Death at the Wheel (16 page)

Rita stared at me, wide-eyed. "Whew!" she said. "What did you say to him?"

"I said I had a contagious social disease. About Rachel..."

"And Ramsay?" She shrugged, unwilling to comment, but the unspoken opinion on her transparent face was that she couldn't imagine anyone wanting to have sex with Eliot Ramsay. "I don't know." She paused, then burst out, "It would be like humping a weasel."

I almost fell off my chair.

"I'm sorry," she said, "that was awful. Forget I ever said it. But Rachel likes men." She gave me a conspiratorial grin as something occurred to her. "In a way, she's just like Ramsay. I mean, she thinks men are only useful when they're horizontal. I never thought of that before. They're a lot alike, aren't they?" This insight seemed to delight her, and she celebrated it with a generous measure of her new drink. Her cheeks were considerably pinker than when we'd started talking.

"That poor guy," she said. "You don't really have a... you know... a disease, do you?"

I shook my head. The only disease I had was an allergy to jerks. "I told him we were busy, that's all. I guess he's not used to getting turned down. What about Cal Bass? Do you think Ms. Kaplan slept with him?"

A much more vigorous shake of the head this time. "Oh, no! He wouldn't have slept with her. He's... uh... uh...." She searched for a word, sucking thoughtfully on her straw. "Particular. And she's got a mustache."

Time to slip in the zinger. I did it, even though it made me feel mean. "What about you? Did you ever sleep with Cal Bass?"

Her sweet face crumpled and her dark eyes filled with tears. She pulled a teensy purse out of her lap and searched for a tissue. The bag was too little to hold anything useful. I pulled one out and handed it to her.

"Thanks," she mumbled. "Do I have to talk about this?"

"It's up to you."

"Oh, I guess I don't mind. It's a relief to tell someone, really. I did. He was so kind to me and such a hunk and I like had this huge crush on him and so when he hit on me, I said yes. It was so romantic! He like took me to this great place on the river—this condo—and there were candles and champagne...." She stopped. "I know. It was foolish. When I got this job, my dad took me aside and told me—excuse the language, this is just how he talks—he says to me, 'Rita, you can do well there but there's one thing you gotta remember—girlie, you don't shit where you eat.' I know he was right because afterward I got to thinking about how Cal had a wife and those two sweet little girls, and I told him I couldn't do it no... any more."

I had to leave or I'd be late for dinner. I signaled for the check and told Rita I had to go. "Can't keep my family waiting," I said.

"Thanks for the drinks," she said. "I think it's nice of you to try and help Mrs. Bass." I was heading for the door when she called me back. "Wait. There's something else, something I didn't tell you." She had the look of a kid confessing to stolen cookies. "It wasn't just me... my decision... about not sleeping with Mr. Bass again, I mean. That is, I was trying to do the right thing and all, but he wasn't. And much as I liked him, I didn't approve of what he was doing."

She was frowning like she was about to reveal something sordid, something I really didn't want to hear, maybe about Cal Bass's sexual practices. Before I could tell her that she didn't have to share very personal things, she'd come out with it. "The real reason he didn't try to sleep with me again—not that I would have—is that he had a new girlfriend... woman friend... and I think it was pretty serious, too. She called him all the time."

I waited, but that's all she had to say. "Do you know who the woman was?"

A vigorous nod. "Someone he met when she came in for a loan to buy some commercial property. A very rich-looking woman. Like from those TV soaps, you know, her clothes, I mean. I think her name is Nan Devereaux, but I could check...."

"That would be great, Rita," I said, taking a card out of my purse and giving it to her. "Check on her name and then call me. Either number is fine." I really had to rush. I had visions of falling soufflés and overdone beef and my mother's irritated expression.

"I can't believe he's dead," she said. "He was such a vibrant man. So alive. I think he had more energy than anyone I've ever seen. He worked so hard." She shook her head and looked sadly at her second empty glass, but I could tell she'd had enough. A novice drinker, she was already beginning to slur her words. I turned again to leave, but Rita, having begun her confession, had more things to get off her chest.

"I don't know whether this means anything to you but I think he might have been in over his head financially. He was always getting calls from credit card companies and people like that, and after those calls he was always red-faced and flustered, like he was angry. I think his wife must have run up a lot of bills."

"I'll look into it," I said, beating a hasty retreat before she could come up with another stunner. Maybe I should have stayed and listened; it was obvious she wanted someone to talk to, but my head was already spinning, and not from the Stoli. I knew it was naive of me to hope that someone would just give me the vital fact that would make everything suddenly clear. A friend of mine who does divorce law says that listening to the stories from people who have been married for years, you'd swear they'd been in two different marriages. I think it's always that way when you're trying to learn about someone by talking to other people. You get the subject through their lens. Still, it would have been nice if any two things I learned about Julie Bass matched up.

What did I know? That she was a fragile blossom who could dismantle a race car in nothing flat; she was an economics major who knew nothing about money whose husband kept her on a miserably tight financial rein while she ran up astronomical bills; she was gracious and socially adept and didn't have any friends. At least Cal Bass was easier—he was a handsome, competent, driven perfectionist whose tomcat activities and abuse of his wife made him lower than pond scum.

I shook my head to clear it, which didn't help a bit, and drove to my parents' house to get some food. Once again, I got more than I'd bargained for.

 

 

 

Chapter 13

 

In typical Linda McKusick fashion, my mother had a dinnertime surprise for me. Not a treat like peach cobbler or a fresh raspberry pie or something deadly and chocolate. Nor what I would have appreciated most, a reprieve from her pressure to get involved in Julie's affairs. Quite the opposite. Tonight it was Dr. Thomas Durren, and thanks to my mother's advance PR work, Dr. Durren was under the impression that I was there to help them get Julie out of jail. My mother led me across the room and announced, "This is my daughter, Thea, the one I've been telling you about."

He leapt to his feet, seized my hand before I could stop him, saw the bandages, and dropped it like a hot potato. He was the same guy who'd bumped into me at the police station, the one I'd seen hurrying away from Julie's house. There was no glimmer of recognition on his face. Durren was sad-eyed, sallow, and had a cold, moist handshake that left me feeling like I'd been handed a dead fish.

"Thank goodness," he said, regarding me with his spaniel eyes. "At least someone is trying to help her. She needs your help so badly! It's absurd, of course, but everyone acts like her guilt is a foregone conclusion. Your mother tells me you've done this sort of thing before. I'll do anything I can to help. Just tell me how." Despite his cooperative words, he spoke so softly I had to bend forward to hear him. Softly and in a rush, as though communicative speech was learned late in life and rarely used. Well, what did I expect? He was a doctor. An ER doc. Accustomed to dealing with people desperate for his help, where brusque, monosyllabic communication was adequate for the job. Doctors are not high on my list of favorite people.

I manufactured a pleasant smile, wishing I could twitch my nose or sprinkle pixie dust or rub a magic lantern and vanish, but there was nothing I could do. For the second time today I was trapped. At least this time no one was holding a gun to my head or threatening to throw me into oncoming traffic. Perhaps I should learn to be grateful for small favors. I sat back and studied the man who was allegedly Julie Bass's partner in adultery.

My first impression was of a delicate elegance, almost too effete to be attractive. Partly it was his clothes—the exquisitely soft Italian leather shoes, the silky cotton sheen of his shirt, the careful drape of a fine wool jacket. His face was nicely chiseled, with pale skin over fine bones. Dark, aggressive eyebrows cut a straight line over moist brown eyes. I could picture him as a boy, hand to breast, reciting "Excelsior." He was undeniably attractive, yet something in his manner was uninviting. There was a cool reticence there. A more-than-professional detachment. I wondered what it was that had drawn Julie and how he was with his patients. Perhaps, after Cal's demanding aggression, his reticence was appealing.

Oh well. Once a worker bee, always a worker bee. I took a deep breath, repressing annoyance at my mother's trap, and went to work, trying to find out whether Dr. Durren knew anything that might be helpful.

"How long have you known Julie, Doctor?" I asked.

"I hate to rush things, but I'm afraid we've got to eat right away," Mom said. Traces of annoyance on her face reminded me that I'd kept her from the orderly progression from drinks to dinner that she considers civilized. Dr. Durren held my chair, the very soul of courtesy.

"I'm sorry you didn't have time for a drink," my father said, pouring wine into my glass. "What happened to your hands?"

"Yes," Mom echoed, "what have you done now?"

What had
I
done? There it was. The implicit assumption that everything was my fault. I gritted my teeth so hard it was a wonder they didn't break, then held out my gauze-wrapped palms and gave a nonchalant shrug. "My bike skidded. All that loose sand they haven't swept up." I tried to switch the conversation back to Julie Bass. "About Julie, Dr. Durren..."

"Call me Tom. Please. You were asking how long I'd known her?"

"When did you find the time to go bike riding?" my mother interrupted. "I thought you were very busy at work?"

"I am. Work hard, play hard, that's my motto. I just don't sleep. Dr. Durren..."

"You do look tired," she said. "Suzanne's working you too hard again."

I choked on my angry responses. It was a waste of time to argue with her or explain. I'd told her Suzanne and I were partners till I was blue in the face. "Dr. Durren," I said again. "About Julie..."

"Well, Doctor," Dad said, "now that we've got you here, I might as well take advantage of the situation. What does someone who is directly affected think of health care reform?"

Dr. Durren's eyes shifted nervously from one of us to the other, wondering whom he should answer. He chose age over beauty. "I don't see how the bureaucracy could get much worse," he said, "and that's our biggest problem. Having to get approvals for treatment from people who have no idea what we're talking about, practically on a day-to-day basis. Any doctor will tell you that. If doctors could use their time to treat patients, instead of wasting so much on the phone, they could deliver medical care a lot more efficiently. It even affects my practice in the emergency room."

"I hear you!" Dad said.

"Dr. Durren... Tom... about Julie Bass..."

"More mashed potatoes?" Mom said, offering him the bowl.

"Sure. Thanks," he muttered with his mouth full. "This is delicious. I'm sorry my wife couldn't join us."

It seemed like that would have been rather awkward, but what did I know? "Tom," I said, "how long—"

"Thea, let the man eat," Mom said.

I hadn't driven an hour to admire Dr. Durren's table manners, which were quite good. Besides, this had been her idea, not mine. "Mom, I'm sorry. It's been a long day. I'd just like to get to the point here."

"A long day bike riding, while poor Julie is languishing in Framingham."

This was what I got for lying. Still, her reaction if I'd told her about Duncan Donahue and the gun would have been harder to take, though it might have bought me some peace from her persistence. Maybe not. I'd tried to tell her earlier today and she'd ignored me. "I didn't do this today," I said mildly. "I was in New Hampshire yesterday on business and I stopped in to see Duncan Donahue—"

"Julie is so fond of him," Durren said.

I wanted to say "I don't see why," but that would have required half an hour of explanation and they were hardly letting me get a word in. Maybe it was all the driving, or the drink I'd had with Rita, or delayed effects from the morning's attack, or sheer frustration, but I was losing my concentration. My back hurt and all the cuts and scrapes throbbed. My eyes wanted to close; my mind said bedtime. I was too tired and too grouchy and in too much pain to keep up a pleasant facade much longer.

"Yes," I said, "I guess Julie and her brother are very close."

Durren nodded. "Was he helpful?"

"Somewhat. He didn't know much about Cal's work life, of course. So far, all I know is that he was difficult to work with. And a philanderer. Cal, I mean. Did you and Julie ever talk about that, Tom? Did she confide in you?"