The sitting up cost him another hit of dizziness. He knew the fever hadn't broken but he'd done a lot yesterday feeling even worse. He picked up his shirt, soggy and wrinkled. It wouldn't do. He had to get some clothes. He had to keep moving…
Clarence Stone's home in Seacliff had been a nice, human-scaled, run-of-the-mill mansion. Margaret Morency's place in San Marino put things in perspective. Hardy was getting a lesson in the investment community – there were the very comfortable, then the rich, and then there were the people who had houses that weren't visible from the road. The drive, through the double iron gates, would back into a forest of scrub oak up over the crest of a small knoll and disappeared.
It hadn't been as hard to find as he had expected. The Huntington Library was open on Sundays (after noon) and they carried back issues of the city's weekly society sheet. In the past year there had been several charity events as Margaret Morency's.
Pastille was on Swan Court. Pastille was the name of her place. After those French breath candies. Maybe that's how Ms. Morency thought of her home – a trifle, a confection to soothe the spirit.
Hardy pulled his rent-a-car up to the gates. He had to get out of the car to ring the bell. No one had answered the last time he'd tried the telephone but that had been nearly an hour before. Something might have changed. If it hadn't, he'd try Bachman again, then come back here. Something.
A deep young female voice spoke through the box.
"Yes."
"Ms. Morency?"
"Yes."
He didn't feel he could launch into a long story. He had to see her. "I couldn't reach you on the phone," he said.
She laughed. "I know. I just let it ring. I don't know why I keep the thing. Who is this?"
Hardy took a gamble. He was an acquaintance of Jody's.
"Oh, just a minute." There was a whirring sound and the gates began to open. "I'm back by the pool. You'll find it."
"I give the staff Sundays off."
They sat on thick-cushioned picnic chairs under an umbrella. Two sweating pitchers – iced tea and lemonade – sat in a serving platter on the table. She had taken crystal glasses from the bar at the gazebo near the head of the pool and poured lemonade for them.
It was crude, he knew, but Hardy's first reaction, shaking her hand, was that he had seen better heads on beer. Orange Court debutante or not, she had one of those faces that didn't quite work – a jaw that was almost merely strong, but it jutted. A trace too much down clouding her cheeks. Her forehead reached her hairline a half-inch too soon. Being mega-rich could cover a multitude of sins.
She had also apparently perfected the art of diverting attention from her face. Blonde hair hung shining to her shoulders. She wore black bikini bottoms and a white top tied halter-fashion over her breasts. The top was diaphanous. A gold chain hugged her flat, tan waist. She was barefoot with long, tapered legs; another discreet chain encircled one ankle. Hardy noticed the top of the bathing suit draped over some flagstones by the flower bed on the opposite side of the pool. She had obviously been swimming, lounging, topless.
"I like being here alone."
They were certainly alone. No other houses were visible. Only trees, the pool, the manicured garden and rolling lawn beyond, the mansion behind them, the perfect blue sky. A jet flew high overhead.
"How do you know Jody?" she asked.
Hardy's every bone ached. He could feel sweat gathering between his shoulder blades as the fever began to spike again. He sipped the lemonade and smiled weakly. "I'm afraid I'm another lawyer."
She had, he thought, a great laugh – deep, full-throated, uninhibited. She threw her head back, seemingly delighted. "Lawyers aren't afraid of anything," she said. "That's what Jody tells me."
"This lawyer is."
"What are you afraid of, Mr. Hardy?" She looked directly at him, her deep eyes a shade too dark. "You look pretty much able to take care of yourself."
"Right at this moment, I'm fighting a cold. I feel like an eight-year-old could take me down without too much trouble."
She looked another question at him. Had she been coming on? Had he just turned her down? Whatever, it didn't seem to bother her. She seemed to think it was interesting. It was such a different league here. There must be different rules and maybe he didn't know them.
"So, where were we?" she asked.
"How I knew Jody. I don't."
For a moment, her eyes registered something. Fear? Annoyance? "You're not a policeman, are you?"
"Why? Is Jody in trouble with the police?"
"There's no reason he should be. And you didn't answer me."
"I told you. I'm a lawyer. I'm not a cop."
She sat back and crossed her arms under her halter. Her face remained impassive. "What do you people think he did? You ought to leave him alone."
Hardy nodded. "Yes. That's what Mr. Kelso told Inspector Restoffer. But I'm on my own. I'm not with him and I'm trying to save my client's life." He gave her Jennifer's story in a nutshell. By the time he finished, she had uncrossed her arms. She took a long drink of lemonade.
"But Jody didn't call Frank – Mr. Kelso. I did. Jody knew nothing about it, probably still doesn't."
"Why did you call him?"
"Because, Mr. Hardy" – she leaned forward again – "because Jody doesn't need this. He's very sensitive and he hasn't done anything wrong. And then suddenly out of nowhere this Restoffer person starts questioning him as if he were a criminal. These accusations were tearing him apart and it was ridiculous. Do you know who Jody is?"
"I know he's your fiance. That's about it."
"He's a one-in-a-million person, that's who he is. He spends half his life helping people. He came from nowhere and now he's moving into the city's elite, he raises money for twenty causes – that's where he is now, at a charity golf function. He's a partner at his firm and he makes a good living. He's engaged to me, so as you can see money will not be an issue. He doesn't need to do anything criminal. Money just doesn't drive him."
If Jody were so wonderful, Hardy wanted to ask her, why did she give the impression she would have taken him to bed, maybe still would. It could be that all his goodness didn't satisfy her, which, of course, didn't mean it wasn't there.
It could also be that one-in-a-million Jody didn't love her, didn't find her desirable, had arranged for himself a convenient marriage that would give him still more money, more power. But maybe, in this strata of society, marriages more resembled strategic alliances than love affairs. Connections and loyalty might count for more than sexual attraction. He just didn't know, he was out of his league.
And he was almost out of steam. "Did Jody tell you that Restoffer had accused him of anything?"
"Not specifically, but it became obvious that he thought Jody might have had something to do with Simpson Crane's death, which is simply absurd. Simpson Crane was like his father. He cried when Simpson was killed – I was with him and I saw it. That's not something you fake, Mr. Hardy."
It's been known to happen, Hardy thought.
"Besides," she continued, "everybody knows who killed Simpson. It was the damn union. He was, I guess everybody knows, a union buster. He believed unions were ruining the country – and by the way he was right – so he went after them. He was just too good at it. And one of them killed him, or had him killed. That's just the kind of people they are."
Hardy wanted to ask her if she had ever had a meaningful conversation with a working person but thought he'd save his breath. That wasn't his fight, he wasn't about to become a life influence on Ms. Morency.
Suddenly she pushed herself up from her chair and crossed the flagstones. At the gazebo she grabbed a towel and draped it over her shoulders, covering the halter. It hadn't gotten any cooler – the implied invitation, if that's what it had been, was withdrawn.