Part 27 (2/2)
”She's a liar.”
”You weren't with her the night Jenny was murdered? You didn't hit her?”
”Yes, I was with her.” His eyes settled on mine. ”And what else would the son of a rapist do but attack a woman? It's so believable, isn't it, Diana?” He pushed himself away from the counter. ”I have to talk to the police.” He strode past me and down the hallway to the front door, his flip-flops slapping at his feet.
I sprang up and hurried after him. Grabbing his arm, I turned him toward me. ”I'll call Robert. He'll get you a lawyer.”
”You do that, Diana. Call the biggest loser there is besides me.” He opened the door, pulled away from my grip, and beat it down the flagstone pathway.
Running after him, I yelled his name.
His Jeep Cherokee was parked on the side of the highway. He jumped into it. Revving the engine, he swung it out into traffic and made a screeching U-turn, causing oncoming cars in both directions to brake and skid. Horns blared. I watched him speed north, away from the West L.A. police station, away from his parents, away from Celia's house, away from Hollywood.
When I couldn't see Ben anymore, I went back into the kitchen and stared at the door that had so fixated him. My hand trembling, I slowly opened it. The garage was empty, no white Lexus. I let out my breath. What did I think I would find? Celia's corpse? Closing the door, I stepped back and felt something crunch under my foot.
I bent down and picked up a crumpled photograph. Had Ben dropped it?
Sitting down at the table, I pressed it flat with my fingers. The very young faces of Celia and Gwyn looked back at me through the creased folds. Gwyn was holding a newborn. Ben. She had the righteous, enlightened look of those who see another reality. Celia had her straight-ahead-feet-on-the-ground expression. This had to have been taken when Gwyn was in Switzerland, after having given birth, and still recovering from her breakdown. For a woman who didn't keep photographs, why was Celia keeping this one?
Studying it, I tried to think back twenty years. I would have been maybe twenty, Celia and Gwyn were twenty-one, Ben's age now. How long had Celia been trekking in Europe, staying at hostels and visiting Gwyn? Five or six months?
I rubbed my forehead. Gwyn had been raped while she was hearing voices and hiding in bushes. Crazy and pregnant, her parents had swept her off to Switzerland. Three or four months later Celia decided to take a trip, to get her head together, to figure out what she wanted to do with her life if she couldn't make it as an actress. And also she wanted to visit Gwyn. Three or four months after Gwyn had left the country. A pregnant woman would begin to show around that time.
Feeling the oppression of the perfect domestic kitchen Celia had created for herself-a woman who didn't cook, who didn't want a family-I peered at the two young women again and sighed. Was I weaving a fictional story that had nothing to do with the reality of this picture? It could just be what it looks like-Celia, the friend, sharing a moment with Gwyn and her baby. Or was it a picture of Celia standing next to her infant son, who was now cuddled in Gwyn's arms? And that was the true picture. The one Ben had found, then crumpled in his hand and dropped on the floor. Christ.
I reached for Celia's landline and called Robert and Gwyn's home but got the machine. I tried Robert's office number and got voicemail. But no answer didn't mean they weren't home.
I slipped the picture into my pocket and left.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN.
I drove up the long driveway to Gwyn and Robert's elegant ”farm” house. The coastal fog never seemed to reach up here. It gathered below their hilltop like a smoky moat.
A team of gardeners were tr.i.m.m.i.n.g and feeding the country garden. Getting out of my car, I smelled freshly mown gra.s.s wafting through the air. Bees hovered over the lavender plants. Some homes are too perfect, too beautiful. I felt the photograph in my pocket. There is no way their center can hold. I rang the bell.
Gwyn quickly opened the door. ”Diana,” she said surprised. ”I thought you might be Heath.” Strands of hair hung messily around her ragged face. Uncharacteristic for her. Behind her the Zaitlins' pasty-faced houseman, Olin, craned his neck at me.
”I've been trying to get ahold of him,” she rambled on, chameleon-like eyes flicking.
”I need to talk you, Gwyn,” I said.
”I can't. Maybe later.”
A primal moan erupted from the area of Zaitlin's office and echoed off the limestone walls in the high-ceilinged foyer.
”Is that Robert?” I asked.
”He's been drinking,” she said.
Robert was many things, but not a heavy drinker. I started to walk in but she blocked my way. The houseman's eyes widened. Another sobbing groan rebounded around the foyer.
”Go away, Diana.” Gwyn was shaking with emotion now. ”You started all this. Why did you have to find Jenny's body?”
I shoved her aside and ran past the houseman and into the office.
Behind his desk, Zaitlin weaved and swayed. A pistol lay on his desk beside an empty vodka bottle and a pile of scripts. A crystal-cut gla.s.s had been knocked on its side.
”Robert,” I said his name softly.
He stopped pacing and swung his body toward me, mouth sagging, lips wet with saliva. Sweat covered his shaved head. He swiped at the desk; now the gun dangled from his fingers.
”I was ... smartest guy in town.”
”You still are.”
”Ju..sh another a.s.shole. Right, Gwyn?” he said to his wife who now stood inside the office door next to Olin.
I took a step closer to Zaitlin. ”Give me the gun.”
”Can't. Parson told me to kill myself.”
”Some men were here earlier. They searched the house for a camera,” Olin said. ”Before they left, this man called Parson gave him the pistol.”
”You know what?” Zaitlin staggered.
”What?” I asked.
”I'm ... an a.s.shole and a coward.” His eyes turned toward Gwyn. ”Get out of here!”
She fled. Olin held his ground.
”Why would Parson want you dead?”
”Ben.” His head lolled.
I edged closer. ”Then you know what he was involved in?”
”Never loved him. But ... if I knew ... if I knew... .” Knees buckling, he swayed backward.
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