Mystery

I said, “Kind of ironic. You make all those movies, do all that serious riding and never get hurt. Only to get thrown by a twenty-year-old nag at a charity moonlight walk for the actors’ hospice.”

“No good deed,” she said. “So what? I’m fine now.”

“You tried to get fine by yourself, but when that didn’t work you had the smarts to check yourself into rehab. Awakenings, out in Pasadena, near the racetrack. You knew what you needed but going public was humiliating so you borrowed Connie’s identity and paid cash. Or maybe you just don’t like Connie, figured it was a way to stick it to her. Either way, the staff at Awakenings I.D.’d your picture. They remember you fondly. Only thing they didn’t like was your choice in new friends. Steven Muhrmann, your basic shiftless L.A. lowlife, pugnacious, no capacity for insight, and no motivation to change because he was there by court order. The staff was concerned he might corrupt you.”

I laughed. “Talk about a bad clinical guess, huh? Stevie couldn’t play in your league in every sense and from the moment you and he hooked up you called the shots. But he ended up as more than a boy-toy. When you confided your plans for Mark’s retirement, he said, ‘I know just the girl.’ ”

She sat there, inexpressive.

“And Stevie’s girl turned out to be perfect, Leona. Beautiful, pliable, not too bright. Exactly what Mark had always gone for. I was puzzled by your motivation. Why would a woman, even a tolerant woman, encourage her husband to troll the Internet for a mistress? And Mark had always been capable of finding his own bimbos. A fact you made sure to tell Lieutenant Sturgis and me minutes after we met you. We figured you as long-suffering. But that wasn’t it at all, Leona.”

No answer.

I said, “My first guess was logical but wrong—occupational hazard of being a shrink. I figured you assumed Mark would fool around anywhere, you might as well attempt some sort of control. Pure Hollywood: Everyone wants to direct. And maybe by getting involved, you could keep an eye on how much money he paid her.”

Her eyes had turned dead. A cheek muscle twitched.

“Who better to know which of Mark’s buttons to push? Hence Cohiba, adventure, et cetera, all those buzzwords. All the misspellings and grammatical errors to make the essay sound like a bimbo’s literary output. Because Mark always liked ’em dumb and you’d already read his essay—hell, Leona, I wouldn’t be surprised if you worked the keyboard while Mark sat there like the horny old cyberdummy he was. You let him think he’d discovered ‘Mystery.’ After you’d planted Stevie Muhrmann as a gopher at SukRose so he could embed the cues in Mystery’s profile. Elegant, Leona. But the more I thought about it, the more that seemed like going overboard just to play Hitchcock. Then there was the expense of setting Tiara up as Mark’s mistress. Even if you did ride herd on it. Even if Stevie took a big chunk and rebated some back to you. Why encourage Mark in the first place? There had to be more.”

She blinked.

“Want to hear my second guess, Leona? The one that panned out?”

She swiveled toward me. “I should do your work for you, you weaselly little scammer?”

I said, “Gustave Westfeldt.”

“Who?”

I repeated the name.

She threw back her head, laughed. Got back up. “Now I know you’re full of shit. Get the hell out of here.”

“Something funny about Gustave Westfeldt?”

“What’s funny is I never heard of him and you’re utterly full of shit. Out!”

“You do know him, Leona.”

“I don’t need you to tell me who I—”

“Actually you do,” I said. “And you’d better listen hard.”

Her mouth worked. Fingers clawed velour.

“You don’t know him by name, Leona, but you know him. I was a little better informed, had picked up on the Gustave part but had no idea about Westfeldt. Despite all those years of first-rate libations—”

“What the hell are you babbling about?”

“Gustave Westfeldt,” I repeated, as if summoning a deity. “Old guy, curly white hair and a tiny little mustache.” A beat. “Hunchbacked.”

Color drained from her face.

I said, “The bartender from the Fauborg Hotel. For thirty-three years, as it turns out. All those people who serve us, we never take the time to learn much about them. But I learned a lot about Gustave. He’s eighty-four, happy to be retired. And sharp, mentally. He never learned your name. Or Mark’s. Because you always took a booth, never sat at the bar. But he sure recalled your faces. And your drinks. Sapphire Martini for you, straight up, olives plus onions. Onions without olives would’ve made it a Gibson, but you wanted both. You drank an identical cocktail in Death Is My Shadow, guess it’s been your favorite for a while. I have to tell you, Gustave didn’t approve, said if someone wanted salad, they should order salad. He developed his own private name for it: Gibsini. He laughs when he says it. And that’s how he filed you away. The Lady Who Likes Gibsinis. Mark went for eighteen-year-old Macallan, which is a commonplace order, so Gustave filed him as The Man with the Lady Who Likes Gibsinis. Then there was a third party who started showing up with the two of you, a couple of years ago. Blond, lovely, young—so young Gustave first figured she was your and Mark’s granddaughter. He filed her as The Girl Who Likes Rum and Coke. With one exception. The last night of her life. That night she ordered a—you guessed it—a Gibsini.”

Her cheek twitched again. She turned to block it from view. Didn’t see me nudge the laptop.

“Here’s the thing about bartenders,” I said. “Even when they seem not to be paying attention, they often are. And they notice all kinds of things. What Gustave started to notice was that Little Miss Rum and Coke always sat between you and Mark and that the second time she joined you, when Mark thought no one was looking, he slipped his hand between her legs. Kept it there. And the strange thing was, Rum and Coke endured it as the conversation continued. Gustave, being an upright type of fellow, was immensely offended but he’d seen all kinds of things that offended him, had remained steadily employed by keeping his mouth shut. His tolerance was strained even further when at the end of that evening, Mark moved his hand and yours took its place. And that’s the way it tended to go when the three of you showed up on Sunday night at the Fauborg and retired to that nice corner booth. Mark’s hand, your hand, Mark’s hand, your hand. You were out of view from the other patrons but Gustave had a nice clear view. ‘Now I got it,’ he told me. ‘These are perverts, I wanted to spit in their drinks.’ ”

She gave a start.

I said, “Don’t worry, he didn’t, like I said, he’s a man of discretion. And he never told anyone. Until he told me. Because I really am a good psychologist and I know how to ask the right questions. And”—rubbing my thumb and forefinger together—“I know how to provide what we call positive reinforcement.”

She muttered something.

“What’s that, Leona?”

“You’re disgusting.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little harsh, Leona, coming from someone whose view of morality can be thought of as blurred? To be charitable.”

“So what?” she said, facing me. “She was an adult, got amply compensated, no one got hurt, it kept us whole and healthy and intimate with each other. So what?”

“If that was the end of it, we wouldn’t be talking, Leona. But she turned up dead and I watched your movies and learned that you knew your way around a gun. I’m not talking Actors Studio nonsense. Your relationship with firearms was real and intense and borderline erotic. I believe you could go upstairs and bring down that Glock and finish me off with one shot. But you won’t. Because you’re smart. Because you being a gun gal isn’t the important insight. That one I got from your costar.”

A hand rose to her lips, cupped around her chin, and squeezed hard enough to turn the surrounding skin rosy.