Part 3 (1/2)

G.o.d, I'd forgotten. ”I'll be there in a half hour.”

”Just ask at the reception desk,” she said, cheerfully helpful.

I hung up, sat down on the edge of the bed, and buried my face in my hands.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

The smog hadn't yet killed the swans at the Bel Air Hotel. They floated regally down the little stream that ran under the bridge that took you into the lobby. I've always loved the swans. As a girl I would hang out with them while mother had drinks with Jeff, Jake, or Jack. The swans had a feathery elegance and arrogant disdain for the guests. For all of us.

Warm and expensively una.s.suming, the lobby was a Southern California dream of upper-crust country: teatime and T-s.h.i.+rts. I stopped at the front desk and adjusted my sungla.s.ses.

”I'm here to pick up my mother,” I said to a young s.h.i.+ny woman who looked as if she'd been polished with a can of Pledge.

”I'll call her. What room is she in?”

I took a deep breath, fighting back the now familiar urge to break out in hysterical laughter or hysterical tears. Or both. Controlling myself, I said, ”I'm sorry, I'm Diana Poole. You have a ... package ... for me.”

She suddenly looked stricken. ”Oh, yes.” Her voice turned somber and now she spoke in a hushed tone. ”They told me to expect you. I'll be right back.”

Disappearing, she soon returned holding a regular brown s.h.i.+pping box. I don't know what I had expected, but it wasn't UPS.

”Our condolences.” She shoved the box toward me. ”I so admired her.”

”Do you have some scissors?”

”Of course.” She plucked a pair from a drawer.

As she watched uneasily, I took the edge of one of the blades and sliced across the tape binding the box. I flipped open the lids and there was Mother's urn. The one I had chosen. Her name was engraved on a sterling silver nameplate. I lifted it out of the box; it was heavy and handmade of cherry wood. As the funeral director had explained, ”The grain of each wood urn is as individual in character as the life being mourned.” He sold me.

”Thank you.” I walked out of the hotel and waited for the valet to bring my car around. I strapped Mother into the pa.s.senger seat, then tipped the valet who discreetly pretended not to notice what I'd done. Mother and I sailed down Stone Canyon Road together for the last time.

I worked my way though the heavy traffic to Jenny Parson's condominium complex just down from the Four Seasons Hotel on Beverly Drive. I drove around the block twice before finding a place to park the Jag. I attempted to lock the car, but like the air conditioning, nothing was working. I contemplated putting the urn in my trunk but I somehow couldn't do it. So I carried Mother with me.

Inside the lobby, a doorman outfitted in a maroon-colored jacket decorated with bra.s.s b.u.t.tons, gold braid, and looking like a banana-republic general peered out from the thick double gla.s.s doors as I approached. He opened them for me. The white marble lobby was upscale and austere. Black leather chrome benches were precisely placed near exotic potted palms.

”I'm here to see Jenny Parson. My name is Diana Poole,” I informed him.

He looked at some papers on a clipboard. ”Take the elevator up to 302, she's expecting you.”

Good, I thought, she had left my name. Maybe she actually wanted to be an actress.

Reaching the third floor, the elevator door opened, and the lingering smell of cooking hit me. No matter how expensive the condominium, there is always an odor of food in the hallway strong enough to turn you into an anorexic.

Jenny's door was at the end. I pressed the doorbell and waited. I tried the bell again-I could hear it ringing inside her condo. When there was still no answer, I knocked loudly.

Finally I gave up and went back down to the lobby. The doorman raised his spa.r.s.e eyebrows when he saw me.

”I guess Jenny went out. Have you seen her?” I asked.

”No. But she can take the elevator down to the underground garage without going through the lobby.”

”If you mean Jenny Parson, her car's here,” announced a woman, eyes surgically stretched and tilted toward the heavens. Holding a quivering Chihuahua outfitted in a pink turtleneck sweater, she unlocked one of the bra.s.s mailboxes that lined the wall near the concierge's desk. ”I just drove in and saw it. Brand-new Audi.” She peered in the box. It was empty. The dog licked her ear.

”If her car is here then she should answer the door,” I said.

The doorman shrugged.

”Well, thank you again.” I started toward the entrance, then stopped. Maybe it was holding my mother's ashes that brought out my unexpected maternal feelings for Jenny Parson. I turned around and asked, ”What time did she leave my name?”

The doorman rechecked his list. ”Six P.M. yesterday.”

That was soon after I'd talked to her. So I had made some kind of impact. Jenny wasn't capricious; if anything she was very direct. But she was struggling. Still, she had told me she was going clubbing last night. Maybe she'd had too much to drink and was sleeping it off, or she stayed overnight with a friend-or a boyfriend. Go home, Diana, I told myself. Instead I eyed the doorman. He sucked in his stomach and eyed me back. He was an immovable object. Improvise, Diana.

Glancing down at the urn, I said, ”This is her mother's ashes. Jenny's expecting me to bring them to her.”

”You can leave them at the desk,” he said.

”How would you like to pick up your mother's ashes in a lobby as if she was some package dropped off by UPS?”

”I ... I ...” He knew he was trapped.

The woman with the dog gaped at him as if he had just maligned her own mother. Even the Chihuahua raised a disgusted lip showing a tiny fang.

”I hope you wouldn't treat my mother that way,” she said to him.

He flushed.

”Please,” I said quickly. ”I'll just leave them in her living room with a little note.”

”All right,” he relented. ”But I can't let you go in there alone. I'll take you.”

We rode up in the elevator, ignoring one another.

He unlocked the door to 302 and stepped in first. ”Ms. Parson?”

I slipped past and walked into the living room. ”Jenny? It's Diana.”

Her corner condo was meagerly furnished, giving the impression comfort didn't matter much to her. The floor-to-ceiling windows looked out to the hills above Sunset and down across the vast gray sprawl that was the city.

”Jenny?” I walked down a hall into a bedroom.

”I think you should just leave the ashes ... urn ... .” The doorman was close on my heels.