TURNS OUT TO BE FAR EASIER THAN I THOUGHT. Mom is gathering purse and keys when Dad and I enter the kitchen. She throws me an apologetic smile.
"I'm sorry, Anna. I promised one of the women from church I'd help organize a fund-raiser for the new parish hall. I'm meeting her in about ten minutes. You visit with Trish and Dad, and I'll try to get back as soon as I can."
Her attitude has softened, going from stiffly formal when she greeted me at the car, to being almost friendly. Is it for Trish's benefit? I don't care. I give her a quick hug and tell her if I'm not here when she gets back, I'll be in touch soon.
I spend a few minutes sipping coffee and visiting with Dad and Trish before excusing myself. Trish is smiling and relaxed when I leave, making plans with Dad to go to a bookstore to find books on France. It's the only mention of the upcoming move. I'm much happier with this image of my family than the one I left with last night.
I head downtown to see Gloria. I'll tell her about my meetings with Jason and my dad, and ask if she's heard anything about O'Sullivan and Benton Pharmaceuticals. I'm about to pull under the portico at the Four Seasons and let the valet park my car when a cop waves me off. The hotel entrance is clogged with police cars and rescue vehicles. Most likely some overweight tourist suffered a sun-and-booze-induced heart attack. Happens all the time. I make a U-turn and park on the street.
I dodge through the crowd that's gathered in the lobby and make my way to a house phone. I have to dial the operator to be connected with the penthouse. There's the briefest of hesitations before the smooth voice on the other end of the line tells me she'll put the call through.
Looks like Gloria did add me to the list of people she'd deign to talk to. Good thing.
The phone rings three times before it is picked up.
"Gloria. It's Anna. I need to speak to you."
"Ms. Strong," a male voice answers. "Come up."
I don't recognize the voice. One of Gloria's lawyers maybe? "Who is this?"
"Detective Harris," he replies. "I'll tell the patrolman downstairs to show you right up."
Detective Harris? Shit. What did Gloria do now? "Why are you with Gloria?" I ask. "She didn't try to leave town, did she?"
"Depends on what you mean," he says, his voice gruff. "Ms. Estrella tried to kill herself."
I don't wait to hear anything else but hang up and head directly for the penthouse elevators. Harris didn't say she committed suicide, he said she tried to. Explains all the commotion in the lobby.
Now Gloria killing herself is about as plausible as Gloria killing O'Sullivan because he dumped her. She's much too self-absorbed to do either, but I wouldn't put it past her to stage a fake suicide in an attempt to get sympathy. Especially from David. That does sound like her. Ignore the deal we made. Attempt to influence the jury pool. I can think of a dozen reasons she might think a suicide attempt was a good idea.
I'm gearing myself up to lash out at her for being such a fucking idiot when Detective Harris meets me at the door.
"Where is she?"
He jabs a thumb toward the bedroom. "In there. She's in pretty bad shape."
"Will she live?"
He looks surprised at my tone. "Looks like it. I thought you were her friend."
I push past him, insides curdling with anger. I start yelling even before I get to the door. "If you think I'm going to run to David and tell him how you-"
The words die in my throat, choked off by what I see when I stomp into the room. Gloria is on the floor, propped up against the footboard of the bed. Her hair is matted and her makeup is in streaks. She has on a nightgown that's torn at the shoulder. Scattered around her are pill bottles and a single, empty bottle of scotch. She's been vomiting; it pools around her and drips down her mouth and chin. She holds a wet rag in a limp hand. The paramedics have stopped doing whatever it was they'd been doing before I arrived. They're standing back, keeping an eye on her, but gathering together their equipment. She doesn't seem to know that I've come into the room.
I turn to the one closest to me. "What happened?"
He's sliding a stethoscope into a bag. "Looks like she overdosed. On everything and anything she could find in the medicine cabinet. All over-the-counter stuff. Weird, really."
"Why?"
"Because she had much stronger prescription medicine in her handbag." He holds out a bottle of Valium. "If she'd taken the contents of this, we'd be wheeling out a corpse."
I watch as they make final preparations to leave. The paramedic's words seem to confirm my suspicion that Gloria staged this. A stunt to gain attention and sympathy.
Except for one thing.
If Gloria was going to put on this kind of show, she'd have damn well staged it better. She'd be dressed to the nines, hair and makeup perfect. No way would a narcissistic woman like Gloria allow anyone to find her with vomit on her face and a torn, stained nightgown on that Barbie-doll body.
Detective Harris moves into the room to stand beside me.
"What happens now?" I ask.
"She'll be taken to the hospital, kept under guard."
"Will you revoke her bail?"
"Depends on what the court-appointed shrink says after he talks with her. If he feels she's not a danger to herself, he'll let her come home. Assuming she has someone to come home to."
He says the last in a way that suggests I'm supposed to be the one she comes home to. I don't intend to commit to that now, but at the same time, I don't want to see Gloria in jail. I have too many questions to ask her. I answer Harris by saying nothing at all.
He lets a minute go by before reaching into his jacket and pulling out a notebook. He flips over pages until he finds what he's looking for. "I'm going to have to notify the DA about this," he says.
I turn to look at him, understanding full well the implications of a murder suspect attempting suicide. "I know what you're thinking, Detective Harris. You don't know Gloria the way I do. This isn't her style."
Then he surprises me by saying, "I don't think so, either."
One of the paramedics hands Harris a plastic bag with the discarded pill bottles. Aspirin, cold remedies and some kind of decongestant. The guy was right. If Gloria was attempting suicide for real, those were weird choices considering she had Valium.
The ambulance attendants lift Gloria onto a stretcher. Harris moves out of the way, giving me no opportunity to ask about his last remark. Obviously, I'm not the only one who feels there's something off about this scenario. Of course, we may both be wrong and Gloria took stuff she thought would only make her sick, not dead. She may not have gauged just how "sick" that would be.
But right now, the attendants are securing Gloria to the stretcher, pulling a blanket up around her shoulders. They act as if they're ready to take her downstairs. I stop them with a hand on the cot.
"Aren't you going to clean her up?" I ask, hardly recognizing that it's my own voice making the suggestion.
They cast questioning glances at each other, then at me.
"You know who she is, don't you? She wouldn't want to be seen like this."
I can't believe I'm actually feeling sympathy for her. It's good that she doesn't realize it. Still, the two attendants aren't making any move to do anything. I take the wet cloth from her hand and wipe the mess off her mouth and chin, dab the makeup smears off her cheeks and do my best to smooth her hair. Her eyes follow my hands, but there's no spark of life, no animation.
"What's wrong with her?" I ask, alarmed at her lack of responsiveness. She should be grabbing at my hand or yelling.
One of the attendants shrugs. "Combination of the effects of the drugs and shock," he says. "She'll come around soon." He takes a card from a pocket. "We'll be taking her to County General. She'll be examined and held overnight for observation. You can check on her tomorrow morning."
I slip the card into a pocket of my jeans and watch as they wheel Gloria out. Harris follows, then one by one, the room empties until I'm the last person left.
I look around at the mess, pick up the phone and call housekeeping. Whatever they pay maids in this place, it isn't enough.
