Body Copy - Michael Craven [31]
Classic-looking clothes and a gold necklace fashioned to look like a rope. Tighten it up and tie it into a knot and it could be a noose, a golden noose.
Introductions, and then she led him inside. Tremaine bent down and gave a proper hello to the two dogs.
“Portuguese water dogs,” Tremaine said. “I love these things.”
“That’s Clio and Addy.”
These were the names of advertising awards, Tremaine had learned. “After the awards,” Tremaine said.
“Yes. They were given to us by my son, Phillip.”
Phillip Cook. Tremaine had an appointment to talk to him.
“He named them,” Evelyn said. Then, “Shall we sit outside?”
Shall? Funny word, Tremaine thought. Who uses “shall”?
People who live in Bel Air? Moses?
Tremaine followed Evelyn Gale through the house. Beautifully done. Wood and white everywhere. Big windows and doors, sunken rooms, the place impeccably designed to feel cozy despite its size, and open and warm despite the obvious wealth that buttressed it. Tremaine looked at the pictures that sat on end tables and hung on walls. These told a slightly different story. A little more pride, a little less dignity. Lots of Roger still up. Some with the two of them, some with friends, some with celebrities. But only dignified 96
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A-listers. Movie stars with a political bent. Tremaine sure as hell didn’t see Evelyn and Roger standing with Lou Dia-mond Phillips or Webster or the bass player from Foghat.
There were even some photos with presidents. Tremaine looked at a picture with Roger and Evelyn Gale standing next to a smiling Bill Clinton. He wanted to ask if it was real, but his private-eye skills told him it was.
It occurred to Tremaine that Roger’s semi-celebrity status mattered to Evelyn. And he was the perfect kind of semi-celebrity. He wasn’t a matinee idol, he was a businessman with a creative side. People at the L.A. Country Club could respect him, not be thrown by the fact that others knew of him by name and sight. Because the people who did know who he was weren’t mall rats in Oklahoma. They were other smart business and advertising people. He was like a famous CEO. Like Jack Welch or Sam Walton. That kind of fame is what Evelyn liked, was proud of.
Outside, there was a garden and a sprawling lawn. Because the house was atop a hill, you could see down into the grounds of other Bel Air estates, estates that sat lower than Evelyn’s on the hill. There was a quiet up in these hills.
The other houses Tremaine could see almost looked like photographs. Still and small down below. Evelyn guided Tremaine to a table underneath an umbrella. A pitcher of iced tea waited for them.
She said, “This isn’t easy for me to talk about. I was close to putting it behind me. Not his death, obviously, but the constant thinking about who is responsible.”
She said it with that impatient edge, the one Tremaine had already heard on the phone.
“I understand. Thank you for talking to me,” he said.
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“My husband loved surfing. He’s smiling somewhere knowing that you’re on this case.”
She was paying him a compliment, but there was some condescension there, too. She couldn’t hide it, and even if she could, she couldn’t hide it from Tremaine.
Sitting there, under the umbrella, Tyler Wilkes’s comment rang in Tremaine’s head: Ask his wife, he used to cheat on her. . . . Tremaine took a sip of his tea, thinking, I bet this woman wouldn’t admit it if there was infidelity. No, she was too proud. That would be exposing a scar, a scar she didn’t make but someone else did. No control.
Tremaine said, “Jack Sawyer told me that there was no way anyone at Gale/Parker killed your husband. Do you agree?”
“Yes, I do. In fact, I don’t think anyone in the industry killed him.”
“Why?”
“Advertising is a serious business. These companies live and die by what accounts they have. But have you gone into any of these agencies?”
“A couple.”
“These people aren’t dangerous. The older people dress slick and the younger ones dress hip, but these are normal people with jobs. And aside from a few people