Marcia Talley - A Quiet Death

‘What would you like?’ I quickly added, trying to tempt him. ‘There’s an Indian restaurant down here. Menu looks good. Oh, damn, they don’t open until five thirty.’

‘I’d kill for a glass of wine,’ Nick said at last.

‘Gotcha. Red or white?’

‘White. I’m in 121, just past the elevators.’

Even though the restaurant wasn’t open, I put on my most wheedling smile and persuaded a waiter to stop rolling silverware up in linen napkins long enough to sell me two glasses of wine. Carrying the wine, a glass in each hand, I made my way carefully down the hall and knocked on the door of 121 with the toe of my shoe.

It took Nick a while to open up, and when he did, I saw why. A brace supported his left leg and he leaned heavily on a brass-handled cane. He wore jeans and a Grateful Dead T-shirt. A pair of square, frameless eyeglasses I’d never seen before sat crookedly on his nose.

‘Gosh, were you napping? Did I wake you up?’ I had to smile. Nick had a case of classic bedhead. I resisted the urge to lick my palm, reach out and smooth down the boy’s unruly cowlick.

Assisted by his cane, Nick hobbled over to a chair near a little round table and sat down heavily. I waited by the door, still holding the wine, sipping mine. Once he was settled, I handed him a glass and joined him at the table.

Although the room was more spacious than a normal motel room, presumably to allow for the passage of a wheelchair, it still seemed cramped. It was also one of the most patriotic motel rooms I’d ever seen, right out of a 1776 fantasy: pseudo-colonial white oak furniture, a red, white and blue striped quilted bedspread and matching blue, star-spangled curtains. I felt like saluting.

On the wall, over the king-sized bed, was a print of the United States Capitol building in winter, with skaters gliding over the ice on a pond that didn’t exist.

I could see now that the television was tuned to Lynx News. One of their big name neo-cons, even more conservative than John Chandler, if that was possible, was on a tear about illegal immigrants, yelling at some hapless woman on the other side of the split screen, ‘What don’t you understand about the word “illegal?”’

‘Bet she’s glad to be in LA and not actually sitting next to the jerk in Washington,’ I commented.

Nick dredged up a smile. He picked up the remote and switched off the commentator in mid-harangue.

‘You’re recovering amazingly well,’ I said when my eardrums had recovered. ‘Quite frankly, I’m surprised. But the young heal fast, they say.’

‘They do good work at Kernan. And I haven’t always been a cooperative patient.’

‘Who would be with metal rods screwed into their head?’ I sipped my wine. ‘So, how come you missed your physical therapy appointment today? You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.’

‘Goddam Hoffner. I can’t drive yet, as you probably noticed. Son of a bitch ran off and left me stranded.’

‘Why didn’t you have the hotel call you a cab or something?’

Nick waved the idea away. ‘By then, I was already late, so I said screw it. I called the hospital and let them know, so it’s no biggie.’

‘When’s Hoffner coming back?’ I asked.

Nick snorted. ‘Probably never. I think I fired him.’

Well, I thought, as I gazed into the pale gold depths of my wine glass, that was the best news I’d heard in a month of Sundays.

‘Was Hoffner the person driving you back and forth to therapy?’ I asked. ‘If he was, I’d guess firing him would be a problem.’

‘Trust me. It’s not a problem. I’ll be making other arrangements in the morning.’

‘Anything I can do to help?’

‘No, thanks, Hannah. The rest of me may be a mess, but my dialing finger isn’t broken. Yet.’

Nick studied me over the rim of his wine glass which was beaded with condensation. I watched his face carefully as I shared with him the next bit of news. ‘The DC police are looking for you.’

Nick sputtered, choked as he aspirated his wine. He pounded his chest with the flat of his hand, coughing, trying to clear his lungs. ‘What did you say?’

‘It has something to do with the investigation into the murder of Meredith Logan.’

Nick set his wine glass down on the table casually, too casually. ‘Who?’

‘Meredith Logan. The PA at Lynx News who went missing.’

Nick’s eyes narrowed. ‘What could I possibly know about that?

I waited him out, slowly sipping.

‘I don’t even know her,’ he added, twirling his wine glass, making wet circles on the table.

‘She was John Chandler’s production assistant.’

‘So?’ He was indifferent, or wanted me to think so.

‘Honestly, Nick, if I know you’re lying through your teeth, don’t you think the DC police will know it, too?’

While Nick gawped at me, I pressed on. ‘You told me you were doing research at the Library of Congress on the day of the crash. But guess what? You were caught on the security cameras in the lobby of Lynx News. The detectives showed me your picture.’

Nick screwed up his face, as if I’d just asked him to solve a particularly difficult equation. ‘I was only at Lynx News once, on the Friday before… well, before I met you.’

‘Why did you go there, Nick?’

Nick chortled. ‘Don’t play dumb with me, Hannah. You know very well why I paid a visit to Lynx News. I wanted to see John Chandler.’

‘Your father.’

And the truth came out, in one breathless burst. ‘Yes, my hotshot father who’s too famous to see anybody unless they make an appointment first! That woman, Meredith whatever, she came down to meet to me, but said I couldn’t talk to Chandler. She told me he was taping a show, but I didn’t believe her. Then she asked how she could help. I didn’t know how best to get the great man’s attention, so I gave her a photocopy of one of Zan’s letters to Mother.’

Nick had been leaning forward in his chair as he delivered his speech, but when it was done, he collapsed, melting into the upholstery.

‘What did Meredith say when you gave her the letter?’

‘She asked who Lilith was, so I told her. She kept me standing in the lobby while she stared at the letter, people coming and going, swerving around us, and I’m feeling like a fricking salesman or something. After a bit, she told me she’d see to it that Mr Chandler got the letter, took my contact information, said Mr Chandler would be in touch, blah blah blah. Of course, he never called. Big surprise.’

Nick blinked rapidly, and I thought he might be fighting back tears. ‘I swear to you, Hannah! That’s the first and only time I saw that woman. Until you told me just now, I didn’t even know she was dead!’

Actually, I could believe that. By the time Nick was out of the woods, the story had left the headlines.

‘Murdered? Jesus. That’s terrible!’ he said.

I finished my wine and set the glass down. ‘What will you tell the police when they show up?’

‘Just what I told you.’

‘And what if they say maybe you telephoned Meredith, asked her to come out and meet you on that day?’

Nick made a fist and pounded it lightly on the table. ‘No, no, no, no! That simply didn’t happen! I was totally at the Library of Congress. Somebody will remember seeing me there.’

He opened his mouth, took a breath and I thought he was winding up to tell me something else, but he slammed his lips shut instead.

‘At least we agree on one thing, you and I, Skip.’ I raised my empty glass. ‘John Chandler is your father, isn’t he?’

Nick simply nodded, not looking directly at me, but at the ridges and swirls on the textured wall, still absent-mindedly twirling his wine glass.