“This ranks as a little more than gossip, Miss Brewster. I learned the man’s name this morning. Grady. He’s a friend of yours, isn’t he?”
“Did you learn that this morning, too?”
“Yes.”
“You were misinformed. He’s no friend of mine.”
She turned and walked away. He followed her. She was almost as tall as he was and their steps exactly matched, so they looked as though they were marching in single file.
“Miss Brewster.”
“If you already know so much, why did you come back here?”
“What’s his full name?”
“Grady Keaton.”
“Has he worked at the club long?”
“About six months.”
“Can you tell me something of his background?”
“He didn’t talk much about himself. Not to me anyway. Maybe to fifty other women.”
“Why fifty?”
“Why not? One thing I can tell you about Grady is his philosophy — why not?”
They had reached the front door of the club but neither of them made any move to open it.They stood facing each other, almost eye to eye. Hers were green and very solemn. His were obscured by horn-rimmed glasses which needed cleaning.
Aragon said, “A minute ago you made it sound as though Mrs. Shaw had kidnapped an innocent lad. Now he’s not such a lad and not so innocent, and Mrs. Shaw had to take a number and wait in line. Which version are you sticking with?”
“Are you going to make trouble for him?”
“I might. It’s not my main objective, though. All I really want is Mrs. Shaw’s signature on some legal documents.”
“Why keep coming back here?”
“This is where she’s known, where her friends are.”
“I’m not sure she has friends at the club. She and her husband sort of dropped out of things when he began showing signs of senility, and after his death she didn’t come around for ages. When she finally did she talked to me more than anyone else, mostly chitchat about the weather, food, clothes. Nothing heavy or even interesting.”
“What makes you dislike her?”
“That’s pretty strong. Let’s just say I disapprove.”
“Of what?”
“Her vanity,” Ellen said. “She probably had reason to be vain some time ago. But at her age she should be able to pass a mirror without stopping to adore herself.”
“Or criticize herself?”
“Whatever she’s doing, the key word is herself. No matter how big the universe is it has to have a center, and Miranda decided long ago that she’s it.”
“Do you call her by her first name?”
“She asked me to. I don’t, though. Mr. Henderson wouldn’t like it.”
“She must consider you a friend.”
“I... well, I’m not. It’s part of my job to act friendly toward the members and I do it. But when some of them expect or demand too much, that’s their problem. I couldn’t help them even if I wanted to. Mr. Henderson has rules about the staff becoming involved with any of the members.”
“Evidently Mrs. Shaw wasn’t aware of the rules.”
“Grady was. But then, rules aren’t exactly his strong suit.”
A small plane passed very low along the edge of the sea as though it was searching for something washed up by the tide. She shielded her eyes to watch it until it disappeared behind a row of eucalyptus trees.
“You’d better come into the office,” she said. “If people see us talking outside like this, some of them might think I’m carrying on an illicit affair. That wouldn’t bother me but I don’t suppose your wife would approve. You are married, of course.”
“How did you know?”
“Intuition. Extrasensory perception.”
“I don’t buy those.”
“Okay. How about research? The City Directory lists a Tomás Aragon, 203 Ramitas Road. Occupation, attorney. Wife, Laurie MacGregor, M.D.”
“No age, weight, political party?”
“I’ll have to guess about those. Twenty-seven, a hundred and eighty pounds, and a Democrat.”
“You’re very good, Miss Brewster. I wish you were on my side.”
“I might be when I figure out what game we’re playing.”
The door opened and a tall elderly woman came out, leaning heavily on a cane. In her free hand she carried a small red leather case with a snap fastener. She had short thick grey hair and colorless lips so thin they looked glued together. They came apart only slightly when she spoke. “There you are, Ellen. I’ve been asking for you.”
“Sorry, Mrs. Young. I had to—”
“My daughter Juliet has been complaining of burning eyes after swimming, so I brought over my own testing kit. It turns out Juliet is not imagining things, as she often does. Your chlorine registers too high and your pH too low.”
“I’ll tell the engineer.”
“He’ll deny it, of course, but I have the evidence.” She shook the red leather case vigorously. “Considering the dues we pay, I should think the club would be able to afford a competent engineer.”
“We try.”
For the first time, Iris Young acknowledged Aragon’s presence with a brief glance. Then she turned back to Ellen. “Who’s he?”
“Mr. Aragon is a lawyer.”
“I hope he’s not applying for membership.”
“I don’t think so, Mrs. Young.”
“Good. The club has too many lawyers as it is, sitting around encouraging people to sue each other. By the way, I expected to find the girls here. The Admiral brought them down this morning before his golf game.”
“They left some time ago,” Ellen said. “The Ingersolls gave them a lift into town.”
“I’ve instructed them not to accept rides from strangers.”
“The Ingersolls aren’t exactly stra—”
“Too late to fuss now. The whole problem will be resolved as soon as Cordelia gets her driver’s license back and I can buy her a new car, something more conventional. That Jaguar she had was a bad influence. It practically demanded to be driven at excessive speeds. It was too stimulating.”
“A Jaguar would certainly stimulate me.”
“I’m glad you agree.”
Ellen wasn’t entirely sure what she’d agreed about, but Mrs. Young seemed satisfied.
She crossed the road to her own car, a chauffeur-driven Mercedes, walking as if every step was painful. The chauffeur helped her into the back seat and put a blanket over her legs.
In Ellen’s absence Mr. Henderson had taken charge of the office, a job he despised, since it nearly always involved complaints ranging from errors in billing to the fat content of the hamburgers in the snack bar. Neither of these extremes, and very little in between, interested him. He thought of himself as creative, a man of ideas. His latest idea, closing the club one day a week in order to conduct a bus tour to Santa Anita, Hollywood Park or Agua Caliente, had been poorly received by the membership. It was noted in the club newsletter that plans for a weekly Racing Revel had been indefinitely postponed. So were plans for a Blackjack Bash, which violated a local ordinance, and a Saturday Cinema for Stags, sabotaged by does, who outnumbered stags four to one.
Henderson kept right on trying. When Ellen entered he was, in fact, sketching out in his mind a Garden of Eden Ball.
People were tired of costume parties and the main attraction of the ball was certain to be its lack of costumes — except a figleaf or three. There would be some opposition, of course, from the elderly and fat, but in the long run the ball seemed destined to be a rousing success, the stuff of memories.
Ellen said, “Mr. Henderson.”
He kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling and the future. The waitresses and busboys would be dressed as serpents, and from the chandeliers, just out of reach, would hang huge red paper apples. When the more athletic merrymakers succeeded in breaking the apples, confetti would come flying out with sinful abandon. Beautiful, beautiful.