FOURTEEN

The first thing I do when I get up is look around for a telephone. There isn’t one in my room, so I get dressed, wincing as I pull on a pale green shirt, and go downstairs. The call I have to make has to be private, so the one in the sitting room won’t do. Breakfast is just finishing up and I can hear people in the dining room, so they might be able to hear me too.

Instead, I creep out the front door, and around the side, to where Elsie and I came in with the rabbits. Dot is in here, slicing up fruit, and Pat is waiting for her to finish by the door. He looks up at me curiously when I come in.

“Out for a morning stroll?”

“I was wondering if there was a phone somewhere in the house that had some privacy.”

“Oh.” He raises an eyebrow and I can see him debating whether or not to ask why.

“For the case.”

“Right. Well, there’s Irene’s old office.”

“That’s not Pearl’s now?”

Pat laughs. “No, no. Pearl has her own office. Irene had an office too. Hardly ever used it, though, aside from storing paperwork there. Mostly she was just in the library. I suppose Henry sometimes used the office to talk to her. Like a meeting room.”

“What about?”

Pat shrugs. “The business, I guess? It’s on the second floor, but when you go up the main stairs, turn around, walk away from Pearl’s office. It’s right above the main door. I’d show you, but I’m guessing you don’t want to walk through the dining room right now?” he asks, nodding toward the only door out.

“There’s no other way up?”

He shakes his head. “You’ll have to go back outside.”

“A morning walk,” I say. “For fresh air.”

“Sounds like it would be good for you,” Pat says with a wink. I turn around just as the cook hands Pat a bowl of fruit, and leave the way I came in.

As I’m walking back to the front of the house I hear voices, and stop. I peek around the corner. In front of the house are Henry and Cliff, holding hands, though Cliff is pulling away.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Henry asks. “You’ve been drinking so much, and you haven’t been out in ages. You’re not yourself.”

“I’m fine,” Cliff says, not meeting Henry’s eyes. “Just go to work. Go to work and leave me like you always do.”

“I always come back, too,” Henry says, pulling Cliff closer and wrapping his arms around Cliff’s waist. “Why are you so upset?”

“I’m not,” Cliff says, and twists away, turning toward me and spotting me eavesdropping. Immediately he smiles and turns back to Henry. “I love you,” he says loudly. Henry looks confused then glances toward me as I walk closer to them, not trying to hide.

“I love you too,” he says to Cliff, then smiles at me. “Good morning, Inspector. Going for a walk? In your state? That’s not dangerous?”

“Nah.” I wave him off. “It’s good for me. You about to leave for work? I was hoping we could talk. I had a few questions about the business.”

“Well, that certainly sounds ominous, Inspector, but business is going well, thank you. I’ve made some real improvements, despite Mother’s passing.”

“If this is going to be another interrogation, I’m getting a drink,” Cliff says, pulling from Henry and stalking back into the house. Henry watches him go and frowns, then turns back to me and turns the frown into a glare.

“I do hope you can finish up this investigation and get out of our hair,” he says.

“So your mother dying lets you turn the business profitable again? I ask because the quicker I can get to the point the quicker I can finish up and leave like you want.”

He rolls his eyes and then turns away. “Yes. But I would much prefer my mother over some business successes, I assure you. I’m not a monster.”

I let that hang in the air, watching him. His eyes are a little red around the edges, and his jaw is set. I think I believe him. “What was it like, being raised so free and easy?” I ask.

Henry sighs. “I couldn’t tell you. I can’t, ah, compare it. But I think about it a lot. Cliff asked me that once too. And Margo. Like my life was charmed. And I suppose in many ways it was. But it was also lessons in the way to behave, how to hold my wrists, my waist, how to walk, how to be the perfect man to the outside world.”

“When not to do your Bette Davis impression?” I ask.

He looks shocked for moment, and then blushes, violently, from his neck up to his ears. “I … Cliff told you about that?” he says, taking his glasses off and rubbing them on his shirt—a way to look down.

“Yeah. He said it’s better than his.”

“Oh,” he says, his color returning to normal. He puts his glasses back on. “Well, it is. It definitely is. But have you seen his? It’s a low bar.” He smiles slightly, and I feel like I’ve passed a little test, gotten in better with him.

“Can I see it?” I ask.

He starts turning pink again, and looks away. “Ah, well, I really should get to work. But just…” He looks back at me, and straightens his spine, then arches an eyebrow, lifts his chin, and says, “Fasten your seat belts, it’s going to be a bumpy night,” in what I have to admit is a pretty good impression.

I clap. “That’s good!” I say, smiling.

“I like doing impressions of the divas,” he says with a shy shrug. “But … that’s exactly the sort of thing I can’t do outside here. Not even as a party trick!” he adds, like it’s part of an old argument with Irene or Pearl, from when he was kid. “Just because we know what we are, and we know what the world is, doesn’t mean we can change anything about either of them. That’s what Mother—ah, Pearl—always says. So in that way it was … more difficult. I never felt ashamed of who I was, but I felt a lot angrier at the world outside this place.” He pauses, pushes his glasses up. “But not angry enough to kill anyone, if that’s what you’re about to ask. Certainly not my mother, who wasn’t the enemy in all this.”

“I wasn’t about to accuse you of murder,” I say, shaking my head.

“No? Then why ask? You’re here to do a job, not get friendly with anyone, right?” His eyes flit toward the door, where Cliff just went inside. “I know some things may seem … more open here. Even, unappreciated. But there’s been a lot of work to do, so I don’t have time to appreciate what I have here right now. It doesn’t mean I don’t love all of it. I do. I love my life very much.”

“I don’t have eyes on your boyfriend, Henry.”

“No?” He raises his chin, not believing me.

“No,” I assure him. “He’s a good-looking guy, don’t get me wrong, but I’m not the person who does that. I did just kiss a bartender at the Ruby, and I liked that a lot, so maybe that’ll be something, or maybe he just felt sorry for me because I’d gotten my face beaten to a pulp. Probably that one.”

Henry tries not to laugh but he smiles a little.

“I let Cliff flirt with me, though. We both seem to like that. But I can stop if you want.”

“No,” Henry sighs. “It’s fun for him, and I don’t mind it, not really. I’m not … worried, you know. I don’t worry you’ll steal him away.”

“No?” I ask. “You sort of sound like it.”

“I’ve been working a lot. There’s so much to do since Mother died, and I’m … a little overwhelmed, frankly. But I don’t want anyone to see that at work, and sometimes home feels like work, or maybe it’s just easier to think of it that way…” He sighs. “That’s too much to say to a detective, I know. I must sound pathetic.”

“Your mom died and you have to handle everything now—business, family, it’s a lot. Plus throwing yourself into work helps you deal with grief,” I say, and put my hand on his shoulder. “That’s normal, Henry. I’ve seen that story play out a hundred different times, different ways.”

“Really?” He looks relieved. “Still. I wish I didn’t have to be at work so much. I wish I could leave it at the office. And then Cliff is here, and you’re here…”

“… Flirting with your boyfriend.” I nod, dropping my hand. “You’re jealous.”

“A little.” I try not to smile, but I feel like I’m seeing Henry now. Not the man of the house, not the cold businessman. I’ve seen guys like him, after a murder of someone they love, who just turn back into kids, and they feel it happening and know they can’t, so they throw themselves into work. Into drugs. Into something, just so they don’t feel so helpless.

“Why not invite him by the office more?” I ask. “Spend some time with him, even if it’s not romantic.”

“I do … but I don’t make a big deal of it when he says no.” Henry shuffles his feet a little. “It’s so much work right now. Fixing everything. And it would be so boring for him.”

“I think the house is boring for him too. Do you know what he does all day?”

“Listens to records, he says. Reads sometimes. He loves Life, when I remember to pick up a copy.” He sighs. “And he drinks.”

“And do you know when the last time he left the house was?”

“Well, he came with us for Mother’s funeral. Wore sunglasses the whole time to hide how he’d been crying.”

“And aside from that? When did he last leave the house?”

He looks confused by the question, but then thinks about it. I can see him counting off days, weeks, more.

“It was … weeks before Mother’s death, actually, I think. Can that be right?”

I nod. “Sounds about right to me.”

He sighs, looks at his feet. “I didn’t notice.”

“It’s not your fault,” I say.

“I should have noticed, asked him. Do you know what’s wrong? Is he just broken up over Mother’s death?”

I let my tongue roll inside my mouth, not sure of the answer. I could tell him about the posters, about Clive, but Cliff denied it, and I’m not sure. It could be why he hasn’t left the house in over a month—afraid of getting spotted, someone calling the number on the poster. But he’s a grown man. Who could be looking for him?

“Did anything happen a few weeks before she died?” I ask.

He shakes his head, then strokes his beard. The air is chilly, and I put my hands in my pockets.

“There was one thing … but I thought he was excited about it.”

“What?”

Henry licks his lips and looks toward his car, embarrassed maybe. “Mother—that is, Irene—wanted us to adopt a baby.”

“You and Cliff?”

He laughs. “Me and Margo. For appearances. Though Cliff would have been a father to the child too, of course. I thought Cliff was excited about it. He told me he wanted a girl so he could dress her in showgirl costumes and teach her to dance.”

I smile, picturing it. “So he was fine with it?”

“Yes,” Henry says, still confused. “Margo was the one who wasn’t exactly on board.”

“Oh?”

He shrugs. “The thing with Margo is she’s always torn between wanting to rise in society, to be the perfect wife, be in the society pages, have people recognize her, and wanting to run off with Elsie and … I don’t know, cut all her hair off and dance the night away. Mother—Pearl—met her at a bar in the city, I don’t remember the name, one of the ones just for women. She was terrified, apparently, but also lonely. Had a lot of admirers, and flirted, but always went home early. When I asked her why she’d marry me, she told me she wanted stability—money, a home. This would let her have that, and let her be herself. Except I don’t think it came together quite as she pictured. I feel sorry for her, honestly.”

I nod. “So she didn’t want to have a kid?”

“Not at first. But Mother—Irene—she told her that Margo would be a mother, like she was to me, and to Margo and Cliff. That it was really a joyful thing. She turned her around on it. Margo always relented with Irene eventually. She loved her. Loves Pearl, too, though you might not believe it. It’s because she resents them a bit, too, for having what she’ll never have because of the deal she made with us.”

I nod. “You’re pretty forthcoming about everyone,” I say.

“I don’t believe any of us could have done it, so I don’t think anything should be hidden. Margo, Pearl, Cliff—they’re all good people. They’re not murderers.”

“What about the staff?”

“What? Why? I can’t imagine it. They have no reason.”

“And Alice?”

Henry looks surprised, like he’d forgotten about her, but tries to cover it by pushing up his glasses. “Don’t be ridiculous. We took her in, and besides that she’s just too … tidy for murder. Now, do you have anything else you want to ask, or can I go to work? I’m already late.”

“Just one thing, actually,” I say, remembering something. “I want to follow you.”

“Follow me?”

“Yeah,” I say, heading for my own car. “Just drive to work, like you normally do. I’ll handle it.”

Henry frowns, then looks at his watch and shrugs. “All right,” he says, getting in his car.

We both start our engines and I let him take the lead, following just a short distance behind. We’re on the highway maybe five minutes before the black Commodore shows up, tailing Henry. He doesn’t seem to notice me, but then my car hasn’t been used much lately. Henry keeps driving as normal, so I speed up and pull between them, skidding my car to a halt across both lanes and blocking the Commodore. There’s a screech as he stops, and I get out of the car, staring at him. I can see the driver through the windshield—a man, maybe fifty, with a thin face. He sees me, frowns, and tries to back away, but ignoring the pain in my ribs, I run up and yank his door open before he can pull around me.

“What gives, buddy?” he asks, trying to slam his door closed.

“Why are you tailing the Lamontaines?” I ask.

“What’s it to you?” he asks, taking his foot off the gas.

“I’m security,” I say, opening the back door of his car and getting in behind him, but leaving the door open. “You’re not subtle. They spotted you ages ago and brought me on to handle it. So this is me handling it. Why are you tailing them?”

The man sighs and turns around. He’s balding, with dark circles under his eyes. He fishes in his coat pocket and for a moment I wonder if he’s going to shoot me, but instead he takes out his wallet and hands me a card: Ralph Stockwell, Private Investigator, office in San Francisco. I pocket the card. I’ve dealt with men like him before; not just PIs, who are a mixed bag from stand-up to shady, but types like this one—the shadiest kind. I can smell it on him like the stale gin on his breath. Probably operates out of a ramshackle office that reeks of liquor and most of his business is trailing cheating husbands, then offering to make it go away for a bigger payday when he catches them.

“So who hired you to tail them?” I ask.

“I got a tip,” he says, and opens the glove compartment. He takes out a piece of paper and hands it to me—“Missing: Clive Thorpe.” The same one I saw at the coroner’s. It looks a lot like Cliff. “I tried getting in, even opened the gate once before that hellion with the bob spotted me and got a gun. I’m just looking for this kid. You know him? He working for the Lamontaines? I’ll give you a cut of what I’m being paid.”

I shake my head. “Don’t know him,” I say. “But he’s clearly not a kid. Who looks for a grown man?”

The guy narrows his eyes at me, not believing, then shrugs. “His family wants him home. They say it doesn’t matter if he wants to come home, as long as I bring him back to Kentucky. All expenses paid and a nice reward. You sure he’s not there? I could make it worth your while.”

I swallow. “That’s a dirty business.” I try not to show anything else. So it is Cliff. And he’s wrapped up in something bad.

“Well la-dee-dah for you, mister, being some fancy house guard. That how you get those bruises? I didn’t think the La- montaines got in much trouble.”

“Nah, this was from my night off,” I say. I take the poster and crumple it in my fist. “That kid isn’t with them. So leave them alone, stop tailing them, go look somewhere else. Your tip was phony.”

He shrugs, slowly, then takes out a cigarette and lights it, meeting my eyes in the rearview mirror. “Funny little house, though, isn’t it? Son, wife, dead mother, dead mother’s secretary, and that club owner who just drops in now and then. Kinda queer, if you ask me.”

I know I should nod, make some sort of explanation up, talk about rich people being eccentric, but my throat feels tight, and I just want to punch the back of this guy’s head.

“Well, if I wasted all this time, and Clive ain’t with them, maybe I could sell some of what I saw to the papers.” He smirks, takes a drag on his cigarette, and blows the smoke out between his lips, a thin line like a lizard’s tail. “Unless they want to pay me more than the papers would, of course.”

I feel my hands clenching into fists.

“How’d a fella like you end up working for them, anyway? You don’t seem like the type.”

“I’ll mention your thoughts to them,” I say. “Have a number?”

“Oh, nothing big, just what was worth my time. A few grand. Maybe five.”

I can feel my tongue run over my teeth. It would be easy to bash his head into the steering wheel. A car passes us on the highway, honking at how we’ve blocked the road.

“I’ll bring it to them,” I say.

“Thanks.” He smiles. “Now get the fuck outta my car.”

I get out and slam the door. He reverses then speeds around me, headed toward the city. I get back into my car and uncrumple the missing poster, smoothing it out on the dashboard and studying it. It’s got to be Cliff. Except Cliff said he was an orphan, and this guy’s family is looking for him. I fold the poster back up and stick it in my pocket, then start the engine and swing the car around, headed back to Lavender House. I still have a phone call to make, and now I have some questions for Cliff, or Clive, or whatever his name is.

When I pull my car in next to the fountain, no one comes out to greet me, and inside, the house is quiet. I don’t see anyone in the dining room, so I head upstairs and find my way to Irene’s old office. The door isn’t locked, but I can tell no one has been inside for a while. It has the stale smell of unused spaces. It’s smaller than Pearl’s office, but it’s got a big curve of windows that look out directly on the fountain and the flowers spreading out beyond it. There are only a few bookshelves, to either side of the windows, and a desk in the center. The walls are painted dark purple, and there’s a brown circular carpet under the desk, which is in the center of the room. It’s very plain, no Greek writing at all. The chair behind it is large, though, and comfortable when I sit down in it. I pull the phone over, but before I dial, I look up and see the painting on the wall opposite the windows. It’s large, maybe done by the same person who did the one downstairs, but it’s a family portrait. Irene, Pearl, Henry, Margo, Cliff, and Elsie. All of them, sitting in pairs—not their public relationships, but the real ones. Pearl and Irene stand behind Henry, who sits on a loveseat with his arm around Cliff, who leans into him. On the floor, in front of them, Margo sits, her dress spread out around her like a puddle, Elsie lying in her lap, face up, her body stretching out of the frame. Pearl and Irene are holding hands and looking at each other, lovingly. Henry looks out of the portrait, but his head is tilted ever so slightly toward Cliff, whose eyes are closed as he leans into Henry’s chest. Margo is tilted staring down at Elsie, who stares back up at her. They share a smile, like one of them just told a joke.

Each of them is wearing purple. Elsie is in a lavender suit with a white shirt. Henry is in a midnight-purple suit with matching tie and white shirt. Margo’s dress is a vibrant violet with darker purple flowers all over it. Cliff wears a lavender shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, and white pants. And behind them, Pearl and Irene are in matching plum dresses, Irene with a pearl necklace and Pearl with an amethyst brooch in the shape of a sprig of lavender. Behind them is nothing—just white. No Alice. Maybe she wasn’t there that day. Or maybe she didn’t want to be part of the “fun-house mirror” family portrait.

Irene’s expression stands out. It’s not like her portrait downstairs—aloof, commanding. Here, she looks gentle, like she doesn’t mind being painted, or somehow didn’t know it was happening. She’s staring at Pearl, but her free hand rests on the back of the sofa in a way that seems to encompass the entire family. Here, she’s no witch. Here, she’s the mother to a bunch of children.

It’s a shocking portrait. I can’t imagine who they could have trusted to paint it. I stand up and go over to look for a signature, and then I find it. P. Kelly. I grin. Pat’s got talent. But I don’t think he painted the one downstairs. He just did this in a similar style, maybe.

Around the portrait are hung framed newspaper clippings. Margo cutting the ribbon on a new soap store. Henry and Margo smiling at a fundraiser where they were honored. Cliff and Henry in an office, Henry sitting at the desk and Cliff right behind him, hands behind his back, beaming. There’s even one of Pearl from the thirties, an interview with her in a women’s journal about being a secretary to Irene. She’s in a posed photo for that, sitting at a desk, her legs askew, smiling at the camera, ignoring the typewriter in front of her. Like an ad for stockings.

I go back to the desk, and pull the phone over. I pick it up and it rings in my ear. No one is on the line. I dial the operator and ask for the police department in Bend, Oregon. She connects me and it rings a few times before someone picks up.

“Bend Police,” says a young male voice.

I swallow. I know this should work, but I’m suddenly nervous about it. “Hi, this is Andy Mills, SFPD. We have a case down here, and Bend keeps coming up. A hotel there called the Butterfly. I was wondering if you knew anything about it?”

“Butterfly…” He pauses. I hold my breath. There’s no reason my old colleagues would have told people in Bend, Oregon, about me, but policemen are a bunch of gossips, so it’s possible they know. “Sorry, Mills, doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Well, it would have closed a while ago, I think,” I say, trying not to sound too relieved.

“Yeah? Let me get one of the old-timers, then. Hold on.”

He puts the phone down and through the receiver I can hear the distant murmurs of the police station. Police stations all sound the same; the same sorts of laughter, the same occasional silences, the same moments of anxiety when the boss walks through. It’s so familiar it’s almost soothing. And then my face starts to throb.

“The Butterfly,” says a new voice on the line. “Haven’t thought about that place in years. I’m Detective Stuart. You’re SFPD?”

“Yep. Mills. The name of the place just keeps coming up in a robbery case. What do you remember about it?”

“Oh, it was a swanky little hotel, nice part of town. But then two guests died. A young couple. It was quite the scandal. Whole place shut down. Probably about fifteen years ago.”

“Huh.” I keep my voice calm, curious. “How’d the couple die?”

“Poison.” I can hear him grinning as he says the word, excited to talk about a big case. My heart kicks up a notch. “But it was an accidental poisoning. Rat poison in the kitchen made its way into a meal. The chef was horrified and didn’t even know the couple, so we didn’t charge him, though we shut the place down. Said they could get it back up and running after health and safety came through, but the loss of business was too much. They never reopened.”

“You remember the chef’s name?”

“No … big guy, though. Blond. Really seemed confused. Didn’t even remember making the meal. It was room service central, though. He went through plenty of meals every night.”

“But only one couple died?”

“Only ones who asked for peppers in their omelets. It was the peppers that were contaminated. Someone had left them in a crate on the floor. No one with access to the kitchen had any motive, the couple were just visiting, didn’t know anyone. Tragic, but not murder, ya know?”

“Yeah, that’s sad,” I say, though I suspect no one just left them on the floor. “You ever interview anyone named Alice? She was the head of housekeeping, I think. Or her daughter, Margo?”

“No … neither of those ring a bell, sorry. I can dig up the file, if you really need me to. She in some kind of trouble?”

“Nah, don’t bother, then,” I say. “It’s probably nothing, just … curious, you know?”

“Yeah, gotta follow those instincts. That’s what separates the men from the boys. Anything else I can do for you?”

“No. I’ll call back if it gets more interesting, though.”

“Yeah, let me know. Been a while since I thought about that place. It was a nice little hotel.”

“Thanks,” I say, and hang up. So that’s two places where Alice had managed the staff and people had been poisoned, two places Margo was, too. She was teenager at the hotel, but I’ve seen teenagers kill. I stand up and look at the portrait again. I take out the missing poster and hold it up against Cliff’s face. Yeah. Either they’re twins, or they’re the same.

I try his room first, knocking on the door, but there’s no answer, so I head downstairs. I can hear music playing halfway down: Peggy Lee singing “Why Don’t You Do Right?” I follow the melody to the sitting room, where Cliff is dancing again, this time just in his open robe and a pair of briefs, a martini glass sloshing in his hand. He smiles when he sees me.

“I knew you’d want another show,” he says, his words slurring. He steps toward me.

“Cliff, it’s not even noon,” I say, looking at the glass.

He frowns. “Spoilsport. Fun ruiner.” He shrugs and walks away, mouthing along to the words again. He turns to me to emphasize it when she sings “get out of here.”

I sigh, and unfold the poster in my hand, and then hold it up for him to see.

He turns around and spots it. His eyes go wide, and he teeters. I rush forward to catch him, but he wobbles the other way and falls back into one of the side tables, knocking it over.

“Are you okay?” I ask, kneeling down next to him.

“No,” he says, getting up onto his knees. He’s crying. The tears are running down his face in thick, sticky rivers and his skin is red. “No no no. I haven’t been all right in a long time, Andy. I haven’t been all right at all.” He lets out a low moan. “I’m so sorry,” he says, but he’s not talking to me now. He’s looking at the ceiling. “I did it. I killed her. I killed Irene.”