Sleeping with a man half your age can be exhausting, but if it’s too much for him you can always find a younger man.
—Barbara Taylor Bradford, Playing the Game
“EMMA AND I met ten years ago, at a specialty food store on Sunset Boulevard. I was shopping for homesick foods, and this place had a great selection—crab cakes and chowder from Newport, New England lobster in season, and two brands of coffee syrup. That’s what Emma was buying.”
“Your wife was from Rhode Island, too?”
Philip laughed. “Emma Royce was a California girl, through and through. She was raised by a wealthy family in Pacific Heights, and only left San Francisco to start her own New Age spiritual center in Venice Beach. When we met, she was buying coffee syrup for a couple from Providence staying at her ashram.”
Did he just mention an ashtray?
Ashram, Jack. It’s like a school for spiritual thought and deep contemplation.
Deep contemplation? You mean like playing the ponies? Because I contemplated those racing forms every single day.
Quiet, Jack, I don’t want to miss this story!
I gently detached my hand from Philip’s. “How fascinating that Emma was so—otherworldly. Was she psychic? Did she have visions?”
Or was she just straitjacket crazy?
“Oh, she was nothing like that. Emma was very practical, for someone who grew up in the Age of Aquarius.”
“What did she teach at her ashram?”
“Meditation. Relaxation techniques. Yoga. The Kama Sutra. Tantric sex—”
“Excuse me?” I said.
“You’re not prudish, are you, Penelope?” Philip asked with a smirk. “Tantric sex is an ancient Hindu practice, a transcendent experience that’s been around for at least five thousand years. Emma had the equivalent of a black belt in it.” He gulped the rest of his cocktail. “I was almost thirty when we met, and I’d been around the block a few times. But Emma showed me a thing or two, I’ll tell you.”
File that under things I didn’t need to know, I told Jack with a shudder.
Just keep him yammering.
Philip signaled the waiter for drink number seven—but who’s counting? He certainly wasn’t.
“So why wasn’t Emma in Venice Beach, teaching at her ashram? What was she doing here, in an apartment full of rare books?”
“Things went south after a few years,” Philip admitted. “People stopped coming to Emma’s retreat. Some of them gave up all that loony tunes stuff entirely. The rest moved on to the next New Age trend. She tried, but poor Emma couldn’t keep up.”
“Your ‘loony tunes’ reference tells me you must have thought of the ashram thing as silly.”
“I didn’t practice any of it, except for the tantric sex. But the people who stayed there were nice enough, I suppose, if naive.”
“Still, it’s an odd choice of professions. Did you ever see Emma behave strangely, or irrationally? Was she ever depressed? Do you think she was capable of suicide?”
“Absolutely not. I told Deputy Franzetti as much. What happened to her was an accident—one waiting to happen. There were structural issues with that old house. I even read it in your local paper. I’ve already hired a storage company to empty the apartment, first thing tomorrow morning, before the whole place collapses.”
“Are you going to take the parrot as well as the dog?”
“Her pets were her business. They’ll have to go to shelters.”
“What kind of dog did she have?”
“A Yorkie, I believe.”
“And you don’t have her dog?”
“Me? Heavens, no! Frankly, I never saw a reason to take on the trouble and expense of an animal, unless you’re some kind of breeder or a farmer who’s going to earn something from it. One of the many things we fought about when we were married—she got those pets after we separated.”
“Why did you separate?”
“Why does anyone? We made each other miserable. Emma was smart as a whip and twice as cutting, and she wasn’t satisfied with the divorce settlement, either, even after I turned my late father’s book collection over to her.”
“She wasn’t a book person, then?”
Philip shook his head. “She liked bestsellers, but she could never keep the authors or titles straight. My father’s valuable collection held no value to Emma beyond what the books could earn at auction, which I thought was her plan.”
Philip snorted. “Instead, she set up shop here in Quindicott, no doubt so she could be close to the money.”
“What money?”
Suddenly, Philip set his cocktail aside and rubbed his bleary eyes.
“I’m sorry, Penelope, but I’m feeling a little woozy . . .”
Just when things were getting interesting, the pretty daisy swoons.
Don’t worry, Jack, I’m not finished with him yet.
I tugged the man to his feet with one hand, while flagging the waiter with the other.
“Come on, Philip. Let’s get you back to your room.”
Suddenly, he grinned. “I like the sound of that!”