C is for Corpse (22 page)

“Are you saying Glen's been hoodwinked? She seems smarter than that.”

“She's smart about everything but men. This is her third time around, you know, and Bobby's father was a mess. Husband number two I don't know about. She was living in Europe when she married him and it didn't last long.”

“Let's get back to you for a minute. The day of Bobby's funeral, I got the impression you were trying to steer me away from the investigation. Now you're giving me leads. Why the switch?”

She had to stop and pay attention to the tie on her robe, though she was talking to me the whole time. “I guess I thought you'd be prolonging Glen's pain and heartache,” she said, looking up at me then. “It's clear
now that nothing I say is going to dissuade you in any event, so I might as well tell you what I know.”

“Why'd you meet Bobby down at the beach? What was going on?”

“Oh, poo. Nothing,” she said. “I ran into him a couple of times and he wanted to bitch about Derek. Bobby couldn't stand him either and he knew I made a good audience. That's all it amounted to.”

“Why didn't you say that in the first place?”

“I'm not accountable to you. You show up at my door uninvited and quiz me about all this bullshit. It's none of your business so why should I answer to you? I don't think you know how you come off sometimes.”

I felt myself flush at the well-placed insult. I drank the last of my wine. I was having trouble believing her story about meeting Bobby, but it was clear I wasn't going to get much more out of her. I decided to drop it for the moment, but it didn't sit well with me. If she'd only been listening to his complaints, why not just say so to begin with?

A glance at my watch showed that it was just after eleven and I decided to try to catch Glen at home. I excused myself abruptly and got out. I'm sure the haste of my departure wasn't lost on her.

There are times when things begin to break by sheer dint of dumb luck. I don't pretend to take credit for what happened next. By the time I got to my little VW, I realized how chilly it was. I hopped in and shut the door, locking it as is my habit, and then I turned and started rooting around in my junky backseat for a sweatshirt I'd tossed back there. I'd just laid my hands
on it and I was in the process of hauling it out from under a pile of books when I heard a car start up. I glanced to my right. Sufi's Mercedes was being backed out of the driveway. I did a quick surface dive, disappearing from view. I wasn't sure if she knew my car or not, but she must have assumed I was gone because she pulled straight off. As soon as she did, I rolled into the driver's seat, fumbling for my keys. I started the car and did a quick U-turn, catching a glimpse of her tail-lights as she hung a right, heading toward State Street.

She couldn't have had time enough to change her clothes. At best, she might have thrown a coat over her satin lounging outfit. Who did she know well enough to visit unannounced in a Jean Harlow getup at this hour of the night? I couldn't wait to see.

 

 

 

 

 

 

In Santa Teresa, the rich are divided into two cliques: half live in Montebello, half in Horton Ravine. Montebello is the old money, Horton Ravine, the new. Both communities have acres of old trees, bridle paths, and country clubs requiring proper sponsorship and entrance fees of twenty-five grand. Both communities discourage fundamentalist churches, tacky yard ornaments, and door-to-door sales. Sufi was headed for Horton Ravine.

As she passed through the main gates on Los Piratas, she slowed to thirty miles an hour, reluctant perhaps to get picked up for speeding while dressed like a call girl on her way to a john. I slowed my car at a pace with hers, hanging back as far as I could. I was worried about having to pursue her along miles of winding road, but she surprised me by turning into one of the first driveways on the right. The house was set back about a hundred yards, a one-story California “bungalow”: maybe five bedrooms, four thousand square feet, not remarkable to look at, but expensive nevertheless.
The property was probably five acres all told, surrounded by an ornamental split-rail fence, with rambling roses laid along its length. Exterior lights had come on when Sufi's Mercedes reached the house. She got out of the car in a blur of peach satin and mink, moving toward the front door, which opened and swallowed her up.

I had passed the house by then. I drove on as far as the first road on the right, where I did a turnaround, dousing my headlights as I drifted back. I parked my car on the berm on the left-hand side, hugging some shrubs. The area was shrouded in darkness, no streetlights at all. Across from me, the tag end of the golf course was visible and the narrow artificial lake that served as a water hazard. Moonlight glimmered on the surface of the lake, making it as glossy as a remnant of gray silk.

I removed the flashlight from the glove compartment and got out of my car, picking my way carefully through the tall grass growing by the road. It was thick and wet, soaking my tennis shoes and the legs of my jeans.

I reached the driveway. There wasn't any name on the mailbox, but I noted the numbers. I could always stop by my office and check my crisscross directory if I needed to. I had gone about halfway up the drive when I heard a dog barking at the house. I had no idea what kind it was, but it sounded big—one of those dogs that knows how to bark from its balls—deep, businesslike barks, suggestive of sharp teeth and a bad attitude. Furthermore, that sucker had picked up my scent and
was anxious to make contact. There was no way I could creep any closer without alerting the occupants of the house. They were probably already wondering what was making Old Dog Tray wet himself with excitement. For all I knew, they'd release him from his three-eighths-inch chain and send him flying down the driveway after me, toenails scratching along the blacktop. I've been chased by dogs before and it's not that much fun.

I reversed my course and got back in the car. Common sense is no disgrace in the private-eye trade. I watched the house for an hour, but there was no sign of activity. I was getting tired and this felt like a waste of time. Finally, I started the engine and eased the car into gear, not flipping on my headlights until I was out through the gate again.

By the time I got home, I was exhausted. I made a few quick notes and packed it in for the night. It was nearly one o'clock when I finally turned out the light. I got up at six and did a three-mile run just to get my head on straight. Then I sped through my morning ablutions, grabbed an apple, and arrived at the office by seven. It was Tuesday and I was thankful I wasn't scheduled for physical therapy that day. Now that I thought about it, my arm was feeling pretty good, or maybe the fact that I was involved in an investigation distracted me from whatever pain or immobility remained.

There were no messages on my answering machine and no mail that needed dealing with from the day before. I hauled out my crisscross and checked the house
numbers on Los Piratas. Well, well. I should have guessed. Fraker, James and Nola. I wondered which of them Sufi had gone to see and why the rush. It was possible, of course, that she'd consulted with both, but I couldn't quite picture that. Could Nola be the woman Bobby'd fallen in love with? I couldn't see how Dr. Fraker tied into this, but something was sure going on.

I took out Bobby's address book and tried the number for Blackman. I got a recorded message from that woman who sounds like the fairy godmother in a Walt Disney cartoon. “We're sorry, but the number you've dialed cannot be connected in the eight-oh-five area code. Please check the number and dial again. Thank you.” I tried the codes for surrounding areas. No luck. I spent a long time looking through the other entries in the book. If all else failed, I'd have to sit here and contact each person in turn, but it seemed like a tiresome prospect and not necessarily productive. In the meantime, what?

It was too early in the morning to make house calls, but it occurred to me that a visit to Kitty might make sense. She was still at St. Terry's and, given hospital routine, she'd probably been rousted out of bed at dawn. I hadn't seen her for days anyway and she might be of help.

The chill of the day before was gone. The air was clear and the sun was already intense. I slid my VW into the last available space in the vistors' lot and went around to the front entrance. The information desk in the lobby was deserted but the hospital itself was in full swing. The coffee shop was jammed, the scent of
cholesterol and caffeine wafting irresistibly through the open doorway. Lights were on in the gift shop. The cashier's office was busy, filled with young female clerks preparing final bills as if this were some grand hotel nearing check-out time. There was an aura of excitement—medical personnel gearing up for birth and death and complex surgeries, cracked bones and breakdowns and drug overdoses . . . a hundred life-threatening episodes any given day of the week. And through it all the insidious sexuality that made it the stuff of soaps.

I went up to the third floor, turning left when I got off the elevators near 3 South. The big double doors were locked, as usual. I pushed the buzzer. After a moment, a heavyset black woman in jeans and a royal blue T-shirt rattled some keys and opened the door a crack. She wore a nursy no-nonsense watch and those shoes with two-inch crepe soles designed to offset fallen arches and varicose veins. She had startling hazel eyes and a face that radiated competence. Her white plastic tag indicated that her name was Natalie Jacks, LVN. I showed Ms. Jacks the photostat of my license and asked if I could talk to Kitty Wenner, explaining that I was a friend of the family.

She looked my I.D. over carefully and finally stepped back to let me in.

She locked the door behind me and led the way down the corridor to a room near the end. I was sneaking peeks into rooms along the way. I don't know what I anticipated—women writhing and babbling to themselves, men imitating ex-Presidents and jungle beasts.
Or the lot of them in a drug-induced stupor that would swell their tongues and make their eyes roll back in their heads. Instead, as I passed each door, I saw faces raised in curiosity toward mine, as if I were a new admission who might shriek or do birdcalls while I tore off my clothes. I couldn't see any difference between them and me, which I thought was worrisome.

Kitty was up and dressed, her hair still wet from a shower. She was stretched out on her bed, pillows propped up behind her, a breakfast tray on the bed-table next to her. She wore a silk caftan that drooped on her frame as if she were a coat hanger. Her breasts were no bigger than buttons on a couch and her arms were bare bones fleshed out with skin as thin as tissue paper. Her eyes were enormous and haunted, the shape of her skull so pronounced that she looked as if she were seventy. Sally Struthers could have used her picture in an ad for foster parenting.

“You got a visitor,” Natalie said.

Kitty's eyes flicked to me, and for a moment, I could see how scared she was. She was dying. She had to know that. The energy was seeping out of her pores like sweat.

Natalie inspected the breakfast tray. “You know they're going to put you on an I.V. if you don't do better than this. I thought you had a contract with Dr. Kleinert.”

“I
ate
some,” Kitty said.

“Well, I'm not supposed to pester you, but he'll be doing rounds soon. Try picking away at this while you talk to her, O.K.? We're on your team, baby. Honestly.”

Natalie gave us both a brief smile and left, moving into the room next door, where we could hear her talking to someone else.

Kitty's face was suffused with pink and she was fighting back tears. She reached for a cigarette and lit it, coughing some against the back of her bony hand. She shook her head, conjuring up a smile that had some sweetness to it. “God, I can't believe I got myself into this,” she said, and then wistfully, “You think Glen might come see me?”

“I don't know. I may go over there after I talk to you. I'll mention it to her if you like.”

“She kicked Daddy out.”

“So I heard.”

“She'll probably kick me out next.”

I couldn't look at her anymore. Her longing for Glen was so tangible it hurt me to see it. I studied the breakfast tray: a fresh fruit cup, a blueberry muffin, a carton of strawberry yogurt, granola, orange juice, tea. There was no indication that she'd eaten any of it.

“You want some of that?” she asked.

“No way. You'll tell Kleinert you ate it.”

Kitty had the good grace to blush, laughing uneasily.

“I don't understand why you don't eat,” I said.

She made a face. “Everything just looks so gross. There's this girl two doors down and she was suffering from anorexia, you know? So they brought her in here and she finally started to eat? Now she looks like she's pregnant. She's still thin. She's just got half a basketball for a stomach. It's disgusting.”

“So what? She's alive, isn't she?”

“I don't want to look like that. Nothing tastes good anyway and it just makes me throw up.”

There was no point in pursuing the subject so I let it go, shifting over to something else instead. “Have you talked to your father since Glen kicked him out?”

Kitty shrugged. “He's here every day in the afternoon. He's moved into the Edgewater Hotel until he finds a place.”

“Did he tell you about Bobby's will?”

“Some. He says Bobby left me all this money. Is that true?” Her tone was one of dismay as much as anything.

“As far as I know, it is.”

“But why would he do that?”

“Maybe he felt like he messed up your life and wanted to do right by you. Derek tells me he left some money to Rick's parents too. Or maybe he considered it a little incentive for you to get your shit together for a change.”

“I never made any deals with him.”