, I was thinking also of Jaime, of how awful it is to leave people behind. I had moved frequently, following jobs. In my wake I had left many friends, a husband, a world of possibilities.
Garth held the front door for me. “What are you wearing tonight?”
“I’ll come up with something.”
“The station still has a contract with Desert Mode. You might give them a call, drop my name.
“Thanks,” I said. I will.”
“Take care of yourself,” Garth called after me.
“See you at eight.”
“I’ll count the minutes.”
Something occurred to me as I unlocked the car. “We’re going to a fundraiser for what?”
“Carrie Smith Clinic, drug rehab for teenagers.”
“Who is Carrie Smith?”
“Celeste’s daughter. She ODed late last year,” he said. “She was thirteen.”
I got into Max’s car and backed out into the street. I wasn’t feeling at all like attending a gala fundraiser, especially one that promised to have sad undercurrents. But if it was the only way to see Celeste, then I would do it. I had been well-trained by Garth.
I called Desert Mode as Garth had suggested. The shop was a boutique on El Paseo in Palm Desert that had dressed me for my nightly newscasts way back when I still read the news. I had always hated the clothes they sent over-desert glitz-but the price was right: nothing more than a promotional plug. So I called them.
After I mentioned Garth’s name, the shop owner was willing to honor the old arrangement one more time.
“Are you the same size?” she asked.
“Same size, yes. Just make adjustments for the effects of gravity,” I said. I need everything. Dress, shoes, underwear. It’s black tie in Century City.”
“I’ll take care of you,” she said. “Mention my name during the evening.”
“Early and often. Can you send it to Garth Underwood’s by five o’clock?”
“He’s at the same address?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t worry about a thing, Maggie. You’ll be magnificent.”
“Passable is all I ask.”
“Magnificent is what I’ll deliver.”
I envisioned sequins and shoulder pads. I really didn’t care, as long as it got me through the door at the Century Plaza.
Chapter Eleven
Aleda Weston was scheduled for arraignment in federal court at two o’clock. I wanted to be there early to talk with Fay Cohen.
It was nearly eleven by the time I got back on the freeway headed for L.A. If traffic cooperated, and I drove like a bat out of hell, I figured I might also be able to squeeze in a few minutes with Emily and my parents at the hospital.
I made good time as far as Norco. Then I hit the weather front. There was a deluge. It so rarely rains in Southern California that people forget from one storm to the next how to drive on wet streets. That meant bumper cars the rest of the way in.
Every few minutes, I tried to call my mother at the hospital, to check in. But the weather played hell with the telephone cells, and I couldn’t get through. Everything rolled together made me feel antsy. I’ve never mastered being in two places at once, or flying over obstructions, and that frustrates the hell out of me.
When I finally arrived downtown, I was out of time. If I skipped the hospital and drove straight to the federal courthouse where the hearing was scheduled, and if I lucked into a decent parking place, I knew a few minutes with Fay would be the most I could hope for. Mother would understand, that’s her nature. But it’s not mine. I was fuming.
I found parking in a public structure only a block and a half away. When I cleared the metal detectors at the courthouse entrance, I had maybe ten minutes, optimum, to find Fay and pound her ear. Still feeling juiced, I stopped at the information desk to ask for the department number and directions. What the desk officer told me stopped me like a full speed run at a block walclass="underline"
“There is no Weston arraignment scheduled in this court this afternoon,” she said, unmoved by my persistence. “You might call the court clerk.”
I called Metro Detention.
“Aleda Weston was arraigned at oh-nine-hundred hours and kicked,” I was told.
“Could you interpret that?” I asked.
“She posted bail and left.”
Not what I expected to hear. “Where is she now?” I demanded.
“I don’t have that information.”
I had such a weird feeling, like coitus interruptus I had said to Flint. That pretty much describes it. I had come expecting answers, some resolution. Suddenly, zip. Nothing. Christmas without Santa.
For a good minute, I stood in the cavernous court lobby trying to figure out which way I had come in and how and where I should go next, and whether or not I should just sit down on the marble floor and cry.
The handful of change I had dumped on the shelf under the telephone lay there like a rebuke. I could call around, but I didn’t know where to start. Fay Cohen must have been staying in the city, but I had no idea where. I did try Max, but of course he wasn’t in. I doubted whether Flint would even speak to me, and I had no idea what I would say to him: “How’s the love bite on your neck?”
While waiting for inspiration, I plunked some coins into the slots and dialed Denver. I hoped I wasn’t waking Linda from her afternoon nap. I prayed I wouldn’t have to argue with Scotty about his complaint of the day, whatever it might be. I wanted only to speak with my daughter.
To my great relief, Casey herself answered the phone. “How’s it going?” I asked.
“Okay.” The connection was scratchy. “Snowed last night and the powder on the slopes today was really good.”
“You skied?”
“Uh huh. With Dad. How’s Aunt Emily?”
“The same. Grandma and Grandpa are with her.”
“Oh,” was all she said.
“Have you thought any more about coming to Ireland with me?” I asked.
“Sure. It’s cool.” But she sounded cool.
“How’s Linda feeling?”
“She throws up a lot.”
“When is the baby due?”
“In June,” Casey said. “It’ll be strange to have a brother or sister. I mean, I don’t have a lot of relatives.”
“Good strange or bad strange?” I asked.
“Good, I guess. Babies are pretty cute.” There was a pause; then her voice came back very low. “Dad’s really happy.”
“He should be. He makes great babies.”
She made “Mom” sound like three syllables.
“Casey,” I said. “I’m happy Dad’s happy. You can enjoy yourself there and not be disloyal to me.
“I know that,” she snapped.
“Good.” I missed her more than I thought I would.