Authors: David Bishop
“We talked. All right? Her life. Well, her life some. Mostly mine, I guess.”
“And you spilled your guts, right?”
“Some stuff. Yeah. I guess. The woman knows how to get a man talking.”
“I’ll bet she can. Her naked under a man’s white shirt enhanced by mismatched buttons and buttonholes. I supposed you told her your wife got a divorce after you went to prison?”
“Yeah.”
“And that she had been mad enough to file ever since you shot her father’s prize hunting dog? You tell her that too?”
“That damn dog was hunting me, Fidge, charged me in the study, saliva hanging from its teeth. For heaven’s sake, you had to be there. That animal took down game with that mouth. What would you have done?”
Fidge laughed. “I’d have brought along Milk Bone when I visited the in-laws.”
“Ha. Ha. Like you said, my marriage was kaput by then anyway. My arrest just gave her an easy explanation for it.”
“So you sort of moved up her timetable.”
“Shooting that damn dog was self-defense. Hey, you got a murder here. Shouldn’t you be doing something more important than critiquing my fucked-up personal life?”
“You’re right; I’m here about the murdered man, not the murdered dog. But, like we say in the crime-fighting business, you having shot the dog, then the guy outside the courthouse established your pattern of behavior. Now, you were telling me about you and Clarice and your four hours in paradise.”
“I can’t really tell you what we talked about. It was late. You know, you get sort of groggy, the mindless talk comes and the time goes.”
Again his silent finger preceded his question. “What about the key?”
“I don’t know why she said that.”
“That don’t answer my question, Matthew. She said you were her old man’s only friend in the building. Says she figured her husband might have given you a key for emergencies or whatever. Sounds awfully convenient for when you wanted to visit with his wife.”
“Okay. Here it is direct. I do not and never did have a key to the condo of Garson and Clarice Talmadge. Is that plain enough, Sergeant Fidgery?”
“Don’t get hot, Matthew. You know how this works.”
“I wasn’t dodging your question. As for emergencies, hell, the building supervisor lets people in then. He’s got keys to every unit.”
“Okay. I’ll check with the super.”
“How do you size this up?”
The sergeant stepped closer. “The wife’s a pastry on legs, but her deck is missing a few cards. She plugs her old man, and then leaves the front door dead bolted from the inside.” Fidge gestured toward a .22 revolver on the bed. “Says that there’s her husband’s gun, it’s loaded with longs. Only one shot’s been fired. I expect ballistics will show the missing long is in the old guy’s brain. Says the red scarf draped over the gun handle is hers, so’s that pretty little pink pillow with the ugly little black hole. Her dog sleeps on it, or used to.”
“Why the pillow?” I asked. “A .22’s pretty quiet. An expert would know that.”
“She ain’t no expert.”
“Come on, Fidge.” I shook my head. “Clarice isn’t the kind to kill a man unless it’s with loving.”
“And just what kind is she, Mr. Writer?”
“The divorcing kind. She’d move on and find a new rich guy. Think of it as legal prostitution with fewer customers and better working conditions, with a topnotch severance package as a bonus.”
Fidge grinned. “Maybe you should write one of them columns for the lovelorn.”
I imitated his finger, using my own. “What’s the story on the cornflakes?” I asked.
“Says her husband’s a light sleeper. That he sprinkled the flakes on the floor so no one could sneak into his room. How’s that for nutso?”
Clarice’s voice shrilled from the living room. “I didn’t do it, Matt. Honest to God, I didn’t do it.” Her chihuahua whimpered, perhaps in agreement.
I had never before heard the dog make a sound. Garson had refused to buy the condo unless his wife could keep her dog. She proved to the condo association that Asta had been trained to always stay quiet indoors and, after Garson paid a large nonrefundable deposit, Asta became the only pet in a building posted: no pets.
I looked at my old partner. “Just what points this at her?”
Fidge started with a facial expression that screamed I’ve already told you. He summarized: “The deadbolt. No forced entry. Nothing’s missing. The neighbors have heard lots of screaming. The gun was in the house. The scarf and pillow are hers.”
“That won’t get you a conviction.”
“That’s just the part I’m telling ya. We got more and we’re still in the first inning.”
“What else have you that ties to her?”
“I’m not paid to report to you, Matthew. But I’ll tell you this, when the wife used her scarf and her dog’s pillow she moved it up to premeditated.”
“Maybe Garson did himself in?” I said.
“Usually they leave a note, and suicides don’t often worry about fingerprints and keeping their work quiet, not to mention the awkwardness of plugging themselves in the front of the skull.” Fidge shrugged after discrediting suicide. I agreed with him. This wasn’t suicide. Still, I hadn’t seen Fidge shrug that way in years, but habits become habits by lasting over time. This Fidgery shrug meant,
open and shut
.
“I’m not going to tell you again, Matthew, get outta here. The medical examiner could be here any minute.”
“I’m going.” I used the back of my hand to pat the sergeant on the breast pocket of his dark-blue suit coat. “She can phone her attorney after you get her downtown, right?”
“Sure.”
“Who called this in?”
“Her.”
“What about the coffee?” I asked.
Fidge coughed into his fist. “Says she dropped the cup when she saw the hole in her sugar daddy’s noggin.”
I left my ex-partner in Garson’s bedroom and went to Clarice in the living room. “I’ll come see you once you’re permitted to have visitors.”
She shifted Asta from one arm to the other while blotting her eyes with the soft pads of her straightened fingers, the way women do to avoid smudging their eye makeup.
“Please take Asta,” she pleaded. “There’s no one else I can ask. I got her a continental clip three days ago. She won’t need another grooming for weeks. I’ll be home before that.”
I had once thought about getting a dog, but figured on one I could name Wolf or King. Then, after the incident with my father-in-law’s mad creature, I repressed the whole idea of a dog.
“I need another minute in the victim’s room,” Fidge said, leaning out of the doorway of Garson’s bedroom. “When I come out, I want a decision on that dog. It’s you or the catcher.”
“What’ll I do with a little dog like that?” I asked, looking at Clarice.
“She won’t be any trouble.” Clarice’s eyes went all funny. “Please, Matt.”
I had always envied the way Sam Spade could stand up to the femme fatales who tried to play him. I had given that skill to my fictional detective, but no one had given it to me.
“All right,” I said, hoping I sounded less defeated than I felt. “Asta can stay with me.”
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“I’m sure of almost nothing. But, yes, Asta can stay with me.” I put my fingers against her lips and headed for her bedroom where I found no deck shoes with zigzag soles. I quickly looked in the bathroom, the kitchen, and the laundry room and found no zigzags there either. Fidge had likely already done this. He was a solid detective so I had to assume he had seen the shoe print on the deck and the partially open glass door in Garson’s bedroom.
Back in the living room, I asked, “When did Garson start with the cornflakes?”
“Tally went all crazy after that call. He started carrying his gun around in his waistband, sleeping with it on the night stand. He kept insisting I go get six boxes of cornflakes. We fought about that. We fought about everything, about nothing. Day before yesterday, I stopped at the post office to mail a few house bills and something Tally wanted mailed to his attorney. On the way back I bought the damn cornflakes. Guess what? We still fought.” She leaned closer and whispered. “He scared me real bad. I wish I hadn’t—”
I grabbed her shoulders. “Save it for your attorney, you have no legal privilege over what you tell me.” But she kept talking anyway.
“Damn it, I didn’t shoot him. I was trying to say I wish I hadn’t gotten mad at him so much those last few days.” She stood clutching the dog, breathing slowly. Her eyes shut. Then she put down Asta and said, “Go with Uncle Matt.”
The hair ball leaped into my arms.
“She’ll sleep on the foot of your bed. You’ll need to get her a new pillow. Her pink one has a … hole in it. Take a few of her toys. She’ll be fine.”
Fidge again filled the bedroom doorway, “Just the mutt.”
“But Asta needs her toys. She—”
“Lady. Just the mutt or we call the pound. None of this is up for negotiation.”
I put my fingers under Clarice’s chin, raising her head. “Get your mind off this damn dog. You’re in a real mess. Do what Sergeant Fidgery tells you but don’t talk about this to anyone until you get an attorney. A criminal attorney. A good one.”
Fidge came out of the bedroom wearing a grin wider than his flat nose. “I hope you and Asta will live happily ever after.” His eyes sort of twinkled, which is hard to imagine on the face genetics had passed down to Fidge.
“Now,” he said, “for the last time, Matthew, get lost.”
I lowered the dog to stop it from licking me on the mouth and walked out with Asta scrambling up my front, watching Clarice over my shoulder.
Like yesterday, today started way too early. After a shower, three cups of coffee, a scan of the sports section, and four words in the crossword puzzle, I pulled my Chrysler 300 out of my building’s underground parking and pointed it toward town. The veil of salty wetness that had sneaked in while the city slept still coated everything that had spent the night outdoors. I turned on the windshield wipers, hit the defroster button, and headed for the city jail. Clarice had been temporarily held at the smaller Long Beach jail inside the police department. After her arraignment, she had been moved to the larger main jail on Pacific Avenue near Twentieth Street.
Last spring, my ex-wife and I started sharing dinners, movies, and what was now her bed a few nights a week. We still cared, but she couldn’t get past the anger and betrayal she felt over my having gunned down the thug outside the courthouse. After nearly a month of our running in place, I put a stop to the experiment. The ending of most relationships digs an emotional hole that refills with emptiness; ours was no exception.
Hemingway had said something like the best way to get over a woman is to get a new one. I hadn’t decided whether to take Hemingway’s advice or to write a novel, use her name, and have her killed—heinously. For a few weeks after I pulled the plug on our mutual effort, I considered both, a sort of double exorcism.
Then I met Clarice, who was bright and funny as well as passionate. The only problem, Clarice was married. I hadn’t known that, and I hadn’t bothered asking. My libido was screaming, “Any port in a storm,” and Clarice was a dock slip built to hold a good sized yacht so I powered on in.
* * *
The Long Beach jail, one of California’s largest, booked about eighteen thousand inmates annually. That seems like a huge number of bookings, but then Long Beach was California’s sixth largest city, and America’s thirty-eighth biggest with a population around half a million. To many people Long Beach doesn’t seem that big, probably because it butts up to Los Angeles without an obvious border crossing.
The chairs of the Long Beach jailhouse were all occupied with people jabbering in multiple languages. I figured all of them were talking about seeing a loved one and cursing someone else for the poor choices made by the loser they had come to visit. The air felt tight from the fear which grips everyone in a jail, even those working hard at showing tough. The mothers who had brought babies were trying to keep them from crying. But the babies had it right; a jail was a place that could make anyone cry.
For now, Clarice’s world was the place writers had given names like stir, the slammer, the joint, the pokie, and a thousand others. But not the big house, that name referred to prison not a jail. Whatever the name, except in the movies, escapes were rare. Once you went in, you stayed in until they let you walk out or they carried you out.
Eventually I was called through a heavy door and left to walk behind a row of uncomfortable looking chairs. Visitation was limited to fifteen minutes. I chose the first place to sit where the chairs to each side of me were not occupied by other visitors. A moment later, Clarice entered through a door like the one I had come through, only her door was on the inmate side of the glass partition. Her entrance started the clock on our fifteen minutes. She walked toward me behind a row of chairs on her side, forced a smile, not much of one, and sat down.
We were separated by a pane of glass as thick as old coke bottles. I picked up the dirty phone on my side. She picked up the dirty phone on her side. She put the flat of her other hand on the unbreakable glass, the pads of her fingers turning white from the pressure. I covered her hand with my own, the insulation of the cold glass denying me the heat from her fingers.
She ignored the tide of tears spilling through her black lashes. “The prosecutor convinced the judge I was a flight risk,” she said. “He denied bail. They photographed and fingerprinted me, then some dyke with a mustache long enough to curl felt me up during a strip search. After that I got shoved in the shower.”
By the time Clarice finished, her voice had raised several decibels. The visiting room guard walked over and leaned down next to her. I couldn’t see his face, but a good guess went something like: behave yourself or this visit’s over and that gorgeous fanny of yours goes back in lockup.
She lowered her head and nodded. The guard stepped back. I gave her a minute to compose herself.
I had called ahead to get the official words. Clarice Talmadge had been charged with capital murder, also known as first degree murder with special circumstances, under California Penal Code 187 (a). The fancy title meant that if she was found guilty of having murdered her husband for financial gain, one of more than twenty different situations which constitute capital murder in California, she would face either the death penalty or life imprisonment without a possibility of parole.