Last to Know: A Novel(24)
“I really don’t know,” Rose said, surprised. “I’ve never been asked that before, never thought about it either I suppose. It’s just a place the kids always swam to as soon as they were old enough. There’s a fair current under that still water, as you no doubt found out, Detective.”
Harry was very aware of Rose standing close to him, aware of the faint smell of clean linen, of just-washed hair, of a “good life” that hung around her. He had never met a woman like Rose Osborne. She had not come on to him, she had not in any way set out to attract him, yet he found himself attracted. He reminded himself that she was the busy wife of a famous writer; that she was the mother of four children, one of whom drifted into the kitchen as they spoke. But Rose Osborne was a sexy woman. Harry wondered if she knew it.
Diz stood in the kitchen doorway, hands stuffed into shorts pockets, T-shirt on backwards, feet bare—those were his sneakers on the kitchen table. There were several deep scratches on his legs and arms—gained, Harry guessed, from hurling himself out of the fig tree and into the water to try to rescue Bea.
Diz said, “What’s going on?”
“Hey, Diz.” Harry stepped forward, offering his hand. “I was thinking of applying for a medal for you, after that rescue attempt.”
“It was you that saved her.” Diz shook his hand reluctantly.
His was sticky with fig juice and Harry wanted to wipe his own on the back of his pants but restrained himself.
“Anyhow,” Rose said, fetching a piece of paper towel dipped in water for Harry. “Guess what. You’re to have a new sister for a week.”
Diz’s gingery eyelashes blinked in horror. “What? Another girl!”
Rose explained about Bea, and what was to become of her. “So we must all do what we can to help,” she added.
Diz eyed his mother carefully. Then he looked at Harry. He was thinking about the blond snake of a girl he’d watched from a distance. “Are you two sure you know what you’re doing?” was all he asked.
Later, when she thought about it, and talked to Wally about it and her other children chorused their disapproval and reluctant acceptance, Rose was not sure that she did.
17
How sweet that Rose Osborne is. I mean, how could you find anyone nicer, more willing to give of her time and energy and her sympathy, than plumply pretty Rose? Is the woman merely stupid? Willing to be used? After all, Bea Havnel is not her responsibility. And nor for that matter is she Harry Jordan’s. One is a housewife and mother; the other is a cop. And now they have taken on the job of straightening out a “disturbed” young woman when in fact neither of them need have bothered. Jordan could have simply passed her over to social services; Rose could have said no. But those are the ways life turns, on small seemingly simple decisions, almost always made impulsively. Would the Osborne family’s destiny be different had Rose not talked them into “caring for” the twenty-one-year-old orphan?
Meanwhile, I am keeping watch, getting closer to my goal, keeping to myself, in the background of real life. I don’t like that kid, though. He’s a nosy little f*cker and he’s far smarter than anyone but me thinks he is. It seems clear now that I will have to take care of him first, which is troubling because it’s bound to sharpen up public interest in the Osborne family.
I am asking myself that question as I remember the fire-ravaged house that was once home to the glitzy drug-addicted woman who had more money than she ought to have from a “business” which, though dangerous, provided her with that money, though first it was simply gained from three husbands who fell for her cheap line of flaunting and glitter, always laughing, always ready to drink anybody under the table, always the party girl, even at age fifty-two. Which is what Lacey Havnel was when she died. Right there, in that terrible house.
It was a cadaver dog that finally located her body, not exactly in the ruins, but just outside. As though, Detective Jordan was heard to say, she had been trying to escape the fire. Odd, that she was found outside, and with a broken knife blade in her eye.
How do I know that?
Of course, I know everything about that woman. I also know that daughter better than she knows herself. I know exactly what happened, and trust me, it’s not what Bea Havnel told those cops. Those detectives are being bamboozled, and I, for one, am enjoying watching events unfold.
Who, I wonder, in the end, will be the smarter. Detective Harry Jordan? Or me?
18
Mal wasn’t taking Harry’s defection lightly. There was a responsibility to loving someone. Being “in love” is a decisive act. You choose to be in love. His duty was to her as well as his work, yet somehow, same as always, his job had come first. Wounded from what she deemed as her rejection, Mal went immediately to the rue du Cherche-Midi, her favorite shopping street in all of Paris. She did not lead the kind of high-society life that needed avenue Montaigne couture which anyhow she could not have afforded, but much preferred the chic funkiness of the Left Bank boutiques. Especially the shoes. No need for a huge outlay when stores like L.K.Bennett sold the very same shoes the lovely young British duchess wore. Or was she a countess? Soon to become a princess and after that, queen. Anyhow, that Kate bought her shoes from the same shop on London’s King’s Road, and if they were good enough for a princess, they were good enough for Mal. Not to say that Maude Frizon didn’t have a nice little quirky sandal or two, and Sabia Rose made only the best and most expensive lingerie in Paris, and maybe the world. One pair of chiffon boy-shorts there and she had exhausted her budget.