Obsession

“She’s gotten really good at understanding herself,” I said.

“I’m sure she does but you’re clearly guiding her. Thank you so much, Doctor. It’s good to know you’re around.”

“Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Nope, can’t think of any.”

“The move’s been smooth?”

“Everything’s just fine. Thank you, Doctor. Bye.”

CHAPTER 12

I put the chart aside, wondered about a link between Tanya’s childhood symptoms and the “terrible thing” that had occupied Patty’s final hours.

Or was Milo right and it all boiled down to a final burst of obsessive thinking in a woman whose entire life had been about order, facing the ultimate disorder?

Tanya’s initial visit had been shortly after the move to the Bedard mansion. Well before the colonel’s death but maybe she’d picked up on Patty’s tension about caring for the old man.

Killed him.

Milo had snatched the mercy-killing hypothesis out of the air, but his instincts were good. Had Patty, a decent person, struggled with the aftermath of an impulsive, crushingly permanent act?

How did I know Patty was decent?

Because everyone said so.

Because I wanted to believe it.

“Constricted thinking,” I said out loud.

Blanche looked up, batted her lashes. Sank back down and resumed some sort of pleasant canine dream.

I tossed it around some more, realized Tanya’s symptoms had started two years before Patty brought her to me. Still living on Cherokee.

The second episode was after the move from Fourth Street to Culver City. So maybe Tanya’s tension had been about transition, had no connection at all to anything criminal.

Blanche looked up again.

“You need to get out more, Blondie. Let’s take a ride.”

Hudson Avenue on Saturday was gloriously imposing, profoundly still.

The mansion’s slate roof was silvered by afternoon light. The lawn was green marzipan; the half-timbers decorating the facade, fresh bars of chocolate. But for a sprinkle of lemons littering the stone landing, everything was spotless.

The vintage Bentley and Mercedes were just where they’d been yesterday.

The cars-the entire neighborhood-screamed old money but there was no reason to think Colonel Bedard’s family had held on to the place. I scooped Blanche into my arms and walked to the double doors. The bell chimed Debussy or something like it. Rapid footsteps were followed by a click behind the peephole and one of the doors opened on the maid I’d seen chasing the squirrel.

Late forties, built low to the ground, skin the color of strong tea, black hair plaited into glossy coils. Wary black eyes. The pink uniform was spotless, edged with white lace. Legs in seamed stockings bowed as if clamping a cello. Her hand tightened around a chamois cloth stained with tarnish.

Blanche purred and did her smiley thing. The maid’s expression softened and I produced my LAPD consultant badge.

It’s a plasticized clip-on, long expired, and pretty much useless, but it impressed her enough to stifle a cluck of disapproval.

Tanya had mentioned the name of the housekeeper who’d worked with Patty… Cecilia. This woman was old enough to have been around twelve years ago.

“Are you Cecilia?”

“No.”

“Are the owners home?”

“No.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Bedard?”

“No home.”

Blanche panted.

“But they do live here?”

“What kind dog?”

“French bulldog.”

“Spensive?”

“Worth it.”

She frowned.

I said, “Do you remember Colonel Bedard?”

No answer.

“The old man who-”

“I no work for him.”

“But you knew him.”

“Cecilia work for him.”

“You know Cecilia?”

No answer. I flicked the I.D.

“My sister,” she said.

“Where can I find your sister?”

Longer pause.

“She’s not in trouble, just to ask a few questions.”

“Zacapa.”

“Where’s that?”

“Guatemala.”

Blanche purred some more.

“Nie dog,” said the woman. “Lie a mownkey.”

As she stepped back to close the door, a male voice said, “Who’s there, America?”

Before she could answer, a young man swung the second door wide, exposing a limestone-and-marble entry big enough for skating. Wall niches housed busts of long-dead men. The rear wall was ruled by a portrait of a white-wigged George Washington look-alike. To the right of the painting, a walk-through was brightened by glass doors that showcased expansive gardens.

“Hey,” said the young man. Medium height, midtwenties, frizzy dark hair, uncertain brown eyes. Indoor complexion, the haunted good looks of a teen idol softened by residual baby fat. He slumped a bit. Wore a wrinkled blue shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, olive cargo pants, yellow running shoes with loose laces. Pen marks stippled his fingers. The Timex on his left wrist had seen plenty of action. Milo would’ve approved.

“Police,” said America, hazarding another touch of Blanche’s forehead.

The young man watched, amused. “Cool dog. Police? What about?”

“I’m not a police officer but I am working with the police on an investigation into a woman who worked here around ten years ago.”

“Working with how?”

I showed him the clip-on.

“Ph.D.? In what?”

“Psychology.”

“Excellent,” he said. “If all goes right, I’ll have one of those. Not psych, physics. Ten years ago? What, one of