Silent Partner

“At least you are. I haven’t gotten a damned thing but promises.”

She scrunched up her face. “You’d better come through for me, Dr. Delaware. Because one way or the other, I’m going to get a story.”

“When I learn something reportable, you’ll be the first person I call.”

“And one more thing,” she said, half out the door. “I’m no damned teenager. I’m twenty-one. As of yesterday.”

“Happy birthday,” I said. “And many more.”

***

After she drove off I called San Luis Obispo. Robin answered.

“Hi, it’s me,” I said. “Was that you a few minutes ago?”

“How’d you ever guess?”

“The person who picked up said there was an angry woman on the other line.”

“The person?”

“Some kid reporter who’s bugging me about an interview.”

“Kid as in twelve?”

“Kid as in twenty-one. Buckteeth, freckles, a lisp.”

“Why do I believe you?”

“Because I’m saintly. It’s great to hear from you. I wanted to call- each time I hang up I regret the way the conversation turned out. Think of all the right things to say, but it’s too late.”

“That’s the way I feel, too, Alex. Talking to you has been like walking a mine field. As if we’re lethal ingredients- can’t mix without exploding.”

“I know,” I said. “But I’ve got to believe it doesn’t have to be that way. It wasn’t always that way.”

She said nothing.

“Come on, Robin, it used to be good.”

“Of course it did- a lot was wonderful. But there were always problems. Maybe they were all mine- I kept it all inside. I’m sorry.”

“Blame is useless. I want to make it better, Robin. I’m willing to work at it.”

Silence.

Then she said, “I went into Daddy’s shop yesterday. Mom has it preserved just the way it was at the time he died. Not a tool out of place, like a museum. The Joseph Castagna Memorial. She’s that way- never lets go, never deals with anything. I locked myself in, just sat there for hours, smelling the varnish and the sawdust, thinking of him. Then of you. How similar the two of you are: well-meaning, warm, but dominant- so strong you take over. Alex, he would have liked you. There would have been conflict- two bulls scratching and snorting- but eventually the two of you would have been able to laugh together.”

She laughed herself, then cried.

“Sitting there, I realized that part of what attracted me to you was that similarity- how much you were like Daddy. Even physically: the curly hair, the blue eyes. When he was younger he was handsome, the same type of good looks as yours. Pretty profound insight, huh?”

“Sometimes it’s hard to see that kind of thing. God knows I’ve missed plenty of obvious things.”

“Guess so. But I can’t help feeling stupid. I mean, here I’ve been going on and on about independence and establishing my identity, resentful of you for being strong and dominating, and all along I’ve wanted to be taken care of, wanted to be daddied… God, I miss him so much, Alex, and I miss you, too, and it’s all meshing into one big hurt.”

“Come back home,” I said. “We can work it out.”

“I want to but I don’t. I’m afraid everything will go back to being just like it was before.”

“We’ll make it different.”

She didn’t answer.

A week ago I would have pushed. Now, with ghosts tugging at my heels, I said, “I want you back right now, but you’ve got to do what’s right for yourself. Take your time.”

“I really appreciate your saying that, Alex. I love you.”

“Love you too.”

I heard a creak, turned and saw Milo. He saluted and retreated hastily from the kitchen.

“Alex?” she said. “Are you still there?”

“Someone just walked in.”

“Little Miss Buckteeth?”

“Big Mr. Sturgis.”

“Give him my love. And tell him to keep you out of trouble.”

“Will do. Be well.”

“You too, Alex. I mean it. I’ll call soon. ’Bye.”

“’Bye.”

He was in the library, thumbing through my psych books, pretending to be interested.

“Hello, Sergeant.”

“Major league oops,” he said. “Sorry, but the goddamned door was open. How-many-times- have-I-told-you-about-that.”

He resembled an old sheepdog that had wet the rug. Suddenly all I wanted to do was alleviate his embarrassment.

“No secret,” I said. “Temporary separation. She’s up in San Luis Obispo. We’ll work it out. Anyway, you probably figured it out, right?”

“I had my suspicions. You’ve been looking stepped-on. And you haven’t been talking about her the way you usually do.”

“Thus spake the detective.” I walked over to my desk, began straightening papers without purpose.

He said, “Hope you guys work it out. The two of you were good.”

“Try to avoid the past tense,” I said sharply.

“Oops again. Mea culpa. Mia Farrow.” He beat his breast but looked genuinely abashed.

I went up to him and patted his back. “Forget it, big guy. Let’s talk about something more pleasant. Like murder. I went digging today, came up with some interesting stuff.”

“Dr. Snoop?” he said, adopting the same protective tone I’d used on Maura.

“The library, Milo. Not exactly combat duty.”

“With you, anything’s possible. Anyway, you tell me yours, I’ll tell you mine. But not on a dry mouth.”

We went back into the kitchen, popped a couple of beers, and opened a package of sesame breadsticks. I told him about Sharon’s fantasy childhood- the East Coast society background that resembled Kruse’s, the orphanhood that echoed Leland Belding’s.

“It’s as if she’s collecting fragments of other people’s histories in order to build one of her own, Milo.”

“Okay,” he said. “Other than her being a stone liar, what does that mean?”

“Probably a serious identity problem. Wish fulfillment- maybe her own childhood was filled with abuse or abandonment. Being a twin played a part in it too. And the Belding connection is more than coincidence.”

I told him about the War Board parties. “Secluded Hollywood Hills houses, Milo. The one on Jalmia fits that bill. Her mother works the party pad circuit. Thirty-five years later, Sharon’s living in a pad.”

“So what are you saying? Old Basket Case was her daddy?”

“It would sure explain the high-level cover-up, but who knows? The way she twisted the truth