The Wentworths Read online

  25

  911

  Mom.”

  “How dare you, Norman. It’s eleven o’clock at night. What are you thinking of, calling so late?”

  “Mommy?”

  “Oh. Oh no. Dear God, no. You’ve been arrested again, haven’t you? August wake up. Norman’s in jail.”

  “No. Mom. Mommy. I’m not in jail. I’m . . . I . . . I need . . .”

  “You’re drunk. You have no right to awaken me in the middle of the night . . .”

  “NO. It’s. . . . You need . . .”

  “On drugs then. You know how I feel about drugs. August, take this phone. I can’t deal with your drug addict son.”

  “Norman, what’s wrong?”

  “Dad. She shot him and his head is in a million little pieces like Humpty Dumpty only with blood and brains and little bits of scalp with hairs. She ran out and I can’t make my legs work so I’m still behind the door where I was hiding. I should have stopped it.”

  “Who was shot?”

  “I couldn’t stop her. Or maybe I could have, but she’s gone.”

  “Stop babbling and explain yourself.”

  “Angela Simms. She killed Conrad and now she’s gone. And Conrad can’t fix it like he always does ‘cause he’s dead so I think you’re going to have to come over here and fix it yourself ‘cause I seem to be broken.”

  26

  Aftermath

  The fire was burning in the living room although Judith didn’t remember asking anyone to light it. It was three o’clock in the morning. There were sandwiches laid out on the table, tuna and egg with the crusts removed, and coffee. Was Rosa responsible? Judith didn’t know. What did it matter? August was lying on the couch with his hand over his eyes. Surely he couldn’t be sleeping although it certainly did look like sleep. Becky was balled up in a chair sobbing while Paul patted her on the back and whispered reassurance. The sound was annoying and Judith would have preferred it if they had stayed home. She just wanted quiet. There was nothing to be done here and Judith didn’t particularly feel like taking care of anyone else. At what point do adult children stop being the parent’s obligation? Must one care for one’s offspring until the day that one dies? What a tremendously depressing thought. Conrad had been the only one of her children who had fully matured. The ideal son. Considerate, loving, kind. HE took care of HER. Now she was left with a bunch of needy, dependent people. There was no justice in this world, a world in which Conrad Wentworth would be taken and Norman Wentworth left behind. Yes, it was a terrible thing to think. But it was true!

  Judith did not shed a tear. There was no room for weakness. She had gone with August over to Conrad’s house and met the police. The paramedics had Norman out front on a stretcher by the time they arrived and the house was a crime scene, no one allowed inside. The body, Conrad’s body had been taken away. Where did it go? Judith couldn’t remember what the man said.

  Norman was a blubbering mess. He’d wet himself and seemed incapable of completing a sentence. Judith had ridden in the ambulance with him to the hospital. She knew she should have offered him some sort of comfort, held his hand, smoothed his forehead, but somehow she couldn’t. They’d ridden in silence, Norman dozing from the sedative. August signed the commitment papers. Judith couldn’t think about what came next.

  27

  Breaking News

  The Beverly Hills Bugle

  —-Breaking News—-Thursday,

  March 14

  Beverly Hills, California

  Crime of Passion Leads to Life of Vice:

  PROMINENT ATTORNEY BRUTALLY SLAIN IN BEVERLY HILLS MANSE: Evidence at the Scene Points to Victim Conrad Wentworth’s Possible Sex Crimes

  By: Jamie Thompson

  The body of prominent Los Angeles attorney Conrad Wentworth was discovered Tuesday night in his home in Beverly Hills. Sources within the Beverly Hills Police Department confirm that he had been shot once in the face at point blank range.

  Police were summoned to the scene at 10:45 pm Tuesday by a frantic 911 call from the victim’s younger brother, Norman Wentworth, who was apparently a witness to the crime. The body of Conrad Wentworth was discovered in the master bedroom of his luxurious Beverly Hills mansion. Police do not consider the younger Mr. Wentworth a suspect at this time.

  Norman Wentworth reportedly claimed his brother was shot at approximately 10:00 p.m. Tuesday night after an altercation with a jealous ex-girlfriend. An APB for an Angela Simms was put out by the BHPD at 11:00 p.m. but the suspect remains at large.

  Police department sources will neither confirm nor deny the apparent discovery of a large collection of bondage sex paraphernalia and illegal drugs found at the scene as well as an extensive personal video collection that links the victim to sex crimes involving minors. A full investigation is underway.

  Steven Monclair, an attorney for the Wentworth family, said that they had no comment except to deny any wrongdoing on the part of the victim.

  Conrad Wentworth is the son of August and Judith Wentworth and the grandson of prominent Southern California real estate developer Edward Wentworth. He is survived by his parents, and his siblings Norman Wentworth and Rebecca Wentworth-Jones, his niece Monica Wentworth-Jones and nephew Joseph Wentworth-Jones. Mr. Wentworth was never married and has no children.

  The Wentworth family is responsible for developing Eastwood, the town of Many Oaks, and a large section of the Seminal Valley. They are considered one of the foremost philanthropic families in this city.

  28

  Lay it to Rest

  Becky didn’t want to wear black to her brother’s funeral. Navy, gray, those were appropriate colors, weren’t they? And what was wrong with yellow, exactly? Or pink? Purple and orange? She sat on the floor in her closet looking up at all the choices. Becky had a lot of dresses.

  “Sweetheart,” Paul said. “What are you doing on the floor?”

  “Black is ugly,” Becky said. “Never gonna wear black again. Get rid of all these dresses.” She pointed up at the left side of the rack. “See Paul?” She turned her head and looked up at her husband. “Black, black, BLACK. Trash.”

  Paul tried to pick her up by the armpits. Becky went limp. She didn’t want to stand. She was happy right where she sat, in her cozy closet. Becky tipped over and spilled out of his arms onto the floor then curled into a ball.

  “Becky,” Paul said. “We have to leave for your parents’ soon.” He got down on his knees and tried to prod her into a sitting position. “The funeral. You’ve got to get up.”

  “Kinda like spaghetti, huh?” Becky said.

  “What?”

  “Me.” Becky giggled but she did not sit up. “Slippery spaghetti.”

  “How many pills did you take, sweetheart?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Becky giggled again. She was feeling so relaxed and just a tad bit sleepy. This would be a perfect place for a little nap. A naplet. Nappy pie. Night-night, pajama face. Shhhhh Mommy’s sleeping.

  Paul walked into the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. There were a couple of prescriptions on the shelf, mostly stuff for his postnasal drip. One bottle of sleeping pills for Becky, practically empty. Paul grabbed the sleeping pills and emptied them into the toilet then began his search in earnest. She’d been doing so well. He thought her drug problems were behind them. But now, faced with a real problem she slipped right back into her old ways. What kind of model was she to the kids? It made him mad. Enough was enough. He checked under the sink but found only towels. He checked in the drawers. Where would Becky hide her drugs? Paul spun around and went back to the toilet. Of course. The Tampax box. Paul had always been somewhat squeamish about the woman’s monthly cycle, even the thought of blood made him vaguely nauseous, and so feminine hygiene products were something that he made a point to steer clear of. But now he opened the box and there they were: Zanax, Valium, Adavant, Clonipin. Four different doctors, one of them Dr. Rosenblatt. He emptied all the bottles into the toilet
and flushed. This was the end. If she had to check into one of those centers, so be it. He would not allow his wife to continue down this path.

  Paul switched on the espresso machine in the kitchen and ground the beans. He didn’t really believe that caffeine was going to sober her up, but what other choices were there? They had to be at the parents’ house in an hour.

  Paul carried the espresso back into Becky’s closet. She was still curled into a ball on the floor, sleeping. He looked at her. There was a wet spot on her arm where she had drooled.

  “Becky,” he said. “Wake up.” He kneeled, careful not to spill the coffee, and gently shook her shoulder. “Sweetheart, I’ve brought you an espresso.”

  Becky jerked up like some witchy-possessed jack-in-the-box and swatted the cup out of Paul’s hand. “I don’t want any fucking coffee, pighead.”

  Paul snapped. There was a ringing in his ears and a strange, but not unpleasant, metallic taste in his mouth. He drew his hand back and slapped his wife across the face. It wasn’t full force, he could have hit her harder, but it was enough that she fell back, stunned. Paul’s hand tingled from the impact.

  “Get up,” he said.

  Becky just lay there looking at him. Paul expected her to fight back, he was ready for her omnipresent rage, her screaming and yelling, perhaps a physical assault. Bring it on. But Becky did not seem the least bit angry. She laid there, on the floor, hand to her cheek, and stared at Paul with, what? Astonishment?

  “I said, get up.” Paul turned and selected a dress, black Jil Saunders, sleeveless with a belt. It was one of Paul’s favorites and perfect for the occasion. “You’ll wear this and you will behave yourself.”

  Becky stood. She accepted the dress. “Okay.”

  “You will take a shower. Cold shower.” Paul took her arm and led her into the bathroom. “You will pull your hair into a neat ponytail, there’s not time for you to style it.”

  Becky nodded as Paul turned on the water. He added a little hot. He wasn’t a cruel man. Then he took off his clothes and pulled off Becky’s bathrobe.

  “You will be respectful to everyone.” Paul guided Becky into the barely warm shower. “No more scenes. Understand?”

  Becky nodded. She dutifully stood under the spray and allowed him to wash her back and shoulders. He forced her to stand under that chilly spray for a good three minutes then turned off the water and helped her out.

  “It’s hard on everyone, Becky.” Paul patted her dry with a big fluffy white towel. “Not just you.”

  “Okay.” Becky stood still, waiting for her husband to continue.

  “You will behave yourself.” Paul handed her the black dress. “We’re doing things my way from here on out.”

  29

  Dearly Beloved

  Judith didn’t know how to handle the Goldman family. One couldn’t exactly write a note of condolence lamenting the fact that one’s son had taken terrible advantage of their teenaged daughter. She was sorry, desperately sorry, the whole thing made her sick, but did the family really want to hear from her? Luckily Judith had never met the Goldmans, even though the father was a partner at Conrad’s firm, and so maybe she didn’t have to address the issue at all.

  It was hard to reconcile the boy she had raised with the man she read about in the papers. When Judith closed her eyes she still saw Conrad as a beautiful adolescent running up the beach with his surfboard, smiling and waving. He’d been such a good boy, hadn’t he? Such a loving son. She couldn’t think of him that way now. She couldn’t think of Conrad at all or she wouldn’t survive this. She had to block him out completely. One day she’d deal with this. One day when she was stronger.

  Judith received endless calls of sympathy from friends. They all started out saying how sorry they were for the terrible loss and then wheeled around to the scandal. Everyone wanted to hear what Judith had to say. What was there to say? The terrible details of Conrad’s very sick personal life were in every paper on both coasts. She could tell her friends that the man they described was not the son she knew. She could imply that the press had exaggerated. But the Goldman girl had come forward and admitted everything to the court-ordered psychologist. August made arrangements to pay for her long-term therapy. Judith couldn’t exactly deny that these things had happened. There had been no exaggeration. Conrad Wentworth, her son, had been a monster.

  In some ways the scandal was a help. It didn’t allow Judith to feel. It acted as a barrier between herself and the pain. Conrad was gone and the rest of the family was left behind to deal with his mess. It was Judith who would have to somehow restore dignity to the Wentworth name. How she was going to accomplish this was anyone’s guess. It would take time, but that was the job she had to focus on now. Maybe someday in the far off future, when the world had moved on and forgotten, maybe then she would have time for her grief. For now she had to finish getting dressed.

  August sat on the bed in his under shorts and socks. He knew he had to get dressed, knew that the family would arrive any minute, but he couldn’t seem to get himself to stand up and walk to his closet. What suit was he supposed to wear to his eldest son’s funeral? What shoes? Those decisions seemed far too difficult, decisions that he shouldn’t have to make in this lifetime, and so August sat there. Waiting.

  Judith walked in and looked at him. She came and sat next to him on the bed, took his hand in hers and squeezed. Then she leaned over and hugged him. He took her in his arms and held her. Maybe they could just stay there, sitting on the bed, holding each other. Maybe that’s all they had to do. Just sit together and rock, back and forth.

  Judith kissed his cheek then stood and left the room. He felt a chill, missed the heat from her body. She returned a minute later with his suit, shirt and shoes. He stood and she helped him get dressed.

  Paul led his family through the front door and into the living room. Judith was still upstairs getting ready, August was sitting on the couch drinking a glass of soda water with lime. He smiled at Paul but didn’t stand, nor did he speak. Paul got his family situated, Becky next to her father on the couch, Joey and Monica on the matching chairs. Becky had sobered up a lot. She seemed in control and was even attempting to comfort her father so Paul excused himself to use the restroom. He made a quick detour to the butler’s pantry where he replaced the missing silver tongs with the rest of the tea service. Finally. It was such a relief to get rid of those things. He’d felt like he’d been holding his breath for weeks. No more secrets, ever again. If Judith asked, Paul was prepared to tell her exactly what had happened. They would deal with it as a family.

  Joey watched his dad come back into the living room. It was cool. He didn’t have any use for those stupid tongs anyway. It had been almost two weeks since Joey had taken anything, not that he didn’t want to sometimes, but the stealing really upset his father. His dad smiled at him and he smiled back.

  Judith walked through the butler’s pantry on the way to the living room. She stopped. The tongs. The tongs were on the tray next to the sugar bowl. Someone had returned the tongs. Someone had stolen her tongs and now, for whatever reason, that same person, or perhaps a different person, had decided to return them to her. Someone in this house. Someone in her inner circle. All this time they’d kept her tongs and now they’d decided to return them. Judith’s mind started to wander over the list of possible suspects but she stopped herself. The hell with it. What did it matter now? Judith grabbed the tongs and wrapped them in a dishtowel. She opened the bottom cupboard and stuffed them way in the back corner where no one would find them. She would deal with the tongs another day. Or maybe she wouldn’t.

  Norman was quite comfortable in his hospital bed. He liked the crispness of the sheets, even though they were a cotton blend, and the fact that they would change the bedding anytime you wanted. He liked the simplicity of the room: the TV, the rolling nightstand, the blue plastic pitcher of ice water and matching cup. He felt safe here. He liked his psychiatrist too. Dr. Stuben had a very gentle voice an
d soft hands. She touched him on the arm or hugged him when he cried. He felt safe with her and so when she’d asked him if he was ready to go home, ready to attend his brother’s memorial service, Norman had feigned a relapse. He didn’t want to leave this place, ever.

  There was a drawing pad and some colored pencils on the table. The staff had been encouraging Norman to draw, whatever came to mind. He’d been working on a series of caterpillars, inching along on thin delicate branches. They were nice drawings, he could see that, and he’d given a couple away to the nurses who cared for him. The drawing soothed him. He picked up his pad and pencils. Today was his brother’s funeral. Today Norman was going to put the caterpillar into a cocoon.