Y Is for Yesterday Page 7

  • • •

  When Sloan got home from school, her dog met her at the door, barking with joy as though he’d never expected to see her again. Butch was a Pyrenees Mountain dog, a hundred and forty pounds of loyalty, patience, and affection. He was two years old—white with a plumed tail and an overcoat of coarse hair that formed a ruffle at his neck. She gave his woolly head a kiss and rubbed his ears. As she hung her jacket on the hall tree, she glanced into the living room, where her mother was stretched out on the couch, a burning cigarette between her fingers. Sloan hated her mother’s smoking almost as much as she hated the faulty gait and slurred speech at the end of the day. This was late afternoon and Margaret was asleep, stoned to the gills. Sloan removed the cigarette stub, put it out in the ashtray, and then went upstairs to her room with Butch close behind.

  She changed into sweats, retrieved Butch’s leash from the mudroom downstairs, and took him out for a walk. This was his favorite time of day and hers as well. Paul had given her the dog for her fourteenth birthday, an oversize bundle of fluff with a big loving heart. At night, he slept in her room at the foot of the bed. By day, he settled in the downstairs hall and waited for her to get home from school. The May sun was lingering a little longer each day and Sloan felt her mood lift as the two followed the road. Half an hour later, when they arrived back at the house, Sloan was startled to see Bayard Montgomery sitting on the front porch in the white wicker rocking chair. He had a big Styrofoam cup in hand, a sixteen-ounce soft drink that he sipped through an oversize straw.

  Butch galloped to his side and greeted him with enthusiasm, panting happily while Bayard set his drink aside and gave his big noble head an affectionate shake. “How you doing, boy? Such a fine, great, big old dog!”

  Butch was clearly nuts about Bayard, his tail wagging and his mouth open in the equivalent of a doggie smile.

  Belatedly, Bayard looked up at her, saying, “Hey. How’s by you?”

  “I can’t believe this. You’re actually speaking to me?”

  Bayard studied her with mischief in his eyes. “I want to work for your dad again. He’s letting me run his bulldozer and his excavator, which is really cool. I thought it would be smart to butter you up.”

  “Are you kidding? I’m a social leper. Austin finds out you’ve talked to me, he’ll consign you to the flames.”

  “Oh my god!” he shrilled in a falsetto voice. He stuck the fingers of his right hand in his mouth, biting down in mock horror. The gesture was perpetual with him, offered in evidence of his irreverence. His hair was a shaggy mess, tufts sticking up in every direction. Like the finger-biting, his dark unkempt thatch was a signature look along with the devilish glint in his eyes. As was true with Poppy, Sloan had known him since kindergarten.

  She could remember him in those early days. Bayard had been withdrawn, a lost little boy who kept his distance from everyone. He was an only child and his parents were in the process of a rancorous divorce. At the age of five, he was torn between the two, victimized by their tug-of-war as they vied for his loyalty. Within a year, his mother had won the point, whisking him off to Santa Fe and a better life, said she. That plan lasted until Bayard reached the age of twelve and began to rebel. Whether it was his conscious intent or not, he so alienated his mother that she deposited him back in her ex-husband’s life, surrendering all claim. Tigg Montgomery had re-enrolled Bayard at Climp, where the six-year absence rendered him exotic, a rakish misfit who still kept himself apart from the tight circle of his old friends.

  Sloan sat down in the wicker settee, absurdly grateful to be in Bayard’s company. The dog settled at her feet. “Let’s not talk about Austin or school.”

  “What do you want to talk about?”

  “Anything. I heard your dad was sick.”

  Bayard made a dismissive gesture and his tone was mild. “He’s not long for this world. I’m sure my mother will be thrilled. She’s hated his guts for years. Of course, my old man’s a shit, so why wouldn’t she?”

  “I thought you got along with him.”

  “I’m crazy about the guy and assumed the feeling was mutual. Shows how fucked up I am.”

  “At least you know who he is, which leaves you better off than me. I’m a quote unquote bastard, which sounds ridiculous in this day and age.”

  “What’s the story?”

  “I have no idea. My mother refuses to tell me anything about my bio-dad.”

  “How come?”

  “It’s gotta be misguided loyalty or self-protectiveness. She lied to me the whole time I was growing up and when I finally found proof of it, she shut down entirely. Ask her now and she gets all teary and remote and then pours herself another drink.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t know who he is. Maybe there were a lot of guys who could have been your dear old dad.”

  “Not her. She’s not the promiscuous type. She’s careful with herself.”

  “She might have been different back then. A romantic at heart. The guy might have been her one true love.”

  “It doesn’t matter now. My stepfather turns out to be a great guy. Really he’s been incredible, especially in the face of her downhill slide.”

  “When did she start to drink?”

  “Who knows? He says she wasn’t drinking much when they met. A cocktail now and then, but she wasn’t perpetually shit-faced.”

  Bayard shrugged. “Parents stink, you know that? My dad’s a magician. He gives with one hand and takes away with the other. Poof! Now you see it, now you don’t. Next thing you know, you’re screwed.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He waved the question aside. “Not worth going into. Let’s just say now that he’s fading away, he wants to go back and make amends for stuff he pulled in the past.”

  “That’s not a bad thing, is it?”

  “He can do anything he wants as long as he doesn’t take it out of my hide.”

  “Why would his repentance have anything to do with you?”

  “It doesn’t, to hear him tell it. He and my mother have batted me around for years. It’s like being a hot potato tossed from hand to hand. I’m tired of being shortchanged.”

  “But you’ve been happy here, haven’t you?”

  He shot her a cocky smile. “Who knows from happy? You gotta look after yourself. That’s all I know. No one else will do it, that’s for sure.”

  He shook the ice in his cup, trying to determine how much of his drink was left. He took a long pull on the straw, draining half the contents. “You want some? Last chance.”

  “What is it?”

  “Bourbon and Coke.”

  She made a face. “No, thanks.”

  “Don’t blame you. Tastes disgusting, but it warms my heart, or what’s left of it at any rate.”

  “You shouldn’t drink.”

  “I shouldn’t do a lot of things, but here I am.” He set his cup at his feet, pulled his knees up, and rested his chin on his crossed arms. “Anyway, you’re the one who needs help.”

  “I’ll survive. I’m already feeling better now that Austin isn’t sucking the life out of me.”

  “Sorry turn of events, given you dated the guy. Aside from suffocating you, I bet he tried to get in your pants.”

  She laughed. “How’d you know?”

  Bayard’s tone was light. “He and I had a ‘thing.’”

  Sloan said, “What do you mean, ‘a thing’?”

  “What do you think I mean? Austin goes either way. He doesn’t care for the niceties. He likes the chase. He likes seduction. Then he gets bored.”

  “That’s why I wouldn’t sleep with him.”

  “Smart girl. He took up with you when he was done with me.”

  “I’m sorry, Bayard. I had no idea. That must have been hurtful.”

  “Hurting people is what he does. Are you wondering if I’m q
ueer?”

  “Don’t say that. It doesn’t matter to me.”

  “It mattered to my mother. That’s why she washed her hands of me and dumped me on Daddy’s doorstep.”

  “Shit. Does he know?”

  “Oh god, no. That’s all I’d need. My dad’s a homophobe. He’s rabid on the subject. If Austin lets that cat out of the bag, I’ll be out on the street. Let’s not even talk about Dad’s money. He’d make sure I never got a dime. Which Austin well knows.”

  “He’s threatened to tell your dad?”

  “Sure. He says, ‘One phone call, Bayard. One phone call is all it takes.’ Then he holds up his finger like this and he doesn’t have to say another word. You know what’s pathetic? I’m still hung up on him. Just look at Fritz. He’s got a crush on the guy as well.”

  “But if he outed you, wouldn’t he be implicating himself?”

  “No one would dare say a word. The guy’s bulletproof. Kids are scared to death of him.”

  “Hey, well, me too if you want to know the truth.”

  “Sloan, I’m telling you, you’re stronger than he is. He hates you because he can’t dominate you. But here’s the point. He could be bluffing. For all we know, he’s a toothless old blowhard. A dickless wonder, so to speak.”

  “Don’t look at me. I’m not going up against him.”

  “Have you told your parents what’s going on?”

  “I don’t have a choice. Someone scratched the word ‘snitch’ in the paint on Paul’s car. I’ll talk to him, but I don’t want to be labeled a tattletale as well as a fink. Same thing goes with school. If I tell Mr. Lucas or Mr. Dorfman, it’ll look like I expect them to step in. I might as well cut my own throat.”

  Bayard dropped his gaze. “I can give you a way out.”

  “How?”

  “Ask Austin about the tape.”

  “What tape?”

  Bayard picked up his cup and rattled the ice. “He and Fritz and Troy had a little wingding with Iris, who was drunk and stoned. They screwed her brains out and put it all on tape. She’s lolling on the pool table, dead to the world, while Fritz and Troy horse around, sticking a pool cue up her twat. Your pal Austin was there, of course. He didn’t participate, but it was his idea. Ever the voyeur.”

  “When was this?”

  “Last weekend.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Very.”

  “How did you hear about it?”

  “I didn’t hear about it. I was there. Who do you think did the camerawork?”

  “You didn’t intervene?”

  “I was behaving like a journalist, recording reality without imposing my will or my point of view. I captured the action for posterity. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Oh, please. You’re worse than they are.”

  “I’m despicable,” he said with an impish grin. “Anyway, she did it to herself. She’s a needy little girl who’d do anything for attention. Why do you think she stole the test? To curry favor with Poppy. Besides which she has the hots for Troy.”

  “She does not. Does she?”

  “Of course. She’s all over him.”

  “But he and Poppy are going steady. He gave her his class ring.”

  “There’s a lot Poppy doesn’t know about the guy. The thing about Iris is she flirts with any guy.”

  “Oh, Bayard.”

  “Oh, Bayard, my ass. Take my word for it. The tape is dynamite.”

  “What would I do with a sex tape? It sounds gross.”

  “You can use it to make Austin back off. Hard evidence, as it were,” he said. “Tell him you’ll turn it over to the police.”

  Her expression was skeptical. “You said he didn’t participate.”

  “He’s the one who set the stage, egging the others on, which makes him every bit as guilty, don’t you think?”

  “He won’t see it that way.”

  “Maybe not, but how can he take the risk? What if his parents find out? That’s the crux of it right there.”

  She shook her head. “Why fan the flames? I defy him and things will only get worse.”

  “Not so. You need leverage so you can put the squeeze on him. If you have the tape in hand, you can put an end to this.”

  “Where is it?”

  “McCabe’s house. He’s pondering additional ‘edits.’ Like it’s a major motion picture and he’s up for an award.”

  “Fritz won’t just hand it over to me. Why would he do that?”

  “Of course not. You’ll have to find a way to lift it without his knowing. Shouldn’t be hard to do. The kid is clueless.”

  “It doesn’t feel right. I can’t afford more trouble than I’m in.”

  “Wrong attitude. This is just the opposite. This is your ‘get out of jail free’ card.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “You know your problem? You really don’t understand what guys are about. You think you can be all nicey-nice and everything will be fine. Austin plays rough. You gotta hit him where it counts. He’s a gamesman.”

  “I don’t want to play games.”

  “Why not? He goes after you, you gotta knock him on his ass. Otherwise you’ll never gain his respect. Right now, he’s got you where he wants you.”

  “He can’t keep it up forever.”

  “Are you kidding? He’ll escalate. You think you’re miserable now. Wait until he ups the ante. Don’t you want to beat him at his own game?”

  “All I want is to have this bullshit over with.”

  “Exactly. Go to Fritz’s house and get the tape. If he figures it out, all the better. He can carry the tale to Austin. It’ll make Austin sweat, which would be good for him. Reveal any weakness and he’ll know he’s won.”

  “I feel weak.”

  “Then get a grip on yourself. You’re taking a one-down position, which is all in your head.”

  Sloan stared at him for a long time and then lowered her gaze. Bayard had a point. Maybe it was time to stop playing victim and take control of the situation. She got up, snapping her fingers at the dog. “I hope this works. If not, I’ll have you to blame.”

  “You surely will,” he said.

  She clipped the leash on Butch. The dog rose to his feet and trotted dutifully at her side. Bayard watched as she moved down the drive toward the road. Idly, he removed the lid from the cup and finished his drink.

  6

  Monday, September 18, 1989

  I found parking on the nearest side street, locked my car, and walked around the corner to State Street and down half a block. The vintage clothing store was called Yesterday and boasted a window full of garments from eras long past. Judging from the display, Victorian items were in high demand, along with clothing from the 1960s.

  When I entered, an old-fashioned bell trilled merrily. The interior smelled of incense, ancient dust, and an amalgam of faded perfumes. The floors were wooden and creaked as I crossed the room. The shelves were stocked with shoes, handbags, and hats. Two racks were filled with cloth coats, fur coats, and fur capes. There were also hanging displays of dresses, skirts, and tops, separated into decades and lined up in the obvious order, from the smaller sizes to the larger ones. In the glass cases that divided the store into aisles, I could see women’s dainties: corsets, camisoles, garter belts, hosiery, step-ins, and brassieres that spoke to the changes in women’s bodies over the years. There was a time when female amplitude was associated with prosperity. Then there was a period when being thin meant you were disciplined, drove yourself hard, and were careful about what you ate. Now being thin is proof you have enough money to pay for personal trainers, nutritionists, and tummy tucks within a week of giving birth.

  I took out a pen and a notebook, hoping to convey my fake professionalism. Iris Lehmann approached from the back of the store, looking much the s
ame as she had in the tape except upright and fully clothed. She wore a long-sleeved lace top faintly yellow with age and a long gray velvet skirt. Peeking from beneath the hem were black leather lace-up shoes with toes so pointed they looked like they would pinch. Her hair was shorter now, auburn highlighted with streaks of red, held in place with an array of combs and barrettes. Her ears were pierced by a series of small gold rings that lined the cartilage at quarter-inch intervals. Those looked painful as well and I wondered if her fashion sense was, in part, a self-inflicted penance.

  “May I help you?”

  “I’m hoping so. You’re Iris Lehmann?”

  She smiled, apparently anticipating something nice. Poor thing. “Yes.”

  “I’m Kinsey Millhone. I’m writing a follow-up story about Fritz McCabe’s release from the California Youth Authority. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  Her expression shifted from optimism to wariness. “I don’t have anything to say about Fritz McCabe.”

  “Oh, sorry. I was told you and Fritz and Troy Rademaker were friends in high school.”

  She hesitated and I watched her debating with herself. It must have been clear I had a few facts on my side, thus tempering any urge of hers to lie. “I knew them. I wouldn’t say we were friends. We went to Climp together my freshman year. That’s all it amounted to.”

  “I understand you were expelled for stealing a copy of a test.”

  She stared at me. “Why would you ask about that?”

  “I did some digging through the old files. I was hoping you could fill in a gap or two.”

  She squinted. “What’s your name again?”

  “Kinsey Millhone.”

  “And this is for the Santa Teresa Dispatch?”