Scott heard the door to the anteroom open. “Honey,” Kristin called out. “I’ll be there in a sec after I get some Cokes from the fridge.”
“ Take your time.” He turned to his mother. “Your story doesn’t make sense. If Mrs. Macklin catches her husband in flagrante delicto, no way she’s going to sit down and have a drink with him.”
“ She doesn’t.”
“ So what’s with his fingerprints on the glass?”
“ I assume she put Seconal in her whiskey, downed it, then dropped the glass. Her husband simply picked up the glass, perhaps to sniff it, or maybe he’s a neat freak.”
They could hear Kristin in the next room, the sound of ice cubes rattling out of a tray.
“ You’re saying she committed suicide,” Scott said.
“ Tried to. OD’ed into a semi-conscious state.”
“ So what’s she doing in the car with her husband?”
“ What’s down Santa Ynez Road? Three miles past the site of the accident.”
He considered the question. “The Cottage Hospital.”
“ Exactly. If I were defending the case, I’d say Dr. Macklin felt enormous guilt over causing his wife’s suicide attempt. He picked her up, carried her to his car, her blouse catching on that damn thorny bush. He’s driving to the hospital at 70 miles an hour when he lost control on a curve and plunged into the canal.”
“ So why didn’t he pull her out of the water?”
“ Because he only had time to rescue one person, and no matter how heavy his guilt, he was in love with someone else. Stated another way, his wife was second on his triage list.”
“ Wrong. There was no else in the car.”
“ You mean there was no one else there when paramedics arrived. Dr. Macklin didn’t call 9-1-1 until his paramour — a lovely term, is it not? — left the scene. There’s your seventeen minutes.”
“ So who’d he rescue? Who’s this paramour?”
“ How about a woman who hit her cheekbone on the dashboard when the car went into the water?”
He shook his head and his shoulders sagged. Of course, he knew. He just couldn’t accept it. Not that or the knowledge of his own cowardice. He’d never challenged Kristin, and he’d never confronted his own unethical conduct. He wanted to punish Macklin. Not for homicide, because the man wasn’t a killer. No, he wanted to punish Macklin for cuckolding him.
“ So what do I do now?” he said.
“ Scott, who are you talking to?” With a dancer’s graceful gait, Kristin waltzed into the conference room in black yoga pants and a florescent orange sleeveless sports top. She carried a tray of food and drinks.
“ Tell me!” he yelled.
“ Tell you what?” Kristin asked. “What are you upset about?”
“ Mom, what do I do?”
“ Oh Christ.” Kristin dropped the tray on the table, spilling a soda. “Not this again.”
“ Mom!”
He could still see Gayle Gardner Macklin, but her image was fading.
“ Mom, don’t leave me. Please!”
Trembling, Kristin said, “Scott, you know your mother drowned in that car.”
“ No! She’s here now.”
“ Honey, you spoke at her funeral and bawled your eyes out.”
Scott propped one hand on the conference table and struggled to his feet. He brushed past his wife without even seeing her.
“ The judge should never have allowed you to handle the case,” Kristin said. “I knew something weird would happen.”
His legs felt rubbery as he staggered out, leaving behind his trial bag, the pleadings, the exhibits. His wife.
“ Scott, where are you going?”
She sniffed the air. “Did you start smoking again?”
No answer. He was gone.
A moment later, Kristin dropped into a chair. She examined a coffee cup on the table. Inside, a half-smoked cigarette. The tip still glowing.
French. Just like her bitch mother-in-law used to smoke. Before she went straight to hell. A shudder went through Kristin, and she crushed the cigarette into the bottom of the cup. From the doorway, she heard a melodious voice.
“ Kristin, dear. You look just darling in your workout gear.”
She spun around in her chair.
Omigod.
“ Last time we met, you were au naturel and grunting like a sow in heat.”
Kristin steadied herself against the fear. Her words came in forced breaths. “What have you become? What do you want?”
“ At long last, I am my true self. And all I want is justice.”
Paralyzed, Kristin watched as Scott, wearing a woman’s grey wig, his cheeks rouged and lips glossed, raised a handgun and pointed it at her chest.
DEVELOPMENT HELL
Marvin Beazle slipped off his tinted shades, tugged at his ponytail and studied the emaciated writer sitting across from him. Skin the texture of paraffin. Stained trousers, moth-eaten frock coat, and a silk cravat dangling like an tattered curtain.
“ Love the Johnny Depp look,” Beazle said. “But why the long face?”
The writer stared back with rheumy eyes. “Like absinthe with its cork askew, I do not travel well.”
A scarecrow in a wool coat, Beazle thought. One of those writers who could use a tanning salon, a tailor, and some Zoloft. “Okay if I call you Eddie? Or do you prefer Al?”
“ I prefer Edgar. Or Mr. Poe.” The writer wheezed an unhealthy cough. “But if you insist, you may call me Eddie. I have never stood on ceremony.”
“ My man!” Beazle beamed, a tiger dreaming of tasting a lamb.
They were in the executive offices of Diablo Pictures on Sunset Boulevard, and Beazle had a rights deal to close. In his experience — and he’d been doing this forever — writers were worms. Drowning in doubt, strangling on self-loathing. A little money, a little flattery, and most scribblers would sell their souls along with their scripts.
Beazle vaulted from his ergonomically correct swivel chair and pointed toward the floor-to-ceiling window. “What do you see out there, Eddie?”
The writer squinted into the afternoon sun. “Houses on a precipitous hillside. A hideous white sign. ‘Hollywood.’ As if the inhabitants need assistance recalling their whereabouts.”
That snooty East Coast attitude, Beazle thought. Like Baltimore is the Garden of Eden. “It can all be yours, Eddie.”
“ All of what, sir?”
“ Okay, not my digs on Mulholland. But a big chunk of this burg is yours for the taking.”
Beazle peeled off his black silk Armani suitcoat and tossed it onto his leather sofa. He plopped back into his chair and swung his five-hundred dollar Matteo sneakers onto the desk. The sneakers — alligator hide dyed red and gold — made Beazle recognizable to everyone who counted, especially the maitre d’s of Prime, Maestro’s, and The Grill, where he ate his steaks bloody.
“ Gotta hand it to you, Eddie. You’re a helluva wordmeister.”
“ So you have read my story?”
