One False Move

"And?"

  "There's nothing there that would suggest her death was anything other than an accident. You can take a run at her brother, if you want. He lives in Westport. He's also closely aligned to his old brother-in-law, so I doubt you'll get anywhere."

  Waste of time. "Any other family?"

  "A sister who also lives in Westport. But she's spending the summer on the Cote d'Azur."

  Strike two.

  "Anything else?"

  "One thing bothered me a little," Esperanza said. "Elizabeth Bradford was clearly a social animal, a society dame of the first order. Barely a week went by when her name wasn't in the paper for some function or other. But about six months before she fell off the balcony, mentions of her stopped."

  "When you say 'stopped'--"

  "I mean, completely. Her name was nowhere, not even in the town paper."

  Myron thought about this. "Maybe she was on the Cote d'Azur."

  "Maybe. But her husband wasn't there with her. Arthur was still getting plenty of coverage."

  Myron leaned back and spun his chair around. He checked out the Broadway posters behind his desk again. Yep, they definitely had to go. "You said there were a lot of stories on Elizabeth Bradford before that?"

  "Not stories," Esperanza corrected. "Mentions. Her name was almost always preceded by 'Hosting the event was' or 'Attendees included' or 'Pictured from right to left are.'"

  Myron nodded. "Were these in some kind of column or general articles or what?"

  "The Jersey Ledger used to have a social column. It was called 'Social Soirees.'"

  "Catchy." But Myron remembered the column vaguely from his childhood. His mother used to skim it, checking out the boldface names for a familiar one. Mom had even been listed once, referred to as "prominent local attorney Ellen Bolitar." That was how she wanted to be addressed for the next week. Myron would yell down, "Hey, Mom!" and she would reply, "That's Prominent Local Attorney Ellen Bolitar to you, Mr. Smarty Pants."

  "Who wrote the column?" Myron asked.

  Esperanza handed him a sheet of paper. There was a head shot of a pretty woman with an overstylized helmet of hair, a la Lady Bird Johnson. Her name was Deborah Whittaker.

  "Think we can get an address on her?"

  Esperanza nodded. "Shouldn't take long."

  They looked at each other for a long moment. Esperanza's deadline hung over them like a reaper's scythe.

  Myron said, "I can't imagine you not in my life."

  "Won't happen," Esperanza replied. "No matter what you decide, you'll still be my best friend."

  "Partnerships ruin friendships."

  "So you tell me."

  "So I know." He had avoided this conversation long enough. To use basketball vernacular, he had gone into four corners, but the twenty-four-second clock had run down. He could no longer delay the inevitable in the hope that the inevitable would somehow turn to smoke and vanish in the air. "My father and my uncle tried it. They ended up not talking to each other for four years."

  She nodded. "I know."

  "Even now their relationship is not what it was. It never will be. I know literally dozens of families and friends--good people, Esperanza--who tried partnerships like this. I don't know one case where it worked in the long run. Not one. Brother against brother. Daughter against father. Best friend against best friend. Money does funny things to people."

  Esperanza nodded again.

  "Our friendship could survive anything," Myron said, "but I'm not sure it can survive a partnership."

  Esperanza stood again. "I'll get you an address on Deborah Whittaker," she said. "It shouldn't take long."

  "Thanks."

  "And I'll give you three weeks for the transition. Will that be long enough?"

  Myron nodded, his throat dry. He wanted to say something more, but whatever came to mind was even more inane than what preceded it.

  The intercom buzzed. Esperanza left the room. Myron hit the button.

  "Yes?"

  Big Cyndi said, "The Seattle Times on line one."

  The Inglemoore Convalescent Home was painted bright yellow and cheerfully maintained and colorfully landscaped and still looked like a place you went to die.

  The inner lobby had a rainbow on one wall. The furniture was happy and functional. Nothing too plush. Didn't want the patrons having trouble getting out of chairs. A table in the room's center had a huge arrangement of freshly cut roses. The roses were bright red and strikingly beautiful and would die in a day or two.

  Myron took a deep breath. Settle, boy, settle.

  The place had a heavy cherry smell like one of those dangling tree-shaped car fresheners. A woman dressed in slacks and a blouse--what you'd call "nice casual"--greeted him. She was in her early thirties and smiled with the genuine warmth of a Stepford Wife.

  "I'm here to see Deborah Whittaker."

  "Of course," she said. "I think Deborah is in the rec room. I'm Gayle. I'll take you."

  Deborah. Gayle. Everyone was a first name. There was probably a Dr. Bob on the premises. They headed down a corridor lined with festive murals. The floors sparkled, but Myron could still make out fresh wheelchair streaks. Everyone on staff had the same fake smile. Part of the training, Myron supposed. All of them--orderlies, nurses, whatever--were dressed in civilian clothes. No one wore a stethoscope or beeper or name tag or anything that implied anything medical. All buddies here at Inglemoore.

  Gayle and Myron entered the rec room. Unused Ping-Pong tables. Unused pool tables. Unused card tables. Oft-used television.

  "Please sit down," Gayle said. "Becky and Deborah will be with you momentarily."

  "Becky?" Myron asked.

  Again the smile. "Becky is Deborah's friend."

  "I see."

  Myron was left alone with six old people, five of whom were women. No sexism in longevity. They were neatly attired, the sole man in a tie even, and all were in wheelchairs. Two of them had the shakes. Two were mumbling to themselves. They all had skin a color closer to washed-out gray than any flesh tone. One woman waved at Myron with a bony, blue-lined hand. Myron smiled and waved back.

  Several signs on the wall had the Inglemoore slogan: INGLEMOORE--NO DAY LIKE TODAY.

  Nice, Myron guessed, but he couldn't help but think up a more appropriate one: INGLEMOORE--BETTER THAN THE ALTERNATIVE.

  Hmm. He'd drop it in the suggestion box on the way out.

  "Mr. Bolitar?"

  Deborah Whittaker shuffled into the room. She still had Le Helmet de Hair from the newspaper portrait--black as shoe polish and shellacked on until it resembled fiberglass--but the overall effect was still like something out of Dorian Gray, as though she had aged a zillion years in one fell swoop. Her eyes had that soldier's thousand-yard stare. She had a bit of a shake in her face that reminded him of Katharine Hepburn. Parkinson's maybe, but he was no expert.

  Her "friend" Becky had been the one who called his name. Becky was maybe thirty years old. She too was dressed in civilian clothes rather than whites, and while nothing about her appearance suggested nursing, Myron still thought of Louise Fletcher in One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest.

  He stood.

  "I'm Becky," the nurse said.

  "Myron Bolitar."

  Becky shook his hand and offered him a patronizing smile. Probably couldn't help it. Probably couldn't smile genuinely until she was out of here for at least an hour. "Do you mind if I join you two?"

  Deborah Whittaker spoke for the first time. "Go away," she rasped. Her voice sounded like a worn tire on a gravel road.

  "Now, Deborah--"

  "Don't 'now Deborah' me. I got myself a handsome gentleman caller, and I'm not sharing him. So buzz off."

  Becky's patronizing smile turned a bit uncertain. "Deborah," she said in a tone that aimed for amiable but landed smack on, well, patronizing, "do you know where we are?"

  "Of course," Deborah snapped. "The Allies just bombed Munich. The Axis has surrendered. I'm a USO girl standing by the south pier in Manhattan. The oc
ean breeze hits my face. I wait for the sailors to arrive so I can lay a big, wet kiss on the first guy off the boat."

  Deborah Whittaker winked at Myron.

  Becky said, "Deborah, it's not 1945. It's--"

  "I know, dammit. For crying out loud, Becky, don't be so damn gullible." She sat down and leaned toward Myron. "Truth is, I go in and out. Sometimes I'm here. Sometimes I time travel. When my grandpa had it, they called it hardening of the arteries. When my mother had it, they called it senility. With me, it's Parkinson's and Alzheimer's." She looked at her nurse, her facial muscles still doing the quivers. "Please, Becky, while I'm still lucid, get the hell out of my face."

  Becky waited a second, holding the uncertain smile as best she could. Myron nodded at her, and she moved away.

  Deborah Whittaker leaned a little closer. "I love getting ornery with her," she whispered. "It's the only fringe benefit of old age." She put her hands on her lap and managed a shaky smile. "Now I know you just told me, but I forgot your name."

  "Myron."

  She looked puzzled. "No, that's not it. Andre maybe? You look like Andre. He used to do my hair."

  Becky kept a watchful eye on the corner. At the ready.

  Myron decided to dive right in. "Mrs. Whittaker, I wanted to ask you about Elizabeth Bradford."

  "Lizzy?" The eyes flared up and settled into a glisten. "Is she here?"

  "No, ma'am."

  "I thought she died."

  "She did."

  "Poor thing. She threw such wonderful parties. At Bradford Farm. They'd string lights across the porch. They'd have hundreds of people. Lizzy always had the best band, the best caterer. I had such fun at her parties. I used to dress up and ..." A flicker hit Deborah Whittaker's eyes, a realization perhaps that the parties and invitations would never come again, and she stopped speaking.

  "In your column," Myron said, "you used to write about Elizabeth Bradford."

  "Oh, of course." She waved a hand. "Lizzy made good copy. She was a social force. But--" She stopped again and looked off.

  "But what?"

  "Well, I haven't written about Lizzy in months. Strange really. Last week Constance Lawrence had a charity ball for the St. Sebastian's Children's Care, and Lizzy wasn't there again. And that used to be Lizzy's favorite event. She ran it the past four years, you know."

  Myron nodded, trying to keep up with the changing eras. "But Lizzy doesn't go to parties anymore, does she?"

  "No, she doesn't."

  "Why not?"

  Deborah Whittaker sort of half startled. She eyed him suspiciously. "What's your name again?"

  "Myron."

  "I know that. You just told me. I mean, your last name."

  "Bolitar."

  Another spark. "Ellen's boy?"

  "Yes, that's right."

  "Ellen Bolitar," she said with a spreading smile. "How's she doing?"

  "She's doing well."

  "Such a shrewd woman. Tell me, Myron. Is she still ripping apart opposing witnesses?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "So shrewd."

  "She loved your column," Myron said.

  Her face beamed. "Ellen Bolitar, the attorney, reads my column?"

  "Every week. It was the first thing she read."

  Deborah Whittaker settled back, shaking her head. "How do you like that? Ellen Bolitar reads my column." She smiled at Myron. Myron was getting confused by the verb tenses. Bouncing in time. He'd just have to try to stay with her. "We're having such a nice visit, aren't we, Myron?"

  "Yes, ma'am, we are."

  Her smile quivered and faded. "Nobody in here remembers my column," she said. "They're all very nice and sweet. They treat me well. But I'm just another old lady to them. You reach an age, and suddenly you become invisible. They only see this rotting shell. They don't realize that this mind inside used to be sharp, that this body used to go to the fanciest parties and dance with the handsomest men. They don't see that. I can't remember what I had for breakfast, but I remember those parties. Do you think that's strange?"

  Myron shook his head. "No, ma'am, I don't."

  "I remember Lizzy's final soiree like it was last night. She wore a black, strapless Halston with white pearls. She was tan and lovely. I wore a bright pink summer dress. A Lilly Pulitzer, as a matter of fact, and let me tell you, I was still turning heads."

  "What happened to Lizzy, Mrs. Whittaker? Why did she stop going to parties?"

  Deborah Whittaker stiffened suddenly. "I'm a social columnist," she said, "not a gossip."

  "I understand that. I'm not asking to be nosy. It may be important."

  "Lizzy is my friend."

  "Did you see her after that party?"

  Her eyes had the faraway look again. "I thought she drank too much. I even wondered if maybe she had a problem."

  "A drinking problem?"

  "I don't like to gossip. It's not my way. I write a social column. I don't believe in hurting people."

  "I appreciate that, Mrs. Whittaker."

  "But I was wrong anyway."

  "Wrong?"

  "Lizzy doesn't have a drinking problem. Oh, sure, she might have a social drink, but she's too proper a hostess to go beyond her limit."

  Again with the verb tenses. "Did you see her after that party?"

  "No," she said softly. "Never."

  "Did you talk to her on the phone maybe?"

  "I called her twice. After she missed the Woodmeres' party and then Constance's affair, well, I knew something had to be very wrong. But I never spoke to her. She was either out or couldn't come to the phone." She looked up at Myron. "Do you know where she is? Do you think she'll be all right?"

  Myron was not sure how to respond. Or in what tense. "Are you worried about her?"

  "Of course I am. It's as though Lizzy just vanished. I've asked all her close friends from the club, but none of them has seen her either." She frowned. "Not friends really. Friends don't gossip like that."

  "Gossip about what?"

  "About Lizzy."

  "What about her?"

  Her voice was a conspiratorial whisper. "I thought she was acting strange because she drank too much. But that wasn't it."

  Myron leaned in and matched her tone. "What was it then?"

  Deborah Whittaker gazed at Myron. The eyes were milky and cloudy, and Myron wondered what reality they were seeing. "A breakdown," she said at last. "The ladies at the club were whispering that Lizzy had a breakdown. That Arthur had sent her away. To an institution with padded walls."

  Myron felt his body go cold.

  "Gossip," Deborah Whittaker spit. "Ugly rumors."

  "You didn't believe it?"

  "Tell me something." Deborah Whittaker licked lips so dry they looked like they might flake off. She sat up a bit. "If Elizabeth Bradford had been locked away in an institution," she said, "how come she fell at her own home?"

  Myron nodded. Food for thought.

  He stayed for a while and talked with Deborah Whittaker about people and a time period he never knew. Becky finally called a halt to the visit. Myron promised that he would visit again. He said that he'd try to bring his mother. And he would. Deborah Whittaker shuffled off, and Myron wondered if she would still remember his visit by the time she got to her room. Then he wondered if it mattered.

  Myron headed back to his car and called Arthur Bradford's office. His "executive secretary" told him that the "next governor" would be in Belleville. Myron thanked her and hung up. He checked his watch and started on his way. If he didn't hit any traffic, he'd make it in time.

  When he hit the Garden State Parkway, Myron called his father's office. Eloise, Dad's longtime secretary, said the same thing she'd said every time he'd called for the past twenty-five years: "I'll patch you through immediately, Myron." It didn't matter if Dad was busy. It didn't matter if he was on the phone or if someone was in the office with him. Dad had left instructions long ago: When his son called, he was always to be disturbed.

  "No need," Myron said.
"Just tell him I'll be dropping by in a couple of hours."

  "Here? My God, Myron, you haven't been here in years."

  "Yeah, I know."

  "Is anything wrong?"

  "Nothing, Eloise. I just want to talk to him. Tell him it's nothing to worry about."

  "Oh, your father will be so pleased."

  Myron was not so sure.

  Arthur Bradford's tour bus had red and blue stripes and big white stars. "BRADFORD FOR GOVERNOR" was painted in a hip, slanted font with 3-D letters. The windows were tinted black so none of the great unwashed could look in on their leader. Quite the homespun touch.

  Arthur Bradford stood by the bus door, microphone in hand. Brother Chance was behind him, smiling in that the-camera-might-be-on-me, gee-isn't-the-candidate-brilliant mode of the political underling. On his right was Terence Edwards, Brenda's cousin. He too beamed with a smile about as natural as Joe Biden's hairline. Both of them were wearing those goofy political Styrofoam hats that looked like something a barbershop quartet might sport.

  The crowd was sparse and mostly old. Very old. They looked distracted, glancing about as if someone had enticed them here with the promise of free food. Other people slowed and meandered over to take a look, not unlike pedestrians who stumbled across a fender bender and were now hoping a fight would break out. Bradford's handlers blended into the crowd and passed out big signs and buttons and even those goofy Styrofoam hats, all with the same hip "BRADFORD FOR GOVERNOR" lettering. Every once in a while the interspersed handlers would break into applause, and the rest of the crowd would lazily follow suit. There was also a sprinkling of media and cable stations, local political correspondents who looked visibly pained by what they were doing, wondering what was worse: covering yet another canned political speech or losing a limb in a machinery mishap. Their expressions indicated a toss-up.

  Myron eased into the crowd and slid up toward the front.

  "What we need in New Jersey is a change," Arthur Bradford bellowed. "What we need in New Jersey is daring and brave leadership. What we need in New Jersey is a governor who will not cave in to special interests."

  Oh, boy.

  The handlers loved that line. They burst into applause like a porno starlet faking an orgasm (er, or so Myron imagined). The crowd was more tepid. The handlers started a chant: "Bradford...Bradford...Bradford." Original. Another voice came over the loudspeaker. "Once again, ladies and gentlemen, the next governor of New Jersey, Arthur Bradford! What we need in New Jersey!"

  Applause. Arthur waved at the common folk. Then he stepped down from his perch and actually touched a chosen few.