“Where’s the boss?”
“Smedler had a very important client who wanted to play golf. Smedler, of course, wanted to stay here and work like a beaver but he forced himself to go to the country club. A man of sacrifice, not so?”
“Not so.”
“Come along.”
They took the elevator up to Charity’s office. It was filled with the plants that were her children, raised from infancy, nurtured, nursed tenderly through diseases: the dieffenbachia whose scale she scraped off with her fingernails, the marantas and crotons she misted night and morning to discourage red spider mites, the coleus whose mealybugs she treated with Q-Tips dipped in alcohol, the Hawaiian elf which required a drink of warm unchlorinated water every noon, the aphelandra which kept losing its limbs to aphids, these were her special darlings. To the hardier plants that could pretty well fend for themselves she gave a good home but little real love.
She perched on the edge of her desk, swinging her legs and examining them critically as they swung. “My legs are the only vestiges of my youth. They’re still pretty good, don’t you think?”
“Do you want me to tell you you’ve got great gams?”
“I wouldn’t mind.”
“You’ve got great gams.”
“Thank you, junior. Now I suppose you want a compliment in return.”
“It might be a nice switch.”
“Okay. Smedler says you’re a young man who’s going places. Of course he didn’t specify what places — that’s a lawyer for you, can’t make a statement without leaving himself an out... Want some orange juice?”
“Please.”
She poured the juice not into the small plastic cups beside the water cooler but into the crystal stemware she reserved for special occasions. He wondered what the occasion was and if he had, however reluctantly, played a part in it.
She raised her glass. “Here’s to the twenty-third anniversary of my first divorce. His name was Harold and he was a teetotaler. You ever been married to a teetotaler?”
“No.”
“It’s like being married to an aardvark. It’s okay if you’re another aardvark. Harold never drank anything but orange juice. It’s weird, every time I drink the stuff I think of him. Memories can be a real drag. Anyway, here’s to Harold, if he isn’t dead of an overdose of vitamin C.”
She made a face when she drank the orange juice as if it tasted of Harold.
“Sit down, junior, and tell all.”
“Sorry, I have orders from Smedler not to blob, as you may recall.”
“I’ve done a little detective work of my own and found out what you’re working on anyway. This man Jasper has big bucks in oil and copper. He’s going to be deep-down-in-the-pocket grateful if you find his sister. You could be rich.”
“Money can’t buy happiness.”
“You got that mixed up, junior. Happiness can’t buy money, though God knows I keep trying.”
“When Mr. Jasper hears what I’ve got to tell him,” Aragon said, “I’ll be lucky to get out of this with two cents and a handshake.”
“You found her? You actually found her?”
“Not exactly. But I know why she went away. It’s not the kind of information Mr. Jasper will be happy to hear.”
“What happened?”
“She eloped with one of her counselors.”
“What’s the matter with that? I think it’s romantic.”
“He’s gay.”
“Well,” Charity said, and again, “well. That’s not quite so romantic, is it?”
“No.”
“However, maybe he’s only half gay, or three fifths. Or even seven tenths. That would leave—”
“I don’t know the exact percentage.”
“To a normal woman even a little is too much.”
Charity poured another round of orange juice. She was beginning to feel more kindly toward the long-gone Harold. A teetotaler, yes, but he sure as hell wasn’t a pansy.
She went on to tell Aragon more about Harold than he wanted to know and certainly more than Harold would have wanted him to know. He listened patiently until, having finished off Harold, she started in on George. George, it seemed, was not a teetotaler. In fact, he drank like a fish.
“But he was not a pansy,” Charity said solemnly. “None of my husbands has been a pansy.”
“Glad to hear it. Now I have to—”
“George’s weakness was blondes. Any size, any age.”
“—leave. Goodbye. Keep up the good work.”
“What good work? What’s the matter with you, junior?”
He stepped into the elevator and the door clanged shut.
“Don’t you want to hear about George?”
“Later,” Aragon said. Much much later.
When he returned to his car he saw that the lid of the trunk was not completely closed. There were no signs of forced entry and everything was still inside: a box of tools; a nylon jacket belonging to his wife, Laurie; a first aid kit; his beach shoes, the soles encrusted with tar; and an orange that had rolled out of its bag when he’d bought groceries a few nights before. That was the last time he’d had occasion to use the trunk.
He tried unsuccessfully to close the lid. Then he saw what was keeping it partly open. A large wad of chewing gum had been pushed into the lock.
Aragon thought of the desperation on Donny Whitfield’s face when they met at Holbrook Hall that morning and it was suddenly clear what had happened. Donny had used the keys, inadvertently left in the ignition, to open the trunk. Then he’d replaced the keys and hidden himself in the trunk. The wad of chewing gum forced into the lock kept the lid from closing tightly and allowed Donny to escape.
Some people would do anything to get off their diets.
8
The plane from Sacramento arrived at twilight. Though Hilton Jasper sat in one of the rear seats, he let all the other passengers get off before him. He didn’t want to go back to a house without Cleo, without Ted. From the window he could see Frieda waiting for him at the gate, pacing up and down with quick little steps that indicated her impatience. She was always impatient, impatient for night to fall, impatient for morning to begin, impatient to drive him to the airport, to drive him home again. The world moved too slowly for Frieda. She wore herself out trying to hurry it along.
The flight attendant handed him his briefcase. “We’re here, Mr. Jasper.”
“Yes. Thanks.”
“Unless you want to go back to Sacramento with us—”
“I think not.”
He stepped out of the plane and Frieda came hurrying to meet him. She took the briefcase out of his hand. It was probably meant to be a loving gesture but there was no love in it. She said, “Everyone got off before you. I thought you might have missed the plane.”
“Someone has to be last.”
She frowned, as though she was trying to understand this odd bit of philosophy. Frieda was always the first on a plane and the first off. It was as natural to her as any ordinary bodily function.
“You look tired,” she said. “Cook made you a lovely dinner. It will take only three or four minutes to heat it up in the microwave.”
“I’m not really hungry, Frieda.”
“Of course you’re hungry,” Frieda said in a tone that meant he damned well better be hungry because she was. “And it’s especially important that you have a good meal tonight.”
“Why?”
“Mr. Aragon is coming over at nine. He has something to tell you... Now please don’t get excited, Hilton. The doctor warned you to take it easy. Cleo is all right. She’s not dead or injured or any of the dozen things you imagined. I repeat, she’s all right. Apparently she just doesn’t want to come home.”
“Because of Ted — that terrible scene—”