“That was a lie,” she told Aragon afterward. “I’m not going home. I don’t have a home anymore.”
“Certainly you do.”
“No. The house is mortgaged, it belongs to strangers.”
“Not yet. The law moves very slowly. You can continue living in the place until everything is settled.”
“I refuse to accept the charity of strangers.”
“The strangers are a couple of banks, they’re not in the habit of offering charity.”
“It makes no difference. Kindly don’t pursue the subject, Mr. Aragon. When I left the house I decided that I would never return to it no matter what happened.”
“What will you do?”
“Rent a small apartment, perhaps take a course and learn to perform salaried duties, the kind of thing Ellen does at the club.”
“Do you have any cash?”
“A little.”
“How long will it keep you going?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never had to keep going on my own before. It should — should be an interesting challenge. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes.” He agreed about the challenge. Whether it would be interesting, or even possible, would depend on Miranda.
They had a late lunch in San Diego. She ordered a double martini and a green salad with white wine. The combination wasn’t as potent as one of Dr. Ortiz’s capsules but it had its effect. She lost some more of her boarding-school etiquette.
“He stole my car,” she said. “That son of a bitch stole my car.”
“I believe he was under the impression that you gave it to him, Mrs. Shaw.”
“I gave it to him only if I went with it. It was supposed to be ours. Gave it to him, my foot. Do you know how much that thing cost?”
“You can get it back.”
“How?”
“Tell the police it’s been stolen.”
“What police? I don’t know what state, even what country he’s in by this time.”
“Maybe he’ll return it voluntarily,” Aragon said. “I don’t know much about Grady, but I got the impression he’s not a bad guy even if he’s not the beautiful person you thought he was.”
She began to cry, using the paper napkin for a handkerchief. “I thought he was — I thought he was such a beautiful person.”
“We all make mistakes.”
“Oh, shut up.”
He shut up. Back in the car so did she. She went to sleep again, this time with her head pressed against Aragon’s shoulder. For a small woman she felt very heavy.
She woke up as he slowed for the off ramp into Santa Felicia. It wasn’t a gentle and gradual awakening. She was instantly alert as if an alarm had gone off in her brain.
“Why are you leaving the highway? Where are we?”
“Home.”
She shook her head, repudiating the word. “I have an earache and my neck is stiff.”
“You look fine.” It was true. After her long sleep — plus, or in spite of, the last dose of Dr. Ortiz’s goat glands — she seemed oddly young.
“Not really,” she said. “You’re just being kind.”
“No. You look great, Miranda.”
She checked for herself, staring into a small mirror she took out of her purse, but she didn’t indicate who was staring back at her. “Where are you taking me?”
“To your house.”
“It’s not my house. It never was. Neville paid for it, I only lived there... Why did you call me by my first name?”
“I felt like it.”
“You really mustn’t. It’s not proper.”
She had remembered her etiquette. Maybe the French and ballet would come later.
Encina Road was only a couple of miles from the freeway, but it was difficult to find and Miranda offered no help. She sat gazing out of the window like a visitor seeing this part of the city for the first time: stone walls covered with ivy and bougainvillea, ancient oak trees draped with moss, rows of spiked cassias more treacherous than barbed wire, high impenetrable hedges of pittosporum and eugenia.
The ten-foot iron gate at the bottom of the Shaws’ driveway was closed, and when Aragon pressed the buzzer of the squawk box connecting it to the main residence, nothing happened. He tried the door of the gatehouse. It was locked and the Venetian blinds were closed tight. He waited a minute, almost expecting the old man, Hippollomia, to appear suddenly and explain the situation: there is no electric... Missus forgot to pay.
He returned to the car.
Miranda looked at him solemnly. “You see? The house will not accept me any more than I will accept it.”
“Nonsense. The electricity was turned off because nobody paid the bill.”
“That is only the obvious external reason.”
“What’s the subtle internal one?”
“I already told you. Not that it matters,” she added. “I could never stay here again under any circumstances.”
“Where will you stay?”
“There must be places for homeless deserted women like me.”
“The situation is bad enough without your dramatizing it,” he said. “Now let’s talk straight. Do you have anyone who can put you up temporarily, relatives, friends, neighbors—”
“No.”
“What about members of your club?”
“No. The only person at the club I consider my friend is Ellen. She’s been very kind.”
“Has she.” If that’s the best you can do, you’re in trouble, Miranda. Ellen’s no friend of yours.
A gust of wind blew through the canyon, pelting the roof of the car with eucalyptus pods. Miranda winced as if each one of them had been aimed directly at her. “Please take me away from here. There’s a santana coming up, I can sense it all over my body. My skin feels tight.”
“I thought that’s what you went down to the clinic for, tighter skin. You could have stayed here and gotten the same results cheaper.”
“That was a boorish remark. What makes you so cranky?”
“I’m tired.”
“Why should you be tired? I’m the one who’s suffered.”
“You slept most of the afternoon.”
“Surely you don’t begrudge me a little sleep after what I’ve been through.”
“No.” He didn’t begrudge her anything except his time, two days of it so far. Two days of Miranda seemed a lot longer. Three would be more than he could bear. He said, “Suppose we drive to the club and see if Ellen’s still there. She might have some advice to offer.”
It was a dirty trick to play on Ellen but he couldn’t think of anything else to do. At least Ellen was used to her and would know what to expect and maybe even how to deal with it.
Walter Henderson, the manager, was in the office but he looked ready to leave. He wore an after-hours outfit, jogging shoes, a striped warm-up suit and a navy-blue yachting cap. A copy of the Racing Form was tucked under one arm in case he stopped to rest while jogging or was becalmed while sailing or got caught in a traffic jam on the way to his bookie’s.
“Sorry, we’re about to close,” he told Aragon. “Seven o’clock, you know. That’s our winter schedule except on weekends and special occasions. It was clearly stated in our last newsletter. Didn’t you read our last newsletter?”
“No.”
“Too bad. I had something rather clever in it.”
“Drat, I’m always missing clever things,” Aragon said. “Is Miss Brewster still here?”
“She’s around some place making a last-minute check with the security guard. Two dead stingrays were tossed in the pool last night. We suspect some Mexican boys. These minority groups have become very bold.”
“So I’ve heard. Shocking.”
“Today stingrays, tomorrow great white sharks. Well, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it... I’m locking the office now. You can wait for Miss Brewster in the corridor. There’s a bench to sit on.”