Free Draw (The Jake Samson & Rosie Vicente Detective Series Book 2) (23 page)

By noon, she was getting anxious to replace the correspondence she’d lifted, minus the letter I was keeping. I borrowed an envelope, a stamp, and a piece of notepaper, scribbled a note to Hal, sealed it up with the Morton letter, and stuck it in my pocket, ready to mail.

We said goodbye with the promise to be in touch by the weekend, sooner if Morton discovered she’d been messing with his files.

On my way into Mill Valley, I dropped the letter in a box. Then I found a phone booth and, shuffling through the accumulation of business and personal cards in my wallet, extracted the purple one Bunny had given me the first time I’d visited the Smith house. The phone number was not the same one I had for Mrs. Smith. After three rings I got a recorded message.

“Hey, this is Barbara.” Thump thump thump went the new wave music, fade back and voice over. “And you’ve probably guessed I’m not home.” Thump thump thump, fade back. “But I don’t know where I am so I can’t tell you, right? So you tell me where you are, and who you are, and maybe I’ll call you when I get back from wherever I am.” Thump thump beep. I left my name and Artie’s phone number, figuring someone would probably be around there if Bunny should actually play back her tape and decide to call. Then I phoned Artie’s house and warned Julia that she might get a strange call for me. I had this vision of messages going back and forth in space between me and Bunny for days. Maybe if I just parked in front of her house, she’d appear as she had each time before.

Rosie was working on the steps. She’d replaced one section of a stringer and was nailing redwood treadboards to it. There was a gap of about six steps, so I stopped.

“Glad I caught you, Jacob.”

“Certainly did,” I agreed, looking at the open stringers with mud behind them.

“You can crawl up the side. Listen, you’ve got to do me a favor.”

“Okay.”

“I’ve gotten myself stuck with an evening with Carlota and Nona. Dinner and a showing of Carlota’s films.”

“Poor baby.”

“Yes. And I can’t stand the thought of doing it all alone. Please?”

“Oh, shit, Rosie. You want me to be your date or something?”

“Something. Please, Jake. At least, if you’re there, it will be bearable.”

“Tonight?” I sighed.

“Tonight.”

“What time?”

“You’re a true friend. Six-thirty. The films are at eight-thirty.”

“Lovely.”

I grabbed hold of the railing and hoisted myself up along the stringer until I got to real steps again. Then I went to my room, locked the door behind me, and went to sleep.

Rosie came to get me at six-thirty and we descended together to Carlota’s. Nona let us in— we knocked, we didn’t use the gong— and offered us martinis.

“Got any beer?” Rosie asked. Nona scowled.

“Me, too,” I said. Nona shrugged.

Carlota was draped across the grand piano, martini in one hand, cigarette in the other, martini pitcher at her elbow. She was wearing a black velvet lounging outfit, the tunic top cut low front and back, the pants tucked into the tops of some knee-high black glove leather boots. Very fetching. Nona was dressed in a baggy white suit that looked like something Peter Lorre might have worn in some steamy tropical movie, and a flowing red cravat.

Rosie and I were pretty dressed up, for us. I was wearing cords, and turtleneck, and a tweed jacket. Rosie was wearing an outfit similar to mine.

“How kind of you to come, Jacob,” Carlota said.

“Kind of you to ask me, Carlota.” She hadn’t, but that was okay.

“Yes. Well,” she waved airily, “sit down, please. Dinner will be a while. I hope you both like stroganoff.”

Nona came out of the kitchen carrying a tray in each hand, one with our steins of beer, the other with hors d’oeuvres. She looked like a butler. Rosie and I had seated ourselves on the love-seat. Nona set both trays down on the coffee table in front of us.

“Do try the canapés,” Carlota said. I picked one of the small toast rounds off the tray. Melted cheese with an anchovy embedded in it. Some kind of herb, too. I liked it. Rosie didn’t take any. She hates anchovies.

“Aren’t they lovely?” Carlota asked. “They’re one of Nona’s specialties.” Nona had retired again to the kitchen. Carlota had maneuvered herself onto the piano stool. “Would you like to hear something?”

We both said yes. I wondered if Rosie felt as trapped as I did. Carlota began clomping her way through an exercise in cacophony that seemed to consist mostly of jarring starts after patternless pauses.

Rosie leaned close to my ear. “I think I’ve got a lead to someone who might know where Andy was, or at least where he wasn’t, when Smith was killed. I should know for sure in a couple of days.”

I nodded, downing another appetizer. I hadn’t eaten, after all, since about eleven.

“I haven’t had a chance to tell you,” I said. “It looks like Morton has an alibi.”

Rosie made a face. She wasn’t happy.

Carlota kept banging away, with much head-jerking. She didn’t seem to notice our half-whispered conversation. In the relatively quiet parts of the piece, I gave Rosie a disjointed account of the evening with Chloe, with emphasis on the correspondence. I was about to start filling her in on my talk with Morton when the piece Carlota was playing ended abruptly. We waited a couple of seconds to be sure it was really over, then we applauded.

Carlota bowed, deeply and slowly, from the waist.

Nona appeared in the doorway. “Dinner is almost ready,” she told Carlota, who looked startled at being brought out of her trance. “Perhaps our guests would like another drink.” Then she turned and disappeared again into the kitchen.

Neither Rosie nor I had finished our first beer. Carlota poured herself another martini, no olive. She downed it in three gulps. Then she smiled brightly, said, “Must go help Nona,” and left us alone.

“What kind of impression are you getting about Andy’s whereabouts that day? Anything?”

“I’ve only found out one thing for sure. There was a small party on Saturday night. Organizers for the fund-raiser, friends. And I know Bill wasn’t there. But the day of the murder? That’s what I’m checking on now. Incidentally, the fund-raiser’s this Sunday.”

Carlota and Nona reappeared with a wood and brass serving cart. We took seats at the dining table. The napkins were real linen, the plates fine china, the candlesticks and flatware silver. The wineglasses were still discount store.

Somehow, knowing the temperaments of our hosts, I had expected an elaborate and possibly inedible dinner. But this was just ordinary old beef stroganoff with noodles and a salad with artichoke hearts.

“Nona,” I said, “this is very good.”

She smiled. She had a surprisingly sweet smile. It occurred to me that she must have a good side to her personality, and that living with Carlota could put almost anyone in a permanent state of tension.

“And I’ve been admiring your artwork,” I added. Actually, I hadn’t really looked at it since the first time I’d been in the house.

“Thank you. I hope to be able to make it pay eventually.”

“That’s right,” I said. “You were at work the morning that man was killed. What do you do?”

“I work in an art supply store.” She said it simply, without embarrassment or pride. “We’re open on Sunday mornings.”

“Like a hardware store,” Carlota said. “But it’s only temporary and she gets her materials at a discount.”

“Well,” I held up my glass, “here’s to your success.”

Carlota smiled briefly and twitched, wrinkling her forehead. “She will be successful, I’m sure,” she said, in an end-of-discussion tone. She added, with hardly a break between sentences, “I’m so glad you two are coming to my films tonight.” The message was clear. This was her night, and it was her art we were going to concentrate on. Nona was glowering again.

“Yes,” I said agreeably. “I read Eric’s review. Quite a rave.”

“Oh, yes. I was so pleased. And it’s so terribly pleasant that we’ve become great friends, as well as colleagues.”

Rosie stifled a yawn. “Colleagues?”

“Oh, Rosie, dear, have some more wine, please.” Carlota poured some for herself and passed the decanter to Rosie.

Carlota continued to babble about her friendship with Eric. How much she admired him. How much he admired her work. How they often talked together about art. I wasn’t really listening. I was thinking about Andy and Bill, wondering what Rosie would learn.

“…we’re developing something of a salon,” Carlota was saying. “Nona joins us when she’s at home. And not painting…”

I also wondered whether Bill would join Andy at the fundraiser. Did he ever break his rule of no weekends away from the inn? If he actually had such a rule.

Carlota was still talking about her mentor. I thought she must be pretending he was famous, and that she, as his friend, shared his glory. “…and he’s such a fine, sympathetic man. On that dreadful day, when I was so distressed, he brought me some lovely sherry. Our first real tête-à-tête…”

And what if Rosie learned that Andy was not covered for the time of the murder? Had been off somewhere on his own? If we had that information by Sunday, when Andy would be conveniently in town, could I force the issue with him in some way?

Rosie had asked something about the review. Her manners as a guest are always good. And Carlota babbled on. “Oh, yes, weeks and weeks ago. We spoke about it and he said he would try. But he couldn’t promise. It was only after he’d seen them, you see…”

I would have to confront Andy with his presence in the area that weekend, and with Smith’s plans to testify against him. But I needed more. I needed evidence. A witness to say that Andy was seen in the canyon. Anything.

Rosie and Carlota continued to chat while Nona watched them suspiciously. Carlota was obviously delighted with the attention Rosie was giving her. Nona was not. I shook myself out of my speculations about Andy and set myself to the task of being a good guest like Rosie.

“Nona,” I said, “I’d love to see your studio. After dinner, maybe?” She pulled her watchful eyes away from the two women and muttered that she would be happy to show me everything except the work in progress. We finished the stroganoff and salad.

“Carlota,” Nona said sharply, “would you mind getting the dessert?”

“Of course, darling. Do excuse me, Rose.” She left the table.

“Would anybody like more wine?” Nona asked. When we said we wouldn’t, she took the decanter across the room and tucked it away in the liquor cabinet. Then she did the same with the martini pitcher.

Carlota returned with a bowl of fruit and a wedge of cheese centered carefully on a wooden board. She looked at the table, where the decanter had been, then her eyes shifted to the piano. After casting a slightly accusing look at Nona, she settled down to cutting an apple into very small pieces, all the while talking about the size of the audience she expected that night.

Suddenly, she stood up. “It’s time to go. We must get there early— in time to greet people, you know.”

“If we have a few minutes,” I said, “I’d like to see Nona’s studio.”

She sent a tender look Nona’s way. “Do you mind doing that another time, darling?”

Nona shook her head and smiled a resigned smile. “Of course not. We should go.”

We took two cars, mine and Nona’s, and arrived at the film showing early enough to join the patrons in a glass of cheap champagne and late enough to make an entrance. Carlota swooped about greeting people, striking poses, and guzzling champagne until it was time for the show to start.

We seated ourselves along with the two dozen other film fans, the lights went out, and the projectionist let the first film roll.

It started with about ten seconds of blackness punctuated by the rhythmic flashing of a single very bright light. Then, suddenly, overexposed and backed up against a bank of ferns, there was Carlota.

“A star is born,” Rosie whispered in my ear.

The film blacked out again, and came to somewhere on the floor of the forest, looking up through the trees at the wispy fog. This was followed by a shaky tilting of the camera, so the trees were horizontal. Then they were upside down.

Another blackout, and a car window view of a narrow road. Just the road. Then we were on Miller Avenue, watching the cars go by. That went on for a while and was followed by a shot of a rainbowed pool of water and gasoline and another one of a mud puddle with a fast-food hamburger wrapper half submerged.

Still another blackout, and we were crossing the Golden Gate Bridge, its struts and cables quivering with the unsteadiness of Carlota’s camera. This was followed by a series of stills of the ocean and then another blackout. We were back in the woods again, staring at an underexposed fern.

The title came at the end:
Exposures,
a film by Carlota Bowman. The audience applauded mildly.

The projectionist had a little trouble getting the next film going. This one began with its title:
Dance.

We were back in the woods once again, looking at ferns. Then a pair of feet, female, I thought, with painted toenails, flitted through the foliage. A slightly different pair of feet followed, running and mashing fronds into the clay. Still another pair of feet came next, doing basically the same things the other feet had done.

The feet, which were now a little muddy, continued to follow each other around for a while, tripping lightly, skipping, leaping, tippy-toeing. Then the camera backed up a little and we got to see the bodies that went with the feet. They were women, all right. Three of them. Holding hands. They were dressed in flowing robes, vaguely classical in style. No one I recognized. They spent the next fifteen minutes weaving in and out of the trees, wrapping sashes around each other, and getting their feet even dirtier. Then, with many silent exclamations, they discovered another woman lying on the ground and gathered around her. The film blacked out for a fraction of a second, and then the camera focused on the corpse, or sleeping woman, or whatever. It was Carlota. She opened her eyes and the film ended.

There was, the projectionist announced, one more to go, after a brief intermission. We went back out to the champagne bottles. Rosie and I did not dare speak to each other. Carlota and Nona, thank God, were busy talking to a bearded man wearing a black turtleneck sweater and filthy jeans. The rest of the audience was standing around looking self-conscious. Their facial expressions said these were art films, and heaven knows they appreciated art, and wasn’t this all terribly interesting? I heard someone mention the review in the
Journal,
but I noticed that no one was talking much about the films.