Free Obsession by Jonathan Kellerman Page B

looks so hopeful,” said Tanya. “Please make yourself comfortable, I’ll get the coffee.”
    She returned bearing a black plastic tray silk-screened to look like lacquer. Five Oreos were stacked on a plate like a miniature silo. Between a pair of mugs bearing the U.’s insignia a ramekin held packets of nondairy creamer, sugar, and sweetener, wedged tightly, like tiny brochures.
    “Cream and sugar?”
    “Black’s fine,” I said.
    I sat in one of the chairs and she chose the sofa. “I don’t know anyone who drinks it black. My friends think coffee’s dessert.”
    “Semi-blended soy mocha-java frappes with extra chocolate?”
    She managed a tired smile, opened three sugars, dropped them into her cup. “Cookie?”
    “No, thanks.”
    “Mostly, I drink tea, but coffee’s good for long study nights.” She scooted toward the front edge of the sofa. “Sure you don’t want an Oreo?”
    “Positive.”
    “I guess I’ll have one. You hear a lot about prying them apart but lots of people like the sandwich effect and I’m one of them.” Talking fast. Nibbling fast.
    “So,” she said.
    “I drove by each of the addresses on your list. It’s quite a mix.”
    “The mansion as opposed to all those apartments?” she said. “Actually, we only lived in one room of the mansion. I remember thinking it was strange, such a gigantic house but we had less space than in the apartment. I used to worry about rolling off in the middle of the night on top of Mommy.”
    “Did that ever happen?”
    “No,” she said. “Sometimes she’d hold me. It felt safe.” She put the cookie down. “Sometimes she’d snore.”
    Her eyes got wet. “They let us use the pool when Mommy had spare time and the gardens were beautiful, lots of big trees. I’d find places to hide, pretend I was in a forest somewhere.”
    “Who owned the house?”
    “The Bedard family,” she said. “The only one living there was the grandfather—Colonel Bedard. The family came by once in a while, but they lived far away. They wanted Mommy there to take care of him at night, after the day nurse went home.”
    “An old man,” I said.
    “Ancient. All bent over, extremely thin. He had filmy eyes—probably blue originally but now they were milky gray. No hair on his head. There was a huge library in the house and that’s where he sat all day. I remember him smelling of paper. Not gross, just a little stale, the way old people get.”
    “Was he nice to you?”
    “He really didn’t say or do much, just sat in that library with a blanket over his lap and a book in his hand. His face was kind of stiff—he must’ve had a stroke—so when he tried to smile nothing much happened. At first I was scared of him but then Mommy told me he was nice.”
    “Did she move there to make more money?”
    “That’s what I assume. Like I said, Dr. Delaware, financial security was important to her. Even in her spare time.”
    “Reading financial books.”
    “Want to see?”
     
     
    A bedroom at the end of the hall had been converted to a no-nonsense office. U-build Swedish bookshelves and desk, black swivel chair, white file cabinets, desktop computer and printer.
    “I’ve been through her files, it’s all money stuff.” She pointed to shelves stacked with back issues of
Forbes, Barron’s, Money
. A collection of investment guides ranged from reasoned strategy to improbable hucksterism. The lowest shelf held a pile of thin, glossy magazines. The top issue featured a close-up head-shot of an actress who’d lost her husband to another actress.
    Tormented eyes. Perfect hair and makeup.
    “The fan rags,” said Tanya. “The hospital boxed them up with her personal effects. Getting them back was a complete hassle. Some form I hadn’t filled out. I could see the box, right there behind the counter, but the woman in charge was being a real beeyotch, said I had to go somewhere else to get the forms and they were closed. When I started crying, she got on the phone,