Drawing Dead (6 page)
Jesus, I thought as I rushed to the bathroom. A little pushy, this one. And how did she get my address? Kennedy wouldn’t have been that indiscreet.
I threw on some clothes. Ran my fingers through my frantic hair. Brushed some of my teeth. Grabbed a cold cup of coffee from the kitchen.
In precisely ten minutes there was a knock on the door. A small knock. Decorous. But insistent, somehow. Not to be ignored.
Much like the woman herself, as it turned out. A sweet little package. Green linen skirt. Matching jacket. Demure in style, yet provocative. Underneath the jacket, a white blouse. Tight, but somehow not too revealing. Just enough to make you wonder. Green eyes, hennaed hair. A lightly freckled complexion. An air of self-possession.
She put out a gloved hand.
Louise Chandler, she said, eyeing my disheveled self with something between disdain and curiosity.
Rick Redman, I replied. Sorry for my rumpled condition. Just got up.
Perhaps I should come back a little later?
No, no. Please. Come in. Make yourself at home. Would you like something to drink?
No, thank you, I’m fine.
Coffee, I mean. Or tea. Water.
No, thank you.
Before I could steer her elsewhere, Louise Chandler was sitting on the sofa. Zebra skin. Real zebra skin. Melissa had had it covered by the best in the business. To match her jungle motif. The leopard-skin chairs. African masks on the wall. The gazelle-headed fireplace tools.
And there was Louise Chandler. Right in the middle of Melissa.
It just wasn’t right. But at that point, neither was inviting Louise into the kitchen or, more to the point, disinviting her from the living room. And the kitchen was the only other place we could go. It was as bad as my bedroom. Worse. Things were growing in there.
My ten minutes hadn’t been enough for me to anticipate this … conundrum.
I would just have to deal with it.
Louise Chandler gave me a wan smile.
She could see my discomfort. But of course, she’d have no idea what caused it. Probably figured I was some kind of nervous neurotic. An
anxiety freak. Cokehead, maybe. Yeah, likely that. I’d lost her business already. Not that that would be such a bad thing. I could play poker …
Sure you won’t have some coffee? I asked.
I’m fine, she said.
Another uncomfortable pause.
I realized that I was still standing. Towering over this tiny sitting woman. This was impolite, I remembered. Concealing my embarassment with action, however ill-conceived, I went to the kitchen. Made her an uninvited drink. I returned. Handed her the glass. She was too polite to refuse. I took the armchair.
Well, I said to Ms. Chandler, perhaps you could tell me a bit about your, ah, problem. Situation.
My tongue wasn’t working. My brain wasn’t working. Hell, I wasn’t sure my entire central nervous system wasn’t shutting down. The central nervous system, I thought. The system that makes you nervous. So that was it.
And it wasn’t just the hangover. There was something really wrong. Nothing was making any sense. Who was this strange woman in my living room? Why were small creatures scurrying about in my digestive tract? Why were their nails so sharp?
Louise Chandler sat impassively for a moment. From her vantage, I deduced, she could see into the kitchen. Empty bottles. Chinese take-out cartons.
Sorry about the mess, I said. I wasn’t expecting company.
It’s all right, she said, without conviction.
How can I help you? I asked.
It’s about my sister, she said.
Your sister.
Yes. My sister.
She looked around the living room. In radical contrast to the rest of the house, this room was pristine. Everything left just the way Melissa had designed it. Lived in it. Died in it. Along with the African stuff, the Bauhaus divan. The carefully chosen paintings, abstract, but with some thing elusively warm in them. The carpet, furiously, elaborately Persian. All of the contrasting styles somehow synergizing into something ineffably peaceful.
It’s a nice room, said Ms. Chandler.
Your sister, I said. You were telling me about your sister.
It was bad enough she had invaded Melissa’s space. I wasn’t going to start chatting about the décor.
She was taken aback, momentarily. Recovered herself, I was relieved to note.
Yes, she replied. Eloise.
Eloise, I said. Louise and Eloise.
Yes, she said with an air of having heard it before. Our parents were, I don’t know, odd.
Well, yes. I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to cause offense. I mean, George Foreman’s sons are all called George. I think there are eight of them. So it could be worse, I guess.
Don’t worry, she said. It doesn’t bother me anymore.
I gave her what I hoped was a reassuring smile and not a leer. In my condition, I couldn’t tell the difference.
Yes, she said. Well. The problem is, I haven’t heard from Eloise in a long time.
I waited. I tried to remember the last time I’d talked to my sister.
I know that’s not necessarily unusual, she said.
I see, I said. So you’re not saying that she’s … missing?
I’m not sure. I haven’t heard from her. I’m not going to pretend that’s abnormal. We haven’t been close in a long while. But she is my sister. I’m concerned for her. The last telephone number that I had for her is out of service. I’m not saying anything bad has happened to her. I don’t know. I’d just like to know that she’s … all right.
I understand. Well. I’ll—we’ll need some information.
Of course.
There was another pause. Ms. Chandler smoothed the sleeves of her jacket. Ah, I thought, self-soothing behavior. A sure sign she was bluffing.
Unfortunately, there wasn’t anything for her to be bluffing about.
Had to get my mind out of the poker gutter.
Mr. Redman, she said, do you carry a firearm?
Uh, I’m not sure why that’s relevant.
Do you?
Do I what?
Carry a firearm.
No, I don’t.
That’s strange. I thought it was standard procedure in your business.
Well, I do own a gun, I said. The phrase had a novel feel in my mouth. But I don’t usually carry it. Anyway, if this is danger work, I get hazard pay.
Oh, don’t worry about compensation, Mr. Redman. You’ll be taken care of. Oh, and you wanted more information.
She fished around in her tiny handbag. Pulled out a piece of paper, folded many times. But neatly. Folded neatly.
She handed it to me.
I opened it.
Her handwriting was tiny. But clear. At least, it looked as though it would be clear. Once my eyes began to focus.
I have an appointment, she said. I apologize. I must go. Please read that. I’ve tried to put everything down. But I’m sure you’ll have some questions. I’ll call you again when I’m free.
Of course, I said. Of course. Please.
I showed her to the front door.
Brendan was just coming up the stairs.
I introduced them. Brendan shuffled his feet. Extended a hand.
A pleasure, he said, without conviction.
Pleased to meet you, said Louise, very properly.
But her eyes lingered a bit on Brendan. Just enough to make me notice.
Well, no harm in that. Brendan was a good-looking guy. Blue eyes. Good jawline. Wavy, dirty-blond hair. Any woman might take a second look. And seeing as how he was gay, he wasn’t a threat to my own nascent inappropriate intentions.
Back in the kitchen, I gave Brendan a beer and the download.
I hope it doesn’t interfere with the poker schedule, he said.
Yeah, I said. I didn’t tell her about that. Wouldn’t be good for business. But if she’s going to weasel her way into our lives, she’ll have to pay for it.
Yeah?
Yeah. If she shows up again, I’ll ask for a big retainer.
I
WASN’T OPTIMISTIC
. Find a sister. How much could we bill for that? A couple grand, maybe? I supposed we could just bill by the hour.
Hated that, though. Had enough of it in the law business. It just encouraged useless effort. Waste. Dishonesty.
I looked at Louise Chandler’s tiny handwriting. I crossed and uncrossed my eyes a few times. My vision unblurred a bit. The writing was small but neat. Precise. Scary precise.
Name, Eloise Chandler. Date of birth, June 13, 1970. Description, green eyes, five foot two, slim, pale skin, red hair.
A lot like her sister.
Allergic to sunlight. Ouch. What was that? Lupus? Phone number, no longer working. 702 area code. Last known address, Henderson, Nevada. My, my. Maybe she’d died of lupus. Could you die from lupus? I made a mental note to look it up.
I read the rest aloud to Brendan:
My sister and I were never particularly close. I was four years older. Eloise was always very introverted. Bitter, you might say. She never had many friends. She tended to be easily dominated by larger personalities.
As a result, despite our relative lack of intimacy, I was always very protective of her. Our parents died when we were high school age. We were taken in by an uncle. He was not a nice man. I’ve always feared that he did something to Eloise. She never said anything of the sort, but then she would not have. Certainly not to me.
Eloise left home when she turned eighteen. I did not blame her. I would have as well, but I was in college, and could not afford to do so. We stayed in touch, however, as sisters do. When she became ill, it seemed to affect her psychologically. She began having less to do with me. She became somewhat reclusive. Eventually she left the city. I do not know where she went initially. I lost track of her for a time. Eventually she settled in Nevada. She wrote to me from there, from time to time, at first. She found a boy she liked. He was a Russian immigrant. He repaired old cars and sold them. That is all that I know about him.
The letters became more sporadic. And then they stopped. I kept writing. My letters were not returned by
the post office, but they were not answered either. I did not worry at first. As I said, we were never very close. She had that bitter, independent streak. But as the years went on, I began to be concerned. Finally, I called a local agency in Nevada, and asked them to check at the address I had for her. They told me that she did not live there. That was when I became concerned. I spoke to Mr. Kennedy, who is my personal lawyer. He recommended you.
A bit strange, I said.
Sounds pretty standard to me, said Brendan.
Not the story, I said. The story’s as common as bad cheddar cheese. What’s strange is why she felt she had to write it down. There isn’t anything in there she couldn’t have told me in ten minutes. And if she had, I could have asked the obvious questions. How much she was willing to pay, for example. And the writing. Stilted as hell. Not a contraction in the whole thing. ‘I could not afford to do so.’ Sounds like it was written by the star student in a class of Chinese taking English as a second language. Not that any of that has anything to do with the case. If it is a case.
Okay, Brendan laughed. But you got to figure. We just started The Outfit, and already we have some business. Doesn’t matter if it doesn’t amount to much.
No, it didn’t matter. And it didn’t amount to much. But something about it made me uncomfortable.
Maybe it was the past tense.
The whole thing was written in the past tense.
I
COULDN’T GET PAST THE IMAGE OF
M
ELISSA ON THE SOFA
. Louise Chandler in her space.
There was only one thing to do.
I called Sheila.
One of her crackhead clients had canceled. She could see me right away.
There are advantages to a shrink who specializes in addicts.
I rang the buzzer outside. I smiled at the security camera. I passed inspection. The door buzzed. I took the ancient elevator to the penthouse. I wondered about the etymology of the word. Penthouse. Nothing obvious came to mind. I made a note to look it up.
Sheila shared the penthouse with a couple of other shrinks. There were patients waiting. This was unfortunate. Not because I was uncomfortable. Because they were. My natural inclination was to smile, nod, say hello. You can’t do that in a shrink’s waiting room. For some reason everyone’s embarrassed. Staring intently at the month-old copy of
Time
magazine. I guess they want everyone to think they’re normal, well-adjusted folk.
Hey, I always want to say to them, don’t worry about it. There’s no such thing.
Sheila’s door opened. She ushered me in. I sat on my couch. I considered it mine. For the first time I thought of other people sitting there. Sharing their lives and anguish with her.
I didn’t like it at all.
I got down to business. Melissa business.
To me, I told Sheila, she’s still on that couch. On her back. Mouth open. A line of saliva drooling from the corner of her mouth, forming a pool on the sofa cushion.
I didn’t say it in those words. But Sheila understood: I was stuck in the memory.
She nodded sympathetically.
I’d left the living room just like it was, I explained. Her space. Her final resting place. Penultimate resting place. Oh, hell, where she died. Choking on her own vomit. Call me weird, shit, call me neurotic if you want, but I couldn’t touch that living room. And I certainly wasn’t going to ask anyone else to, or let anyone else, touch it. So there it was. Everything in its designer place. Her cigarettes still on the coffee table, even. The way she made it. The way she lived in it. The way she died in it.
Kind of like a museum.
A natural history museum. Not so natural. A diorama.
Sounds like you won’t let yourself grieve, Sheila said.
Yeah, yeah, I said. The eighteen stages of grief. Or twenty. Whatever it is. I know. Well, I don’t know, actually. But I don’t really want to know. Why does everyone have to deal with shit in the same way? Why can’t I have my own way?
Is your own way making you happy?
Oh, please. Does anything make me happy?
Kelley?
Of course. But that’s different.
Of course it’s different. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t matter. And it doesn’t have to be the only thing that makes you happy.