Thyme of Death (10 page)

Meredith still displayed the reserve
she had shown at the memorial service. But Roz was an entirely different
person than she’d been an hour earlier. The tough, surly talk had vanished,
along with the boozy incoherence. She was smiling and empathetic, warm and
cordial, and solicitous of both Meredith and me. She made tactful inquiries
about Meredith’s plans, paid generous compliments to me, and told cute, funny
stories about Jo.

“I’m sure you know, Meredith,” she
said, leaning forward, “what an absolutely marvelous letter writer your mother
was.”

Meredith added another dollop of
sour cream to her chicken flautas. That’s what I had ordered too. They were the
best item on the menu. “Actually, no,” she replied, not looking up. “Mother
hardly ever wrote.”

“Well, she wrote to me,” Roz said,
undaunted. “But of course I was her closest friend. I have boxes and boxes of
her letters.” I saw Meredith frowning at her flautas. I winced. I had the sense
that Roz’s harping on how close she’d been to Jo must be hitting a nerve. But
Roz didn’t seem to notice. She waved her hand. “They’re such
marvelous
letters,
simply crammed with witty, insightful little vignettes about the people here.”

I bit down on a smile. I wondered
what witty, insightful vignettes Jo had offered about Arnold Seidensticker.

‘To tell the truth,” Roz went on, “I’ve
been wishing I had the letters I wrote to her. Before I leave, I’d like to get
them, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“The only papers I’ve found are
related to Mother’s projects,” Meredith said. “The park, things like that.”

Roz sipped her wine. “I could help
you hunt.”

Meredith pulled herself up,
offended. “That won’t be necessary,” she replied sharply. “When I get a chance,
I’ll look through the papers again. If there’s anything that concerns you, I
can mail it.”

Roz looked as if she wanted to press
the issue, but Meredith was clearly in no mood. It was time for me to change
the subject.

“We’ve been talking about everything
all evening but
you,
Roz,” I said brightly. “Both Meredith and I are
dying
to hear all about your life in New York.” I wondered if my tongue would
freeze to the roof of my mouth before it uttered any more such ridiculous nonsense.

Maybe Roz decided she wasn’t going
to get anywhere with the letters and might as well drop the subject. Or maybe
she just plain took the bait. Whatever it was, she gave us both a smile.

“Actually,” she said, “I do have
something to tell you. It will be announced in Washington and in Los Angeles
early next week, but I’d like you to be among the first to know.”

“Know what?’ I asked.

Roz pushed her plate away. “I’m
leaving show business.”

“Leaving!” Meredith exclaimed,
genuinely amazed.

I was surprised too. From the
argument Ruby and I had overheard, I’d assumed that Roz was refusing to sign
only one contract. I hadn’t suspected she was giving up the whole works.

Roz nodded. “I’m selling everything
to Disney.”

So
that
was what was behind
Roz’s refusal to sign the contract! She was selling out! But why hadn’t she
told Jane? I was sure she hadn’t—at least, not in the conversation I had
overheard. Then a thought hit me.

Maybe Roz hadn’t told Jane because
there was nothing in it for Jane. Roz had negotiated the deal secretly, leaving
Jane out of the picture, which would no doubt frost Jane mightily when she
found out. Not to mention losing Roz as a client, which—depending on how many
other four-million-a-year clients she represented— could carve a hefty chunk
out of her annual take-home.

“But why are you leaving?” Meredith
asked. “I thought things were going your way.”

Roz’s blue gaze was candid. “They
certainly are. But I’m tired of performing. I’m tired of people taking advantage
of me. And there’s the money, of course.”

“How much?” I asked curiously. “If
you don’t mind telling us.”

“I can’t,” Roz said. “That’s part of
the agreement with Disney. It’s quite a nice sum, though—enough to make it
worth my while.” She gave us a smug smile. “But I have another reason for
retiring.”

Meredith and I traded glances and
waited. Finally, when our silence was beginning to seem impolite, I asked, “And
what is that?”

Roz toyed with her glass. “The truth
is that Howie has this idea—old-fashioned, to be sure—that a Senator’s wife
doesn’t belong in show business. But then, Howie is a little old-fashioned. It’s
what makes him so special.”

“Howie?” I asked.

“Howard Keenan has asked me to marry
him,” Roz said, and waited triumphantly for our reactions.

I sucked in my breath. “Howard
Keenan?” I
was
surprised. Blown away, in fact. Stupefied. Roz Kotner was
reeling in the biggest fish in the pond.

Meredith was shocked too.
“Senator
Howard Keenan?” she asked incredulously.

Everybody knows Howard Keenan. He is
one of the most powerful members of the U.S. Senate. Fiftyish, handsome,
sophisticated, he is also heir to the fabled Keenan oil-and-gas empire, which
extends from the sands of West Texas to the sands of Saudi Arabia. With every
Mid-East war and rumor of war, the Keenans pump up more barrels of petrodollars.
But more to the point, Senator Keenan has recently been mentioned as the most
likely Democratic presidential nominee in the primaries, and smart money says
he’ll be the people’s choice. Incredible as it seemed, if Roz held on to her
big fish through the white water of the primaries and the deep dives of the
presidential election, she could end up as the nation’s First Lady.

There was a long silence. Finally, I
spoke. “Congratulations,” I said lamely. I picked up my wineglass. ‘To Senator
and Mrs. Keenan,” I said. With some reluctance, Meredith joined us as we
tipped our glasses together. Roz told us the story.

She had met Howie at a New York
cocktail party. (Howie doesn’t drink, of course. He’s a deacon in the Southern
Baptist Church, which looks askance at wine and women. Song is acceptable as
long as it begins with Holy-Holy-Holy.) They had carried out their courtship in
secret, away from the media’s prying eyes but under the watchful gaze of the
senior Mrs. Keenan, Howard’s mother, whose staunch morals qualified her as
chaperone. After their wedding, which would take place during the upcoming
Congressional recess, there wouldn’t be time for show biz. Instead, Roz would
be busy with her new assignment as the Senator’s Washington hostess and co-campaigner.

“Anyway,” she added delicately, “Howie
doesn’t think it’s seemly for me to stay in show business— given the upward
momentum of his political career, that is.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to
point out that— seemly or not—one recent show business president had ridden his
upward momentum right into the Oval Office. And never even unsaddled his
horse. But Ronald Reagan wasn’t a deacon, and some people might suggest that
there was a difference between “Do it for the Gipper” and “Let’s all do it with
StrawBerry Bear.” Not to mention Roz’s legs, up there on the screen where
Baptists and non-Baptists alike could get an eyeful. I knew several Southern
Baptists who were exceedingly moralistic about women’s bare legs—in public,
that is. A little leg in private was a different matter.

I thought back to the fragment of
argument I had heard that morning. Now I understood why Roz was able to shrug
off a four-million-dollar contract. Even the Disney sale must be small potatoes
compared to the Keenan treasure chest and a stay in the White House.

Roz’s announcement was the high
point of the evening. We’d already said everything there was to say, and
Meredith was still clearly angry. What’s more, the mariachis were warming up.
So when the waiter brought the dessert cart around, we turned down his
blandishments, Roz paid the tab, and we left.

We dropped Roz off at the cottage
and then I drove Meredith home. The drive was silent until we arrived.

“There’s still plenty of Mother’s
birthday cake left,” Meredith said. “Come in and have some.”

I’d already said no to dessert, but
I had a fondness for Adele’s chocolate cake—it’s worth the cost in calories—and
Meredith seemed to want to talk. Meredith cut two generous slices of cake.
“I
lied,”
she said, putting mine down in front of me with a thump. “There might be some
letters. I found a couple of boxes when I was going through Mother’s closet.”

“Might be?”

Meredith handed me a fork and sat
down. “The boxes are taped up, and I didn’t open them. There’s a note on top.
It says that you’re supposed to have them.” Her tone was corrosive. “It’s the
same old thing, isn’t it? Mother could write hundreds of letters to some friend
in New York, but she did everything she could to keep her daughter out of her
personal life.” Her mouth wrenched with bitter irony. “In the end, all she left
me was a lousy three-line note.”

I touched her hand in silent
sympathy. “I’ll take the boxes when I leave,” I said. With Meredith feeling
this way, it was better to get them out of her way.

Meredith pulled her eyebrows
together in a resentful scowl. “I just don’t get it, China. I can’t fathom what
Mother saw in Rosalind Kotner. The woman is totally arrogant and egotistical.”
She flung her fork down. “What makes her think she can come over here and poke
around in Mother’s papers?”

I tried to make a joke out of it. “Watch
it. That arrogant, egotistical woman may be our next First Lady.”

Meredith made a gagging noise.

“Anyway,” I said more seriously, “just
because we think she’s egotistical doesn’t mean that your mother saw her that
way. Maybe Roz showed Jo a different side.”

“Maybe. Or maybe Roz Kotner, ego and
all, appealed to a part of Mother I never knew.” She put her hands up to her
face. “Oh, God, China, I thought it would get better. But it doesn’t.” Her
voice dropped, grew ragged, barely controlled. “I know she wouldn’t want me to miss
her, but I do, damn it.”

I took her hands across the table. “I
know,” I said. It wasn’t enough, but there wasn’t anything else to say.
Meredith’s grief, her anger, went so deep that words couldn’t reach it.

“If only she’d let me
in,”
Meredith
whispered, fighting tears. “If I’d known what was going on with her, maybe I
could have helped.”

“But you didn’t know. You can’t
blame yourself for that.”

Meredith pulled back her hands and
clenched them into tight balls of fists. “I don’t blame myself,” she cried
roughly. “I blame
her.
Oh, God, China, I
hate
her for what she
did!”

Then the tears came, as fierce and
hard as a flash storm. I got up and rubbed her shoulders awkwardly, not as well
as Ruby does it. But it seemed to help, and after the storm had passed, she
wiped her eyes.

“Thanks,” she said wearily. “I just
can’t seem to get over being angry. I want to love her, but I can’t. It gnaws
on me all the time.” I sat down again and we finished our cake in silence.

When we were done, Meredith brought
me the boxes. There were two of them, old boot boxes, tied together, their lids
taped. I stuck them in my hatchback and told Meredith to call if she needed
anything. When I got home, I left the boxes in the car. There was nothing
pressing about Jo’s old letters, and I was too whacked to fool with them. It
had been a very long day.

So I poured a brandy, climbed into a
steamy bubble bath, and gave myself over to some serious philosophizing. Jo
Gilbert was dead. Roz Kotner was about to trade her ruffled pinafore for the
Keenan millions and a shot at the White House. The way was clear for Arnold
Seidensticker to get his regional airport.

There was no justice in the world.

CHAPTER 7

I was awakened early the next
morning by a call from McQuaid. His pickup had started making an ominous noise
the day before. “It’s me water pump,” he told me. “If you’re not going to be
using your car today, can I borrow it?”

I agreed, so the first hour of the
morning was spent following McQuaid’s blue Ford pickup to Hank’s Auto Repair,
waiting while Hank filled out the paperwork, and stopping for breakfast. Maria’s
Taco Cocina is crowded into the front half of a small frame house on Zapata
Street, behind a bare-earth yard dotted with truck tires, painted white and
filled with dirt, transformed into flower beds. Inside, the tables are covered
with red-checked oilcloth and surrounded by mismatched kitchen chairs. Each
table has its own bouquet of plastic flowers. Ours were neon pink and citrus
yellow roses, stuck in an empty Del Monte ketchup bottle. Maria, a squat
Mexican lady with snapping black eyes and a renowned culinary talent, makes
extraordinary breakfast tacos with chorizos and eggs, seasoned heavily with
cumin and chili peppers and rolled up in a chewy flour tortilla. They’re so
good that nobody cares that the stainless doesn’t match, the plates come from
the Salvation Army thrift store, and the napkins are paper. After we’d pigged
out on three of Maria’s tacos and two cups of her fine Chilean coffee, McQuaid
dropped me off to open the shop and took my car to the campus, promising to
bring it back that evening when he came for dinner.