"It,s not that bad," she said. "Well, just forget that part." She comforted him, as if he was the one who,d been wronged.
Reuben again waved away Celeste,s suggestion of legal counsel. Why did he need this? The attackers had beaten and stabbed him. Only the strangest sort of luck had saved his life.
He was almost right.
The fifth day after the killing, he was still in the hospital, his wounds almost healed, and the prophylactic antibiotics still making him wretchedly sick, when he was told that Marchent had willed the house to him.
She,d done this about an hour before she died, speaking with her San Francisco lawyers about it by phone, and faxing several signed documents to them, one of which had been witnessed by Felice, confirming her verbal instructions that the house should go to Reuben Golding, and that she would bear the full cost of gift taxes on the transfer, which would leave Reuben in possession free and clear. She,d arranged for twelve months, prepaid taxes and insurance.
She,d even made arrangements for her brothers to be paid the money they would have received in the event of a sale.
All the papers were found on her desk, along with a list she,d been making "for Reuben" of local vendors, service people, and suppliers.
Her last call had been to her man friend in Buenos Aires. She,d be coming home sooner than expected.
Seven and one-half minutes after that call, the local authorities had received the 911 alert: "Murder, murder."
Reuben was quietly stunned.
Grace sat down wearily after hearing the news. "Well, it,s a white elephant, isn,t it?" she asked. "How will you ever sell it?"
In a small voice Celeste had said, "I think it,s kind of romantic."
This did raise some questions with the authorities. And the Golding family law firm flew into action and response.
But no one really suspected Reuben of anything. Reuben was well off, and had never in his life received so much as a speeding ticket. His mother was internationally known and respected. And Reuben had almost died. The knife wound to his stomach had barely missed vital organs, his throat was badly bruised, and he,d sustained a concussion as well as the vicious animal bite that had almost opened his jugular vein.
Celeste assured him the D.A.,s office knew that no one could inflict that kind of harm on himself. Besides, they had motive for the brothers, and were able to find two confederates who confessed that they had heard about the scheme but thought the boys were just boasting.
Reuben had a solid reason for being on the property, an appointment set up with his editor, Billie, at the Observer, and there was no evidence anywhere on the premises that his contact with Marchent had been anything but consensual.
Hour after hour, he lay there in the hospital bed, going over all these different factors. Every time he tried to sleep, he found himself in a hellish tape loop, rushing down that staircase, trying to get to Marchent before her brothers did. Had she known that the men were her brothers? Had she seen through their disguise?
He woke up out of breath, every muscle aching from the strain of making that desperate run. And then all the pain in his face and gut would come back; he,d push the button for more Vicodin and fall again into half nightmare.
Then there were the voices and sounds that kept waking him. Someone crying in another room. A woman arguing furiously with her daughter. "Let me die, let me die, let me die." He woke, staring at the ceiling, hearing that woman.
He could have sworn there was some sort of problem with the vents in this hospital, that he was hearing someone on a lower floor fighting off an attacker. Cars passing. He could hear them too. Raised voices.
"Drug delusions," said his mother. "You,ve got to be patient with them." She was adjusting the IV for the fluids she insisted he needed. She stared down at him suddenly. "I want to run some more tests."
"What on earth for?"
"You may think me crazy, Baby Boy, but I could swear your eyes are a darker blue."
"Mother, please. Talk about drug delusions." He didn,t tell her that Celeste had said the same thing.
Maybe I,ve at last acquired a distinctive and tragic expression, he thought mockingly, a little gravitas.
She was staring at him as if she hadn,t heard him at all. "You know, Reuben, you really are a remarkably healthy boy."
And he was. Everyone said so.
His best friend Mort Keller, from Berkeley, stopped in twice, and Reuben knew how much this meant, since Keller was facing his oral examination for the Ph.D. in English. This was the program Reuben had abandoned. And he still felt the guilt.
"You look better than I,ve ever seen you," Mort said. He himself had bags under his eyes, and his clothes were wrinkled and even a bit dusty.
Other friends called - guys from school, guys from the paper. He didn,t really want to talk. But it was nice that they cared, and he did read the messages. The cousins from Hillsborough called, but he assured them they must not come in. Grace,s brother who worked in Rio de Janeiro sent a basket of brownies and cookies big enough to feed the entire ward. Phil,s sister, in a nursing home in Pasadena, was too sick to be told what was going on.
Personally, Celeste didn,t care at all about his sleeping with Marchent. She was militant with the investigating officers. "What are you saying, he raped her and then she went downstairs and made out a handwritten will leaving him a five-million-dollar piece of property? And then the woman gushed to a lawyer on the phone about all this for an hour? Come on, do I have to do the thinking for all of us here?"
Celeste told the press the same thing. He caught a glimpse of her on television, firing answers at the reporters, looking adorably ferocious in her little black suit and white ruffled blouse, her fluffy brown hair framing her small animated face.
Someday she,ll make legal history, he thought.
As soon as Reuben could keep some food down, Celeste brought him minestrone soup from North Beach. She was wearing the ruby bracelet he,d given her, and a bit of lipstick that was the same color as the ruby. She,d been dressing especially nicely for him all during this ordeal and he knew it.
"Look, I,m sorry," he said.
"You think I don,t understand? Romantic coast, romantic house, romantic older woman. Forget about it."
"Maybe you should be the journalist," he murmured.
"Ah, now there,s that Sunshine Boy smile. I was beginning to think I,d imagined it." She ran her fingers very gently over his neck. "You know, this is all healed. It,s like some kind of miracle."
"You think?" He wanted to kiss her, kiss her smooth cheek.