"I believe so, yes."
"I see."
"Do you have a card?"
"Sure." I gave her my card.
Something died in her face and voice. "Private investigations," she read aloud.
"And psychological profiling. That's my main occupation."
"Oh."
I had the feeling that the moment I left she was going to throw my card away and wash her hands in hot soapy water.
"You'll tell them I was here?"
"Of course."
"I appreciate it."
I was just turning to walk back to the elevator when I was joined by the trim blue-suited gray-haired woman who'd been searching the filing cabinet. She was one of those
sixty-year-olds who manage to stay cute as hell.
We boarded the elevator. The doors closed.
She said, "I heard what you asked Maureen. About Mr. Heston and Mr. Cook. I guess I don't blame her for not telling you."
"For not telling me what?"
She sighed. "I've never heard anything like it."
The elevator reached the first floor and the doors opened. I held the door at bay and said, "Heard anything like what?"
"Their argument. They were in Mr. Heston's office shouting and swearing at each other and smashing things. And then they both left very quickly. Nobody's seen them for two days."
"Left together?"
"Yes. After Mr. Heston got a phone call."
I smiled. "I should pay you to spy for me."
She didn't smile in return. "I just thought maybe you could help them in some way. I have this terrible feeling that something is very, very wrong."
"Morning, Martha," said a sturdy no-nonsense man whose bulk shook the car when he boarded it. He pretended I didn't exist. He punched the button. He was in a hurry and the world would just have to get used to it.
I nodded goodbye to her through the closing doors.
T
here was a belief among many white people that red men would kill them at virtually any opportunity. For this reason, prisons often kept red men isolated from white. Indians generally received poorer food and poorer medical attention. Over 30% of Indians died during prison stays of more than six years.
Professor David Cromwell's Indian Journal
November 1, 1903
A
nna continued to investigate Gray House, her enquiries, discreet as she could make them, leading her to a man named Rudolph Hvacek who had been Douglas Shipman's first employee.
He now worked for another wealthy family in town as a gardener.
"I really don't see why you need to talk to me."
"I just have a few questions, Mr. Hvacek."
Are these official questions?"
"I'm not sure what you mean."
"Did the Chief send you here?"
"I didn't think so. I don't like being questioned by a female police officer in the first place — a lot of people in this town aren't happy that you're wearing that badge, Miss Tolan and I particularly don't like being questioned when the Chief doesn't even know you're here."
Mr. Hvacek had a nice little apartment for himself out on the 800 block of First Avenue West. He was fortyish, plump, and fitted into a black suit that an undertaker would envy.
Like many servants, he had begun to think of himself as a member of the upper classes. His contempt for Anna was pretty easy to see.
"It's about the Indian girl who was killed here last spring," Anna told him, "after Douglas Shipman moved his family into town and started using Gray House for his fun. I believe the group was called "The Circle of Six." That Indian girl was there all the time, wasn't she?"
They were in the parlor of the apartment house. Hvacek sat up primly. "I don't believe you understand. I'm not going to answer any more of your questions."
"I've checked my facts Mr. Hvacek. You continued to work for Mr. Shipman even after Gray House was officially closed down, so you know everything that went on there. You know about the Indian girl."
"That is quite enough, Miss Tolan. Quite enough."
Without another word, he escorted her to the door and out into the bracing night air.
"Hi, Anna."
"H
i, Trace."
"May I come up and sit on the porch with you?"
"If you like."
"Wow. It's baking out tonight."
"It sure is."
"I suppose you want to know about my date with Marietta Evans last night?"
"Not really, Trace."
"Well, we had a darned good time."
"Good."
"What'd you do?"
"Last night?"
"Uh-huh."
"Played bridge with Mrs. Goldman and her friends."
"That sounds like fun."
"Are you being sarcastic?"
"No."
"Good. Because I like bridge and I like Mrs. Goldman and her friends."
"People said we made a very handsome couple."
"You and Marietta?"
"Uh-huh."
"Good."
"She's very pretty."
"Yes, she is."
"God, Anna, don't you know what I'm trying to do?"
"Sure, you idiot. You're trying to make me jealous and I'm trying to pretend not to be jealous."
"Actually, she has kind of an overbite and bad breath."
"You got close enough to smell her breath?"
"I didn't kiss her, if that's what you mean."
"Really?"
"C'mon, Anna, you know better than that. I just figured I'd make you jealous and you'd be so happy to see me that you'd—"
"I'd what?"
"You know."
"No, I don't know."
"Gosh, Anna, won't you just marry me, won't you please?"
"I'm not sure I want to, Trace. I mean, a part of me does, but—"
Soon after, Trace, his head low, left the porch and walked down the shadowy street until Anna could no longer see him.
I
peered through a screen door into an orderly apartment of recently waxed hardwood floors and very neatly arranged furniture. From a distant room came the sounds of an acoustic guitar playing something that sounded vaguely Spanish, and much nearer by was the smell of sweet furniture polish.
I knocked.
She came out less than a minute later and at first I didn't recognize her at all. The dark hair had been cut, for one thing, in a plucky boyish bob. And the chambray shirt and tan chinos showed off a slender body she'd previously buried beneath several layers of clothing.
This was Sandy Moore's daughter. Slightly less than five weeks ago her apartment had been a rat's nest of trash and grime. So had she. Only the dark sparkling eyes were recognizable.
"Hi."
"Hi, Patty."
She giggled. "I don't mind if you stare."
"God, what happened?"
"C'mon in and I'll tell you."
I went in. She got me a Diet Pepsi from the refrigerator, carried it to where I sat in a faded but spotless armchair, and then sat cross-legged on the newly waxed floor and said, "That night you were here asking me all those questions about my mom and David Rhodes?"
"Right."
"I went nuts. After you left, I mean. Started hitting bars and everything. Woke up in this guy's place — hadn't ever seen him before — and tried to kill him."
"Why?"
She shrugged. "Just because I was so sick of it all — of being me, I mean. You know, being a slave to the bottle and all." She laughed merrily. "Luckily, he woke up and saw me with the knife there and took it away from me."
"Then what?"
"Then I came home and took pills and turned on the gas and tried to kill myself. But a neighbor smelled it and got me to the Mercy Hospital. After they pumped my stomach, I decided I might as well go detox. They've got a clinic there. I stayed three weeks."
"You're dry?"
"Twenty-seven days' worth."
"Congratulations."
"Yeah. I'm proud of myself, I really am. I'm scared, too, of course. I could fall right back off."
"And speaking of falling off — you're not going to chase after the rodeo, I take it?"
Shook her head. There was an impishness new to the dark eyes. It was fun to see. "Nah. If all those hunky rodeo Indians want somebody of my quality, they can come chase me."
"Good idea."
"How's your Diet Pepsi?"
"Vintage."
A grin. Glance around the living room. "You ever think I could make it look this good?"
"Honest?"
"Honest."
"No. I figured this place was just about to be condemned."
"Got my old job back at the hotel. They're not crazy about Indians but as this black woman who works there says, "Honey, least they don't hate you as much as they hate us." This time there was sorrow in the laughter. I liked her a whole hell of a lot, and admired her, too.
"You're probably here about my mom, huh?"
"Yeah."
"Anything special?"
"I was wondering if you'd let me look through her effects."
"If you want to, I guess."
"I wouldn't take anything. I'd just look, I mean. You could stand right next to me."
"The clothes and stuff I already gave away to St Vincent de Paul's."
"Any other stuff?"
"Odds and ends in a couple of cardboard boxes. You know what you're looking for?"
"Not exactly."
The grin. "Didn't figure you did." Pause. "You still don't think David Rhodes killed her and my aunt?"
"I do."
"But Cindy doesn't?"
"Yeah. Something like that."
"She always could get pathetic about him. Even when she was a little girl, my mom said."
"She's a nice woman."
Impish glance. "I'll take your word for it. I told you before — she's one of those people who're ashamed of being Indian, I guess, and I never can bring myself to feel too sorry for them." She stood up, graceful as her legs disentangled. "You want to go see her stuff?"
"Sure."
W
e sat in a sunny bedroom on a hook rug, looking through a cardboard box, the contents of which represented her mother's life. Patty had scrubbed and waxed up this room, too, and the double bedspread smelled pleasantly of fabric softener, and the shafts of sunlight on the bureau brought out the deep chestnut colors of the old but fine quality wood.
We went to work on the box, the one with the Campbell's soup can on the side.
It contained programs from several years' worth of Pow-Wows that the La Costa put on for tourists each summer; red ribbons and blue ribbons and yellow ribbons and green ribbons; a slender Bulova watch that no longer kept time; a half-dozen or so inexpensive rings; a well-read paperback of Love Story; a fragile crucifix with the Christ figure broken in half and glued back together; and photographs of Sandy at various ages and in various emotional states. Most of the photos showed her posing in front of rock concerts and other hippie gatherings. In the background you could see signs advertizing
THE
STONES and BOB
DYLAN
and
PINK FLOYD,
the
mid-seventies mostly. In these photos, Sandy was thin and pretty in a beaten way, the quick feral way of a junkie, which I suspected she'd been.
"She looked so vulnerable."
"Yes, she did," I said.
"I wish we'd have gotten along better."
I nodded and she took my hand and said, "Could I just hold it for a minute?" She was trying not to cry.
"It's a dollar fifty for every three minutes."
"Sort of like one of those sex phone hot lines?"
"Something like that, yes."