Jonathan Kellerman - Obsession

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 those cold cases? Profiling?”

“Nothing glamorous. It’s a financial investigation.”

“Into someone who worked here-you mean Cecilia? Dad neglected to take out Social Security?”

America tensed up.

I said, “Not Cecilia, a woman named Patricia Bigelow. But if Cecilia remembers her it would be helpful.”

He looked at America. She said, “I tell him Cecilia in Guatemala.”

“I remember Patty,” he said. “The nurse who took care of my grandfather.” Extending a soft, ink-speckled hand. “Kyle Bedard. What’d she do?”

“She died but it’s not about murder. I can’t get into details.”

“Hush-hush confidential,” he said. “Sounds interesting. Want to come in?”

America said, “Meester Kyle, your father say-”

Kyle Bedard said, “Don’t worry, it’s cool.”

She walked away, wringing the chamois, as he let me in.

All that stone lowered the temperature ten degrees. I took a closer look at the colonial painting and Kyle Bedard chuckled. “My parents overpaid for it at Sotheby’s because some art consultant convinced them it was a family heirloom. My bet is some hack turned out dozens of them for Victorian social climbers.”

A walnut door to the left topped by a limestone pedicle opened on a book-lined room. The décor was Rich Man’s Library: enough leather binding to sacrifice a herd, gold-tasseled blue velvet drapes suspended from an etched brass rod that blocked out the day and spilled onto brass-inlaid parquet flooring, a massive blue-and-beige Sarouk covering most of the wood.

A carved partner’s desk bore bronze Tiffany desk pieces. A dragonfly lamp emitted brandy-colored light. Leather armchairs sagged where bottoms had lingered. A few strategically placed paintings of hunting scenes completed the image.

The room Tanya had described, the old man sitting in his wheelchair, reading, dozing.

But warring elements had intruded: acid-green beanbag in the center of the rug, piles of textbooks and notebooks and loose papers, three empty fried chicken buckets, take-out pizza box, bags of chips in various flavors and hues, soda cans, beer cans, crumpled napkins, a dandruff of crumbs.

A sleek silver laptop rested on the beanbag, flashing eerie light as the screensaver shifted: A bug-eyed Albert Einstein morphed to sullen Jim Morrison then to the Three Stooges engaged in some spirited eye-poking then back to Albie. A charging iPod suckled through a well-kinked electric cord.

Rich man’s library meets college dorm.

The room smelled like a dorm.

Kyle Bedard said, “I’m working on some calculations, the solitude’s helpful.”

“Who else lives here?”

“No one. Dad’s somewhere in Europe and Mom lives in Deer Valley and Los Gatos.”

“Ph.D. calculations?”

“An infinite array.”

“Where do you go to grad school?”

“The U. Did my undergrad at Princeton, thought of staying back east. Realized I’d had enough ice and sleet and people who thought they were British.”

“What area of physics are you working in?”

“Lasers as alternative energy sources. If my committee accepts my dissertation, my big wish is snagging a postdoc working with a genius doing cutting-edge research at Lawrence Livermore Lab. It would be cool to be part of something millennium-changing.”

“Getting close to finishing?”

“My data’s in and my writing should be finished by next year. But you’ve been through it, there are no guarantees. Show up for the orals, some committee member wants to screw you, you’re screwed. I should practice my ass-kissing skills but the work keeps distracting me.”

“That was my attitude,” I said. “It turned out fine.”

“Psych, huh? Clinical?”

I nodded.

“Thanks for that snippet of confidence-building therapy-here, sit?” Removing the laptop from the beanbag, he plopped down.

I positioned an armchair to face him, placed Blanche in my lap.

“That is one idiosyncratic dog-kind of a primate thing going on there,” he said. “What is she, some kind of miniature bulldog?”

“French bulldog.”

“Don’t you mean Freedom bulldog?”

I laughed. He smiled.

“So you remember Patty Bigelow.”

“I remember who she was. Grandfather was alive then and my parents were still together. We lived up in Atherton, didn’t come down to see him very often. I always liked coming here-to this room, the smell of the books. The room my parents would never think of entering, God forbid they’d learn something. So I was able to get some peace and quiet. He’s got some great stuff there, really rare editions.” Pointing to the shelves. “How’d Patty die?”