Page 3

2

Natasha Mason had been living in Los Angeles for a while now, but there were many areas of the canyons she’d never been to. Julia’s address was way up above Sunset, an area that reminded Mason of the Berkeley hills she’d grown up in, with their narrow, twisty streets and inexplicable parking regulations. There were more trees in Northern California, of course, and fewer enormous luxury cars trying to navigate the hairpin switchbacks, but there was still something about the hills that made her cross. In AA there’s a concept of people , places and things : situational elements that might trigger a relapse. For Mason, the hills reminded her of home, which reminded her of family, particularly her mother, which reminded her that a drink might be a good idea right about now…

However, she was sober, so she acknowledged her trigger, said a brief serenity prayer, then looked around for something nonalcoholic to improve her mood. Nothing wrong with asking for help, especially if it’s in the form of coffee. And if it was a triple shot, so what? Like every other drunk and addict she knew, Mason always wanted more, and right now the more she wanted was caffeine. Plus, she’d been born with twice the usual allocation of energy and one quarter the allocation of self-control. The math had worked in her favor right up until it kicked her in the teeth and left her for dead. But that’s another story.

As she waited for her coffee, she thought back to the meeting the night before. Once Julia had finished her story, there had been a long silence. She remembered feeling drawn to the older woman, and when Sherri had asked if Julia had an interim sponsor and had received merely a snort in response, Mason had found herself volunteering for the job. Julia had responded with the barest sketch of a shrug, but Mason had taken her address and made plans to visit the next day. Now, in fact. True, she hadn’t gotten an overwhelming sense of enthusiasm from Julia, who had implied she wasn’t planning on paying Mason much more heed than she might give one of the meeting room chairs, but Mason was strangely determined. She’d never been an interim sponsor before, but she was going to help this woman whether she liked it or not. Of course, after the meeting, several other sober drunks had excitedly informed her that her new sponsee was a) a famous actress, b) additionally famous for drunkenly causing chaos wherever she went, and c) probably guilty of killing the poor dead guy in the pool, but hey, nobody’s perfect. Mason barely watched TV and had no idea who Julia was, so she was just as likely to be helpful as anyone else. More, maybe. Mason was optimistic, which was a nice feeling. Possibly misguidedly so, but she was willing to take the chance.

She was only in the coffee shop for a minute, but when she walked back to her car she had a ticket under her wiper. She ripped it off and was about to rip it up when she took a breath and stuffed it in her pocket instead. She hated this fucking town. They would ticket a dog turd if they thought it could pay. No wonder the pigeons never stopped moving.

Waiting to break into the steady stream of traffic on La Cienega, she drummed on the steering wheel and sang tunelessly along with the radio, her foot bopping the brake pedal in time to the music. Growing impatient, because it had been thirty seconds, she leaned out of her open window and smiled flirtatiously at the oncoming drivers, hoping one of them would take pity on her.

One man slowed a little, his eye caught by her looks, but sped up just as she nosed her car out. The traffic forced him to stop again, of course, and their windows were level. Awkward.

“What the hell, guy?” Mason was no longer surprised by how quickly her temper rose. Fortunately, in LA she was never far from a fight. Just because she no longer drank and committed arson, it didn’t mean she wasn’t ready to strike a match whenever the opportunity presented itself.

“Fuck you,” he shot back, wittily.

“No, fuck you.”

“No.” He paused, for emphasis. “Fuck. You.”

Mason let her face become expressionless. She narrowed her eyes and let thoughts of violence run through her head. She’d never been good at hiding her feelings. The other driver dropped his gaze first.

That’s right , she thought to herself, watching as he edged ahead, her momentary and utterly symbolic triumph making her forget for a second that she was still waiting to be let out into traffic. She sighed. These tiny battles were the kinds of things she’d drank over when she drank over little things (and big things, and medium things, and imaginary things). She shook herself and finished her triple, burning her tongue in the process, which was a distraction at least.

Twenty minutes later, driving percussively up Laurel Canyon, still singing, she’d regained her good humor but could also feel the caffeine fizzing in her veins. She wondered why she felt so compelled by Julia. There was just something about the older woman that spoke to her. Even if it was saying fuck off in no uncertain terms. Mason rarely heard a direct order she didn’t long to contravene, and Julia’s high walls made her want to swing her grappling hook. Besides, now she was her sponsor, interim or otherwise, and she had decided to take that shit seriously. If Mason’s middle name hadn’t already been Elizabeth it would have been Capricious.

On the surface, Mason looked like your classic Los Angeles native: mid-twenties, smoothly muscled from CrossFit and yoga, an air of good health and probably plant-based energy. Her almost-buzzed dark hair and lack of makeup were the only things not issued by central casting. She had a face people looked at twice but weren’t sure why. However, LA wasn’t really her town. Raised by hippie psychiatrists in Berkeley, she went to Yale to study political science as a precursor to law school. She was going to save the disenfranchised. But her mouth was always two steps ahead of her brain, and the scotch in her daily coffee meant she rarely waited for it to catch up. Eventually, in sophomore year she sassed the wrong person and started a street brawl that resulted in two hospitalizations and the burning down of a hot dog stand. The injuries healed, but the hot dog stand had been an institution, and the dean was apologetic but firm: “You’re a smart girl, Ms. Mason. Stop drinking and go be smart somewhere else. I hear Stanford’s pleasant this time of year.”

She vetoed more college but decided Los Angeles was a good place to hide—thousands of young people were absorbed into its biomass every month. But why, after five years, was she still here? She’d been sober three years, her parents had forgiven her, she could go home anytime she wanted. Fuck it, she could finish her degree and go to law school. But here she was, temping and driving rideshare and putting out fires in AA meetings. Her mother probably had a professional opinion about it. But Mason dodged her calls. Her sponsor told her to take it one day at a time, so that’s what she tried to do. Sometimes restless discontentment boiled in her spine, urging her to burn shit down and get fucked-up (slipping that suggestion in at the end, an assassin hiding his blade in a shrug), but not every day. Today, for example. Today was OK so far. She had a sponsee; she was working it.

Her GPS sent her right, then left, up a street that seemed almost vertical. Her car struggled a little, but eventually the road flattened out and started to wind lazily.

“Jesus, where is this place, Nevada?” She reached for another piece of gum, wishing she’d gotten something to eat at the coffee place.

At some point, she passed through a gate, then after a sharp right, the road cleared the trees and revealed an outstanding view of Los Angeles. They were at the tippy top of a steep canyon, its sides striped in layers of red and peach rock, apparently held together by love and tenacious bushes. Built across the top of the canyon, literally straddling it, was the kind of house the villain owns in James Bond movies. Two floors, with long sections extending out from a central building, like a white mid-century wing nut. Mason could see the front side was completely glass, and that a slender infinity pool ran a river between the two wings, disappearing under the house at one end and apparently spilling over into the canyon at the far edge. It didn’t seem possible, yet there it was.

Mason stopped the car and stepped out. She stretched and bounced a little on her feet, cracking her knuckles and scanning the hillside. Up here there was a steady breeze, scented strongly with sagebrush and wild rosemary. Birdsong was the loudest sound apart from the pool pump and the slow ticking of the car’s engine as it cooled. Yellow crime scene tape delineated the edges of the pool deck, and beyond it the city might as well have been a painted backdrop, its blurred edges and glinting sunshine stretching from downtown to the ocean.

Standing outside of the wide front doors, Mason got ready to face cranky new-sobriety energy, and when a small, dark-haired woman opened the door, she was surprised.

“Uh…hi, I’m Natasha Mason. I’m here to see Julia?”

The woman was elegant, dressed in a simple black dress. She could have been Middle Eastern, or Hispanic, or southern European. She was maybe fifty, with large, expressive eyes and a haughty expression. Whatever else she was, she was also entirely silent, and she gazed at Mason without comment.

“I’m from…” Mason paused and willed herself not to shuffle her feet. Anonymity was a foundational principle of AA, obviously; it was in the fucking name. She didn’t know if this woman knew Julia was trying to get sober. “I’m a friend.”

The woman raised a single eyebrow. “I doubt that,” she said.

Mason raised her eyebrow in return. “And yet,” she said, “I am.”

“Since when?”

“Last night.” The woman continued to look dubious, and suddenly Mason’s mouth engaged while her brain was still weighing its options. “Look, I don’t know who you are, or why you’re gatekeeping this hard, but I met Julia last night and she invited me to come over this morning, and in normal society that would be sufficient for entry, but maybe I’m missing something.” She started flexing her fingers, feeling her temper begin to rise. Again.

The woman’s mouth twitched. “I know that’s at least partially a lie, because Julia rarely invites people over, but she did say something about a pushy kid, and that part is ringing true.” She smiled so briefly Mason couldn’t be sure it wasn’t a tic. “I’m Claudia, Mrs. Mann’s housekeeper. Are you ready to come in or do you need to run your mouth some more?”

“I’m good,” replied Mason.

“I’m doubtful,” responded Claudia, turning on her heel to enter the house.

The interior was dark and cool after the heat of the hill, and very simple. Everything was precisely, perfectly in place. Mason wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but not this minimalist spread in Architectural Digest . Suddenly, a doorway at the far end of the hall was flung open, and a small, red-haired young woman came out, moving fast and crying hard. She ran past Mason and Claudia quickly enough to cause a breeze, her sobs barely muffled, but she neither looked at them nor said a word. Mason wasn’t fazed by tears, and Claudia didn’t seem to notice, so they simply walked through the door she’d left open, into the blazing sunlight of an enormous room.

The polished concrete floor was gray, the walls were bare, and nothing distracted from the view. Julia stood by the window, one hand resting lightly on the glass, wearing a tailored trouser suit (vintage Yves Saint Laurent) that looked like it had been sewn on her. She was a photograph, her poise clearly something factory installed.

Claudia spoke. “Mrs. Mann? Your…friend is here.”

Julia turned. “The helper girl quit again,” she said.

“Really?” replied Claudia, calmly. “The surprise was her coming back in the first place.”

Julia frowned. “I was paying her.”

“Not enough to work for you three days in a row.”

“I was trying to be nice.”

“Were you, though?”

“She asked me about acting.”

“Perhaps she thought an ex-actress would have relevant suggestions.”

“I did. I suggested she go back to Wisconsin.”

“She was from Nebraska.”

Julia shrugged. “Whichever flight left first.”

“And she took that badly?” Claudia snorted. “Do you want me to call the agency or will you?”

Julia sighed. “You do it. I think they blocked my number.”

“Are you kidding? You put that woman’s kids through college.”

Mason had sidled sideways during this exchange and sat on the edge of a low sofa, tucking her Doc Martens under her and watching the back-and-forth like a tennis match.

“I googled you,” she said to Julia, when there was an appropriate pause. She didn’t care about the girl, the job or the airplane to Wisconsin. Nebraska. Wherever.

The two women turned and looked at her.

Mason recrossed her boots under the sofa, getting them briefly tangled in the process. “Well, I googled the body in the swimming pool, to be honest. I didn’t realize you were famous.” This was a bit of a lie, obviously, as Jim—and most of the rest of the meeting attendees—had told her Julia was famous, but as she herself had not known, it wasn’t a complete untruth.

“I’m not,” said Julia. “Thus your accurate use of the past tense.”

“She won an Oscar,” said Claudia, providing a counterpoint.

“So did Geraldine Page,” responded Julia.

“Who’s that?” asked Mason.

“My point exactly,” said Julia. “Every generation has its famous, all of whom end up being the next generation’s Sorry, who? ”

Mason shrugged. “Yeah, well, I don’t really watch TV.” She looked at Julia and smiled encouragingly. “Do you have a TikTok?”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” said Julia, frowning. She looked at Claudia. “I need coffee.”

Claudia nodded and left the room. Mason wasn’t sure, but she might have heard her laughing as the door closed.

Julia Mann walked over to one of those iconic ’60s egg-shaped chairs and sat down, crossing her legs. The minute they were set at a comfortable angle, she came to a complete stop, every line of her body elegant and still. “I realize I asked you to be my interim sponsor”—she folded her hands over her kneecaps, and Mason noticed how tightly they held on—“but I don’t need anyone’s help.”

Mason shook her head. “We all need help. How are you feeling today?”

Julia looked at her and made a face, almost instantly relaxing her features back into her elegant mask. “I’m fine, if fine’s a term that encompasses totally terrible. I have a headache, my teeth hurt, my ankles hurt, I feel nauseous, I’m not sure this suit was the right choice and I’m having intrusive thoughts about getting a cat, which is a terrible idea. Apart from that, I’m super fantastic, thanks for asking.” She held up a finger. “Oh, and a very old enemy decided to end it all by getting murdered in my swimming pool, which is both unhelpful and unsanitary. I have no idea why he was even there, let alone why someone decided to kill him at my place rather than, say, at their place, which would have made finding them so much easier.” Her voice had risen sharply toward the end, and Mason made a face.

Nodding, she said, “That does sound like a lot, especially for this early in sobriety. How many days has it been?”

“Since I drank?” Julia shrugged. “What day is it?”

“Friday.”

“Four days.”

“Congratulations.”

Julia snorted. “I don’t have a warm, fuzzy feeling about five.” She frowned at Mason. “I had ten years sober at one point, seven at another. I know how it works.”

“Sure,” said Mason, “but then you also know it’s one day at a time.” She was dying to ask a million questions, or at least a few. Why did you start drinking again? What made you stop? Why that day and not any other day? But these were questions she had to keep inside. There is an unspoken code of conduct in recovery. You can say anything to anyone about your own story. But you don’t ask questions about someone else’s unless they’re already telling you and you need clarification. You don’t simply come out and ask; it’s not polite.

She gazed at the other woman. Close up it was still somewhat difficult to guess her age. Her beauty was all in her bones, high and angular, framing green eyes over a straight nose. Her mouth was still full, though it didn’t look like it did a lot of smiling.

Mason added, “I have three years, but we both only have today, right?”

“For fuck’s sake,” said Julia, unclasping her hands and angling her body away in the chair. “If all you’re going to do is recite slogans, you could have texted.”

Mason bit her tongue. She’d sat with her own sponsor for an hour the previous evening talking over how to help Julia stay sober, but she (her sponsor) didn’t cover what to do if she (Julia) was just a massive bitch. She (her sponsor) was not a massive bitch, she was a sweet and gentle angel of loveliness, and she (Mason) was having a hard time not just swinging back when she (Julia) was being difficult. Mind you, her sponsor had also beaten her abusive husband unconscious with a skillet, so she might have been less patient than Mason assumed.

Claudia came back in, carrying a tray with cookies and coffee. A silver coffeepot. A tiny coffee cup, delicately rimmed with silver. A silver dish with…

“Are those wedding cookies?” Mason was excited. “I love those.”

Claudia hesitated, apparently not used to enthusiasm. “Yes. I made them this morning. Enjoy.”

“Thanks, they look great.” Mason was rewarded with a very small smile.

“Oh, get a room already.” Julia’s voice was sharp. She was watching Mason, who was helping herself to a cookie. Then another. Then she poured herself some coffee. Julia Mann said nothing at first, then spoke.

“Hungry?” Her voice was cool and slightly amused.

“Several times a day,” replied Mason, her mouth full of cookie.

“Why did you google me?” asked Julia. “That’s not a very sober thing to do.”

Mason nodded. “No, but progress not perfection, and as your interim sponsor…”

“You don’t have to keep saying it…”

“…it seemed appropriate to do some homework. Besides, a dead body in a swimming pool followed by a high-speed chase is compelling content.” Mason bent down and dabbed up some crumbs with a moistened fingertip. “Once I was there I couldn’t help reading your name, sorry.” She blushed, although very slightly, and Julia didn’t know her well enough to spot it. “There was actually a lot of information about you online. One article described you as a professional thorn in the side of the establishment. A troublemaker.” She shrugged. “Which tracked. It also said you and the dead guy were sworn enemies and he’d had to get a restraining order against you because you’d gone batshit crazy on him at a restaurant one time.”

Julia raised her eyebrows, an expression Mason was quickly becoming familiar with. “We were not sworn enemies; there was no official oath. We used to be best friends. At one point we were lovers, before I met my husband. But yes, I did go batshit crazy on him at least once, although in my defense I was drinking at the time.” She sighed and examined her fingernails. “Tony was one of those men who make you feel…extraordinary. As though the minute you walked through their door you changed their lives. Brought everything into sharp focus, or Technicolor. He had a way of looking at you that made you reevaluate every mean or stupid thing you’d ever said about yourself. It was a gift. Unfortunately, he did it to everyone, and meant none of it. He was a gilded shell of a man, masquerading as solid gold.”

Mason gazed at her. “He was cute, too. I saw a picture.”

Julia rolled her eyes and switched the position of her legs, which made Mason reflexively think of racehorses. Then she once again became utterly still.

“Like I said at the meeting, I went to jail. For killing my husband, who was my best friend, and someone I loved very, very much. A long time ago, probably before you were born. I was innocent, and Tony must have known it. He knew me, knew I wasn’t capable of that. He could have said something at the trial, been a character witness, something. But he chose not to.” She paused and issued a warning too late for Mason’s very mobile face. “Don’t pull that expression; I know innocence is a common claim, but in my case it was true. I was a mess walking in, but I got sober in jail, and once I could think clearly my predominant thought was what the actual fuck? I was furious. I got my law degree while incarcerated, which is another cliché, but it’s amazing what a motivator massive unfairness can be, then I came out and discovered practicing law was a good way to exact revenge on a system run by the powerful at the expense of the…”

“Powerless?” asked Mason.

“Not even. At the expense of everyone. Sure, the powerless pay the highest price, but the system is broken all the way through, foundation to ridgepole.” She looked at her hands. “I do as much as I can to help people like me who, for reasons as varied as they are, got screwed by the system. I take cases that interest me, I work with people I respect, and we try to unfuck the fucked.” She paused. “It’s more fulfilling than acting, and sometimes I get to act, as well. And what do you do, when you’re not harassing the freshly sober?”

“We all need help, and I’m not harassing you,” replied Mason. “I’m doing my sponsor-y job, and supporting you by providing an irritating distraction.” She grinned. “It’s working, though, right? You’re not thinking of drinking. I temp, drive rideshare, do deliveries, personal assisting, the usual Gen Z gig economy queen, you know.”

Julia shrugged. “Sounds boring and stressful, not a great combination.”

“It’s both of those, but better than starving.”

The eyebrow went up again. “Wait, personal assisting? Come work for me. You seem energetic, you’re right here, and it will save me hiring another girl from the agency.”

Mason didn’t hesitate. “Sure.”

Julia laughed. “Want to think about it?”

“I did, that was me thinking about it,” Mason said. “Here’s the thing. As your interim sponsor, I can’t just follow you around. It’s not interim stalker . But as your assistant, I can keep an eye on you, make some money, keep myself busy and be ready to work the steps as and when the opportunity presents itself. It’s not a normal thing, to be an employee and a sponsor, but if it sucks I can quit. I haven’t worked for a lawyer / actress / potential murderess before.”

“That you know of…”

“True, that I know of. I did have a client one time who had me follow her ex-boyfriend for three hours while he shopped for shoes.”

“He shopped for shoes for three hours?”

“No, I followed him for three hours. For all I know he’s still shopping for shoes. I got distracted by something and lost him. The client might have been planning to murder him.” She shrugged. “She had a pretty short temper.”

Julia snorted. “So no tasks that require sustained focus. And I mean it: I don’t need your help to stay sober.”

Mason shrugged. “Because you were doing such a good job on your own? We can argue about sponsorship later. Let’s get started doing whatever it is you want to do.” She paused. “What is it you want to do?”

Julia raised one eyebrow. “What I usually do for my clients: active defensive investigation. The police will think I killed Tony because they are creatures of habit and predictability. To be fair, I had motive and opportunity and ran away from the crime scene. Looks bad for me, good to them. However, I’m pretty sure I didn’t do it, although I have no idea why Tony was even there as I would never have invited him.”

“You were drunk.”

“True, but even so…let’s assume it wasn’t me; we still have four million other Angelenos unaccounted for.”

Mason bounced on her feet and clapped her hands like a four-year-old spotting a pony in a party hat. “Great, this is going to be awesome. Never investigated shit before, totally down.”

Julia got to her feet and headed to the door. “Come on, then. Let’s go.”

“Where?” Mason was nearly on her heels as they reached the door. They left that room and crossed the main entranceway and down the opposite hallway. Basically the other wing of the wing nut, where there was a door identical to the one they’d just come out of. Julia paused.

“You know how Dorothy opens the door of her little house after the twister and realizes she isn’t in Kansas anymore?”

Mason nodded. “Sure. I’m American. I’ve seen that movie a hundred times.”

“Fair enough. And are you familiar with the Narnia books, where the children push their way through the fur coats in a wardrobe and come out into a magical land?”

Again, Mason nodded.

“And finally, are you familiar with the musical film Brigadoon , where every hundred years you can cross a magical bridge to a town where romance and song fill the air?”

A pause. Mason shook her head. “No, you got me there. Is it old? I’m only twenty-five. It was probably before my time.”

Julia narrowed her eyes. “Well, that being as it may, this is my office, Mason. I’ve helped countless innocent people regain their freedom, solved mysteries that had been ignored by the authorities and generally kicked righteous butt all from this one room. It’s a lot, so be prepared.”

Mason snickered. “It’s a room. I think I can handle it.”

Julia just smiled, and swung open the door.