Potboiler

“It’s not out of charity,” Carlotta said. “It’s shameful what they charge. The flowers alone, you can’t imagine. And don’t get me started on the search company. But I didn’t bat an eye. I said find him, whatever it costs. Although in hindsight I have to wonder if they dragged things out on purpose, to soak me.”

“I hope they’d have more scruples than that.”

“You never know,” Carlotta said. “Money is money.”

They stood under the umbrella while the valets ran to fetch their cars.

“That’s yours,” Carlotta said.

Pfefferkorn looked at his tiny, bright blue rental car. “Point A to point B,” he said.

Carlotta’s car arrived, an oyster-colored Bentley with the gleam of the showroom floor. The perspiring valet got out to hold the door for her.

“It was good to see you,” Pfefferkorn said. “Circumstances notwithstanding.”

“Yes,” she said. She leaned in to kiss him goodbye but pulled back. “Arthur. Do you really have to go so soon? You can’t stay a little? I hate to see you off this way. Come by the house and have a drink first.” She clasped her hands to her face. “My God. You’ve never been.”

“Sure I have. I came for his fiftieth, remember?”

“Yes but that was forever ago. We’ve moved since then.”

Behind the invitation he sensed an accusation. He knew very well how long it had been. But whose fault was that? Then he remembered where he was and why he was there and he felt ashamed for clinging to grudges. Still, he hesitated, afraid to stir up more of his own ill will. He consulted his watch—unnecessarily, as he had already checked out of his motel, his flight didn’t leave for seven hours, and he had no pressing obligations other than to return the rental car. He told Carlotta he’d follow her, adding that she’d better not drive too fast.

13.

The de Vallées’ new home forced Pfefferkorn to revise his template for what a Beverly Hills mansion ought to be—a template established by their previous home. Set north of the boulevard, behind impenetrable hedges, through two sets of forbidding iron gates, at the end of a tortuous driveway snaking through jungly grounds, the house appeared as if from nowhere, following a final, sharp turn. Pfefferkorn marveled at the forethought and skill required to conceal a structure of such immensity until the very last moment. The house was in the Spanish Colonial style, a style whose humble materials and lack of pretense had, until that moment, led Pfefferkorn to think of it as intrinsically more heimish than, say, a supermodern cage of steel and glass, or the looming, pillared façades of neoclassicism. Now he reconsidered. The de Vallée house was born of earth and clay, but it soared, swelled, and bulged. Turrets and balconies abounded. It looked like the place to make a valiant last stand against an invading army. Reinforcing the feeling of besiegement were a host of security cameras, their lenses winking through the foliage. Pfefferkorn wondered if Bill had had a run-in with an obsessed fan. Or perhaps this was simply an example of thickening wealth demanding correspondingly thicker insulation.

Carlotta put the Bentley in the care of the butler and told Pfefferkorn to leave his keys.

“Jameson will handle it for you. Won’t you, Jameson?”

“Madame.”

“Careful you don’t scratch it,” she said. “It’s a rental.”

Pfefferkorn followed her through a mammoth carved wooden door, crossing the foyer and coming to an interior courtyard fragrant with citrus. A mosaicked fountain burbled. Cut flowers stood erect in vases. A chess set awaited players. Chairs awaited buttocks. Portraits smiled, landscapes sprawled, statuary thrust. Every object, living or inanimate, functional or decorative, appeared to Pfefferkorn peerless, including the compact white dog that sprung from its languor to greet them.

“Say hello, Botkin,” Carlotta said.

Pfefferkorn stooped to scratch the dog’s head. Its velvety coat and pleasant scent spoke of frequent grooming. Around its neck it wore a first-place ribbon. It rolled onto its back and Pfefferkorn rubbed its belly. It yipped happily.

Sensing that this was expected of him, Pfefferkorn asked for a tour. Room by room they went, the dog trotting along at Carlotta’s heels. In the basement they visited the indoor swimming pool where Bill did his daily hundred laps. In the theater Carlotta handed Pfefferkorn a remote control as heavy as a dictionary and showed him how to raise and lower the curtain. There was a ballroom where Carlotta danced four nights a week with a professional partner and a music room filled with all manner of instruments, though Pfefferkorn knew for a fact that neither de Vallée could carry a tune. Atop the harpsichord sat a photograph of Botkin, perched on a rostrum, accepting his ribbon.

The tour concluded on the third floor, in what Carlotta called the conservatory. A silver tea service had been laid out and crustless sandwiches prepared.

“You must be starving,” Carlotta said.

“I could eat,” Pfefferkorn said.

They sat.

“What is this?” he said. “Is this chicken salad?”

“Foie.”