I HAND EDDIE THE letter I found, which he reads out loud:
Dear Margot,
If I did or said something that upset you, I apologize. I’m here if you want to pick up the conversation.
Sincerely,
Irene
“Who’s Margot?” Eddie asks me.
I have my cell phone ready with her obituary pulled up:
Margot Cadell Davis August 30, 1967—December 1, 1997
Margot Cadell Davis of Malibu, California, beloved daughter of George Brian Davis and Cynthia Cadell Davis, was a cherished daughter, niece, cousin, and friend to many. She graduated from Loyola Marymount University and dedicated her life to wildlife conservation. Despite her challenges, she loved helping people and animals. In lieu of flowers, the family kindly asks that you send donations to the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI) or the World Wide Fund for Nature. Memorial to be announced.
“Margot’s mom was Cynthia Cadell, William Cadell Sr.’s younger sister. Cynthia and her husband died in a small plane crash over ten years ago,” I explain.
“So Margot was first cousins with the Cadell brothers, William Jr. and Quentin …” Eddie says, connecting the dots.
“Yup,” I say.
“What do you think she had to do with your mom?” he says.
“My guess is Margot was my mom’s patient. The return address on the envelope is my mom’s old office address, and my mom’s letter sounds like Margot terminated treatment because she was upset with her. I’ve had patients project anger that they have toward other people in their lives onto me, get overwhelmed by it, and abandon treatment.”
“Interesting,” he says.
“And Margot was only thirty years old when she died, but the obituary didn’t include the cause of death. But it did cite her ‘challenges,’ and the family asked for donations to be sent to NAMI, which makes me think it might’ve been a suicide or drug- or alcohol-related. My mom specialized in treating addiction.”
“So you think your mom might’ve gotten caught up with the Cadell family through a patient?”
I nod. “What if, during treatment, Margot told her things that the family worried would get out?” I say.
“Can you find out if Margot was her patient?” Eddie asks.
“I looked through all of my mom’s things, but unfortunately, I didn’t find anything work-related. I want to go to Malibu to see if the people living in Margot’s old house or any neighbors on the block knew her and possibly anything about my mom. I know it’s a long shot, but it’s my only lead. Maybe I’ll get lucky, and there will be older neighbors there who knew Margot.”
“Let me take you,” he says. “I don’t need to pick Sarah up from school for a few hours.”
I’m grateful to have him accompany me and thankful I don’t have to drive since I didn’t sleep very much last night.
“Thank you,” I say, kissing him on the cheek.
“No, thank you,” he says.
“For what?” I ask.
“On the way to school this morning, Sarah told me you helped her fall back to sleep last night,” he says.
The vulnerable look in his eyes says what his words don’t—how much he wants me to be her mother.
I wonder if the look in my eyes also says what my words don’t—how scared I am that I won’t measure up.
Eddie and I stand in front of a Craftsman house deep in the Malibu hills. I ring the doorbell and hear a dog barking and footsteps approaching.
A young woman with huge gold hoop earrings, dressed in a crop top and short shorts, opens the door. “Hello?” She looks confused.
“Hi, I’m trying to find out information about Margot Cadell—”
“You have the wrong address,” she cuts me off.
“I don’t think I do,” I say.
An athletic, shirtless guy walks up behind her holding a small white Shih Tzu dog.
“What’s going on?” he asks her.
She whirls on him. “Who’s Margot?” she demands.
“I have no idea who—” He pauses, thinking. “Wait, you mean the woman that lived here before my parents bought the place?”
“Yes, exactly,” I say.
“Ohhh!” Hoops looks relieved, like she thought he was cheating on her.
“Did they know her?” I ask him.
“No, they bought the place from her family after she died.”
I nod. “I know this may sound strange, but do you know how she died?”
“Heard it was an overdose. My parents said that’s why they got a deal on the place.”
“Someone died in this house?” Hoops asks, horrified.
“Who cares?” he responds defensively. “It was decades ago.”
“That’s still really creepy,” she says, adjusting her earrings.
The dog starts squirming in his arms.
“We’re going to the beach. Anything else?” he asks, annoyed.
“No, thanks for your time,” I say.
He closes the door.
“Let’s try that house next door,” Eddie suggests.
We walk over and ring the doorbell.
A man with curly black hair opens the door. There are construction workers behind him rehabbing the place.
“You’re late,” he says.
I blink. “I think you have me confused with someone else.”
“Are you here for the appraisal?” he asks.
“No,” I say.
“Dammit.” He shakes his head, frustrated.
“Are you the owner?” I ask him.
“They’re in China and selling. I’m their realtor. Wanna take a peek?”
“I’m not looking to buy a home. I’m trying to get information about a woman that lived next door—Margot Cadell.”
“No idea who that is. This place has had a revolving door of tenants for the last two years. That’s why my clients are selling.”
“Ven aquí!” someone shouts from inside the house.
“I gotta go,” he says and closes the door.
I look at Eddie, officially discouraged.
“Let’s try the house on the other side,” he says.
We walk over to a dated-looking house with a yellow intercom box from the eighties. I try buzzing, but nobody answers.
“Maybe it’s broken,” Eddie says. He tries knocking loudly. Still, nothing.
I try hiding how defeated I feel, but Eddie picks up on it. “Don’t worry, Beans. There are a lot of houses on this block we can still try.”
We begin walking away when a frail old lady slowly opens the door.
“Hello,” she says, steadying herself on the frame. “Sorry, it takes me a while to get anywhere these days.”
“No worries,” I say, my hope lifting. “I don’t mean to bother you.”
“It’s no bother. It’s nice to see a smiling face,” she says.
I make sure to smile extra wide before asking her about Margot.
“I’m wondering if you know anything about a woman who lived next door back in the nineties. Her name was Margot Cadell Davis.”
The elderly woman shakes her head in disapproval. “A Greek tragedy.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“All the money in the world and addicted to everything you can imagine.”
The kind of patient Mom would have had.
“That’s very sad,” I say. “Did you know her personally? Do you know if she saw any therapists for her problems?”
“Too many to count. She was in and out of every rehab in town, but nothing ever stuck, even when she was pregnant. Lost a baby because of her addiction a couple of days after it was born. Still couldn’t get her act together and ended up overdosing. Who are you, by the way?”
“We’re friends of the family. They want me to write a profile for her for the National Alliance on Mental Illness to help raise awareness.” I’m surprised by how quickly I make up the lie.
The old lady nods her head. “Don’t tell them I said this, but I was relieved after she wasn’t my neighbor anymore. I wasn’t happy that she died, but she wasn’t easy to live next to.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“I can’t count how many ambulances came barreling down this street to whisk her away because of overdoses. She also had a horrible boyfriend. They’d have loud screaming matches in the middle of the street.”
“That sounds very unpleasant,” I say.
She nods again. “One minute, she’d shout profanities at him. The next minute they’d be back to the hugging and I love yous. But it never lasted long before the fighting started again. I think he used her for her money. He was a bit older than her, maybe a decade—a beach bum and not even good at it. A neighbor across the street said he’d always wipe out whenever she saw him surfing. Didn’t stop him from driving around in his VW with a surfboard on top. Like he was the king of Malibu, even though he had the thickest New York accent I’d ever heard.”