Case of Lucy Bending (6 page)

When Bending came downstairs, he reported that he had dumped Luther onto his bed, and had taken off his shoes, but not undressed him. She thanked Turk, but didn't offer him a drink. After he left, she had turned off the lights and wandered out onto the terrace.

It wasn't the first time her husband had behaved in such a crude manner. She knew why she endured it. The answer was simple: this place was paradise.
Paradise.

She was from Iron Mountain, Michigan. It was an ugly, brutally frigid place where all the women read confession magazines, watched Phil Donahue on television, and exchanged recipes for Apple Pan Dowdy.

Her first husband was a dear, sweet man, and a totally ineffective lover. When he died unexpectedly of a heart attack at the age of thirty-eight, she had been agreeably surprised to find herself heiress to almost a half-million dollars in Triple-A-rated commercial bonds and tax exempt municipals.

Her husband had not accumulated this fortune; he had been an only child who inherited, and now it was all hers. She moved immediately to Florida.

She knew at once it was paradise, the place she wanted to spend the remainder of her life. The only drawback was the equivocal status of unattached women of her age in south Florida; there were so
many
widows and divorcees. She was not accorded the respect and admiration to which she felt her beauty and wealth entitled her.

She met Luther Empt at a cocktail party following a polo match in Palm Beach. He asked her to dinners and beach parties several times. She did not think him physically repulsive, exactly, but he certainly wasn't her type. She accepted his invitations because she enjoyed the almost forgotten experience of being squired.

Never would she admit to herself that she was lonely.

When it became evident that his attentions were more than casual, she wisely had him investigated by a private detective agency that specialized in discreet inquiries of that nature.

Everything he had told her turned out to be true: He was in the process of obtaining his second divorce. He had a total of five children by his two wives, all the children in custody of their mothers.

His net worth was estimated at slightly less than $300,000, but he owned his own successful business, producing and processing training and educational films. He had the reputation of being a hard, shrewd businessman who was willing to gamble on his hunches.

There was talk, the investigator reported, that Luther Empt hoped to expand into producing and processing video cassettes and disks. But his plan required more capital than local banks were willing to lend on his current assets.

In the end, it was not his energy, wealth or business acumen that persuaded her to accept his proposal; it was the overgrown acre of beachfront property and the rather ramshackle home he owned south of Boca Raton.

She saw at once what could be done with it. She could create a showplace. That home could become one of the glories of Florida's Gold Coast, a palace in which even the ashtrays would reflect her impeccable taste.

When the proposal came, she was ready with a list of demands. It was more a meeting of lawyers than of lovers. Her conditions:

It was to be a sexless marriage; they would have separate bedrooms. He would be allowed complete freedom with the proviso that his extramarital affairs were conducted with discretion and resulted in no public scandal.

The refurbishing of the home and grounds were to be totally her responsibility, with no interference on his part. The renovation expenses were to be split fifty-fifty. Running the household, including the hiring and firing of servants, was also to be in her domain.

In return, she agreed to cosign his notes, putting up her bonds as collateral. However, these securities would remain in her name, and the income therefrom, approximately $50,000 annually, would be hers alone. In addition, he would provide $25,000 a year for day-to-day household expenses.

He accepted these harsh terms with remarkable alacrity. He made only one counter demand: that his widowed mother be allowed to continue to reside in the beachfront home. After several moments of consideration, Teresa assented.

All in all, this marital contract worked out well. Luther's business was expanded and flourished. The house was redone with a new red tile roof. An Olympic-size swimming pool was installed. Slowly, over a period of several years, the showplace was created. Teresa was satisfied with the jresults of her labors.

The presence of Luther's mother, though frequently annoying, had proved to be less of a burden than anticipated. Gertrude, a short, plump, roguish woman, rarely interfered in the redecoration or domestic routine of her son's home. Teresa was the acknowledged mistress of the Empt villa, except in bed.

In this area, Luther had kept his word. He never physically forced himself upon her. In public, his demeanor toward her was as affectionate and gallant as his rude nature allowed.

Soon after their marriage, Teresa had learned from commiserating friends that Luther had been seen here, there, everywhere with a variety of women known in south Florida as "creamers": young, nubile, tanned, addicted to the skimpiest of string bikinis and obscene T-shirts.

None of these liaisons seemed to last long, and as Teresa accumulated the testimony of witnesses, she came to realize what Luther was doing: he was hiring a succession of professional and semiprofessional bodies, paying for his pleasure but forming no lasting relationship.

Teresa approved.

Her own sex life was somewhat more complex. She had recognized since youth that she was not as intensely sexual as other girls her age.

But she was not totally without physical passion. Since moving to Florida, she had been conscious of a growing thaw. An ice dam was melting. The blazing sun, sapphire sea, caressing breeze, glimmering beach—all worked subtly to free her repressed appetite.

Now she masturbated briskly every Tuesday afternoon following her weekly visit to the beauty salon where she had her long sable hair shampooed and styled. And a manicure, pedicure, and bikini wax treatment.

More than that, she found herself strangely and powerfully attracted to Edward Holloway, the sixteen-year-old son of Jane and Bill. She was shrewd enough to realize that at his age, he was probably as unsophisticated sexually as she. That was part of his appeal.

But mostly it was his physical beauty that stirred her. Tall and muscular, but slender, he wore his sun-bleached blond hair almost shoulder-length. He moved with careless grace. His bronzed skin had the look of satin: soft, gleaming. It would be a delight to feel. To taste?

She had watched from this very terrace as he rode his surfboard. The nimble body crouched, long hair flung in the wind, body glistening with spray. She thought he would smell fresh and young, uncorrupted. Fantasies bloomed.

So Teresa Empt, standing on the balcony of her palace, alone in the darkness, dreamed her febrile dreams. And all about her the fertile land seemed choked with the scent of growing things. The nurturing ocean was there, the sweet wind, endless sky.

She left paradise reluctantly to retire to her empty bed. But the vision went with her. Of beauty, youth, and hope. Naked in her locked bedroom, she felt firm breasts and tight thighs. She thought she might be blossoming like some tropical plant: brilliantly colored, scented, turning toward the quickening light.

Dr. Theodore Levin rose to his feet when Lucy Bending came into his office—which was more than he had done for her parents. He thought her the most beautiful little girl he had ever seen. No, not a little girl. A miniature woman.

Shapely. Tall for her age. No evident baby fat. Clear, almost luminous features, with an enchanting smile of bright innocence. Long, flaxen hair without curl or wave. Her skin was particularly limpid.

She had a quality of steady repose, with a look of alert attention. Eyes a bluish-gray. Lips full and artfully bowed: a burning carmine. Her movements were well-coordinated, almost precise. She exhibited no signs of fear, resentment, or petulance.

Dr. Levin found himself smiling broadly.

"Please sit here, Lucy," he said hastily, gesturing toward the chair alongside his desk.

"Thank you," she said. The voice was clear, low-pitched, without quaver.

"Comfortable?" he asked.

"Oh yes."

He leaned forward to inspect her. She was wearing a party frock of eyelet cotton lined with blue. A darker blue sash encircled her waist. Bracelet of small auger shells. Strapped sandals of white leather over anklets. She carried a small plastic purse on a brass chain.

"I like your dress, Lucy," he said..

She looked down as if surprised, plucked at her ribbon sash. "Oh, this old thing ..."

He sighed, settled back in his swivel chair. He reached into the open desk drawer, switched on the tape recorder.

"Lucy," he said, "I know you've been to a doctor several times. In fact, it was Doctor Raskob who suggested I see you. Do you like Doctor Raskob?"

She smiled sweetly. "He's so funny. He gives me a lollipop every time I see him."

"Does he now?"

"I never told him, but I hate lollipops. They rot your teeth. So when Doctor David gives me a lollipop, I take it home and give it to Harry. He's my kid brother. He loves lollipops. He's so fat."

Dr. Levin straightened in his chair. "Well now, you make me feel a little better because I have no lollipops to give you."

"That's all right. I'm too old for lollipops."

"But
I am a.
doctor, a special kind of doctor."

"I know that. You're a shrink."

"Where did you learn that word, Lucy?"

She looked around the office curiously. "Oh, I don't know ... All the kids use it. Like a witch doctor, you know, who shrinks people's heads. That's why they call them shrinks."

"I hope you don't think I'm a witch doctor who shrinks people's heads."

"Oh no. That's silly. My goodness, you can't shrink a person's
head

"Of course not. What I do, Lucy, is talk to children, just talk, and if they have any problems, then sometimes by talking we can solve them."

"I don't have any problems."

"Well then, that's a problem I have, and I hope you'll be able to help
me
solve it. You see, your parents feel something is bothering you, and they asked me to talk to you about it."

She looked at him steadily. "Nothing is bothering me."

"Lucy, you love your mother and father, don't you?"

"Of course."

"And you know they love you?"

"Sure."

"And because they love you, they want you to be happy and grow up to be a beautiful, healthy, well-adjusted woman. You know what 'well-adjusted' means, don't you?"

"It means you don't have any problems."

"Well ... not exactly. Everyone has problems. But being well-adjusted means that you're able to handle your problems, to solve them by yourself. Now your parents feel you
do
have a problem. Can you guess what it might be?"

She frowned, blinked, bit her lower lip. She lowered her head, stared intently at her dangling feet. Then she looked up, her face cleared. She beamed at him. He thought she might be a consummate actress, but he could not be sure.

"Oh, I know what it is," she said. "I bet I know. They're always after me about it. They think I love too much. Isn't that silly?"

"What do you mean by love too much?"

She did not reply. Her eyes drifted away to the painted wall, the bookcase of toys and games, up to the pasted stars. Dr. Levin waited patiently for a full minute, then tried again . . .

"Well, Lucy? You haven't answered my question."

Her eyes came back to him. She tilted her head. "Your name is Theodore, isn't it?"

"Yes. My first name."

"Theodore," she said, giggling. "That's a funny name."

"I agree! But most of my friends call me Ted."

"Can I call you Doctor Ted?"

"Of course. I'd like that."

"If your friends call you Ted, and I call you Doctor Ted, that makes us friends, doesn't it?"

"I'd like very much to be friends with you."

"Me, too."

Silence again. She raised both hands and swept her long, softly gleaming hair back from her temples. Then she shook her head to let the tresses fall freely down her back. The movements were graceful, lovely, so pure it was difficult to think of them as coquettish or provocative.

"You haven't answered my question, Lucy," he said gently. "What did you mean when you said your parents think you love too much?"

"Oh . . . you know," she said vaguely. "Just being nice."

"Are you nice to everyone?"

"Oh no. Not everyone. Some people are mean and spiteful."

"Can you give me some examples—of people who are mean and spiteful?"

"Mrs. Gower at Sunday School—she's always yelling at us kids, and she never smiles."

"Anyone else?" "Miss Mackinroydt at the library. She gets mad when we, uh, you know, sort of whisper."