Too Sweet to Die (3 page)

“You said Jill had a breakdown. Was there any suicide attempt there?”

“Nothing that got into the press.” Hagopian extracted another clipping. “ ‘Nordlin Daughter Collapses At Graveside.’ ”

“ ‘Lovely dark-haired Jillian Nordlin,’ ” read Easy.

“Looks like she dyed her hair to become Jill Jeffers.”

“ ‘Miss Nordlin will recuperate from her recent tragic loss at a private sanitarium, according to a spokesman for former Senator Nordlin.’ Would that be Dr. Ingraham’s little hideaway again?”

“Right. She was there six months. She came out and shortly dropped out of sight,” said Hagopian. “I guess Dr. Ingraham did better by her than he did her mother.”

“Until now.”

“You think there’s a chance Jill went off someplace to kill herself?”

“I don’t know,” said Easy. “Her agent seems to be worried about the possibility.”

“Well, this is the town for it. The suicide capital of the world,” said the dark writer. “Some of them come here and go nutty, while others come out here with the sole ambition of giving me
tsurris.
The rest want to jump off a bridge.”

“San Francisco’s the town for that.”

Hagopian unfolded a front-page story. There was a two-column photo of a heavy man with a taut face. “Here’s the father, Leonard Nordlin.”

“Maybe I’ll talk to him.”

“Be cautious, John,” warned Hagopian. “I understand he’s still pretty powerful in this state.”

“I’ll phone him first.”

“Sometimes I think I should have stayed in Fresno and entered the family agriculture business,” said Hagopian. “There’s hardly any opportunity for graft doing these half-ass interviews for
TV Look.
”

Taking the clippings about the missing girl and her family, Easy returned to the parlor clearing. He sat in a wing chair for long minutes, tapping the papers on his knee.

E
ASY DOODLED QUESTION MARKS
on his memo pad. He hung up the phone, saying, “Another vote for San Francisco.”

Nan Alonzo came into his private office, chewing the eraser end of a wooden pencil. “All Jill Jeffers’s friends say the same thing?”

“The three I’ve been able to contact,” said Easy. “Each one tells me Jill was supposed to drive up to San Francisco for the weekend, alone. That she’d probably be staying with this Mitzi Levin. Nobody’s heard from Jill since last Friday.”

“Well, here’s Mitzi Levin’s phone number,” said Nan, placing a pink memo in front of him. “And this is the information on the Jeffers girl’s car.” She added a second slip to the first. “The car hasn’t turned up wrecked or abandoned so far.”

“What about hospitals?”

“Nobody has anyone resembling her. Though an emergency hospital over in Santa Monica has a hit-and-run blonde who sounded good, until they mentioned she’s six feet two and speaks only Norwegian.”

“Maybe we can get Killespie to settle for her.” He picked up the phone again, dialed area code 415 and then the San Francisco number of the Levin girl.

The phone rang four times and then a soft girl’s voice said, “Good afternoon from the Cinema Azul Dirty Movie House. This is a recording. The current attractions at San Francisco’s favorite bawdy film center are
A Bad Day for Hot Rocks
plus
Screwed
&
Tattooed.
Matinees today at two and four. You owe it to yourself to see these two modern-day classics of the liberated cinema. Critic John Stanley of the
Chronicle
calls them, ‘A magnificent pair of …’ ”

Easy pronged the phone, frowned at his secretary. “Now I know what’s playing. Get me her home phone.”

Scratching her broad flat nose, Nan backed out.

Easy rose and wandered around his office. He looked through the blinds at the small parking lot behind his Sunset Strip office. A television cowboy with silver hair was walking a fat peach-colored poodle among the cars.

Nan returned. “It was unlisted, so it took me an extra minute to get. Here, I’ll dial it for you.”

The cowboy’s fat poodle lifted its leg beside the rear tire of Easy’s dusty black VW, then thought better of it and trotted over to relieve himself on a new Mustang.

“Miss Levin? Hold on please, Los Angeles calling.” Nan handed the receiver to Easy.

“Hello, hello?” a girl was saying. It was the voice on the transcribed movie blurb, only a bit more nasal now.

“I’m John Easy, Miss Levin. I’m a private investigator and I’ve been asked to locate Jill Jeffers.”

“Who did you say you were?”

“John Easy,” repeated Easy.

“You could have saved yourself a toll call, Mr. Easy. I already told Jill’s agent I haven’t seen her in weeks.”

“Jill mentioned to several people she was driving up to San Francisco this past weekend to see you.”

“She never showed. Despite what she may have announced.”

Easy said, “You know that if she stays missing much longer, Miss Levin, the police will come in on this. Now, do you have any idea where she might be?”

After a short silence, Mitzi said, “Well, I didn’t actually
see
Jill this weekend, Mr. Easy. I did talk to her, though, on the telephone. I sort of promised her not to mention it, but if there’s a possibility she’s in some trouble, I guess I’d better, hadn’t I?”

“Where’d she call you from?”

“Carmel.”

“Was she at her father’s? At the Nordlin place.”

“You know who she really is then?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m not really sure where she was, Mr. Easy. She never said,” explained the girl. “She called me early Saturday to say she had some things to take care of in Carmel and might not get up to see me at all. She didn’t. I’m sure she’s okay, though, don’t you think?”

“What do you think?”

“Jill can be erratic at times,” said Mitzi. “She’s a very talented person, and you know how they can be.”

“She’s two days late for an acting job,” said Easy. “Is she usually that erratic?”

“No.” The girl’s voice was faint. “Jill is almost always an hour or two late, but not two days.”

“What did she have to attend to in Carmel?”

“I really don’t know, Mr. Easy,” said Mitzi. “Listen, please. Jill doesn’t really want people knowing she’s part of the Nordlin family. Being Jill Jeffers has been good for her. It would be really too bad to spoil that. Do you understand?”

Easy asked. “How did she sound?”

“What do you mean? She sounded like she always does.”

“Not depressed?”

Mitzi inhaled, then made a small snorting sound. “You’re thinking about her family, not her, Mr. Easy. No, Jill would never … never do away with herself. I’m sure.”

“Okay. Is there anything else you can tell me?”

“Not really, no. Except I hope you find her.”

After hanging up Easy narrowed one eye at Nan, who was over tuning the air conditioner. “Did you look up little boss Nordlin’s number?”

“Yes.” Nan told him the Carmel phone number.

While dialing Easy drew circular borders around the question marks on his memo pad.

“Good afternoon. Nordlin residence,” answered a woman with a gentle Mexican accent.

“I’d like to speak to Leonard Nordlin.”

“One moment, sir.”

Easy heard footsteps walk away on hardwood floors.

Then a new phone was picked up and a precise male voice said, “Who am I speaking to, please?”

“I’m John Easy, calling from Los Angeles. Mr. Nordlin?”

“Unfortunately Mr. Nordlin is ill and can receive no calls,” replied the precise voice. “I am Cullen Montez, Mr. Nordlin’s private secretary. What did you wish to discuss with Mr. Nordlin, Mr. Easy?”

“His daughter.”

Cullen Montez said, “If it’s more of her unpaid bills I must make it perfectly clear to you Mr. Nordlin is no longer financially responsible for Jillian. Are you with one of the shops down there, Mr. Easy?”

“I’m a detective. Jill has been missing for several days.”

“A police detective?”

“Private. I’ve been retained to locate her.”

“I see,” said Montez. “Of course we’re concerned about Jillian, Mr. Easy. I hope your inquiry won’t reach the point where well have to disturb Mr. Nordlin over it. May I ask if there is any suspicion of foul play?”

“Not yet,” said Easy. “You haven’t seen the girl within the past few days?”

Montez chuckled softly. “I fear not, Mr. Easy. Jillian has not been a frequent visitor in recent years. Her father’s illness has not brought her rushing to his bedside with any regularity.” Montez paused. “Am I to assume that your client, Mr. Easy, has not taken this matter to the police?”

“So far, no,” answered Easy. “Jill supposedly called someone from Carmel last Saturday, Montez. If she wasn’t at home, where was she? Do you have any idea?”

Another soft chuckle. “With a girl such as Jillian one never knows,” said Montez. “I can state with some certainty it’s unlikely Jillian was in Carmel at all recently. The senator has a great many friends and associates in this area. Had Jillian been seen in the vicinity I would have been informed. Now I must get back to my duties. I trust you will let me know as soon as you learn anything positive. Goodbye, Mr. Easy.”

“What did you find out?” Nan asked.

Moving away from his metal desk, Easy said, “Cullen Montez probably wears perfume.”

“He wouldn’t let you talk to Nordlin?”

“Nordlin is supposed to be too sick.” He put his big hands in his trouser pockets. “I have a feeling everybody is being untruthful with me.”

“That’s one of the symptoms of paranoia,” the short broad Nan told him. “We were discussing it in my group therapy session the other night.”

Easy strode to the back door. “Call the Kearny Detective Agency up in SF and ask them to go talk to the Levin girl. Also get them to check on Jill’s Porsche, see if the cops have picked it up anyplace in San Francisco.” He opened the door.

“You’ll be where?”

Easy thought for a second, then said, “Carmel.” He went out to his dusty car.

F
OG CAME SWIRLING UP
over the dark edges of the high black cliffs, cold as the black night ocean.

Easy was standing next to his car watching the chunky middle-aged gas station man rub his windshield with a blue paper towel.

“I’ll do this anyway,” the attendant said. “Even if you’re not buying any gas. Keeps me in shape.”

“What about this girl?” Easy was holding a photo of Jill Jeffers.

The station man crumpled the dirt towel into a jagged ball, came back to take another look at the picture. “Boy, there’s somebody who’d make you cream in your jeans for sure.”

“Have you seen her? She drives a red ’68 Porsche.”

“They always do, the pretty ones,” said the chunky man. His left canine tooth was missing and when he smiled he poked the tip of his tongue through the gap. “You get class conscious working in proximity to Carmel. I try to keep my place. I never get wise with any bimbo who isn’t in an American car.”

“Whether or not you tried to pick her up, did you see her?”

He shook his chunky head. “Wish I had. I like to look, even when I can’t touch. Know what I mean?”

Easy got back into his Volkswagen and drove on toward Carmel. None of the gas stations on the coast highway near the town had produced anyone who remembered seeing Jill Jeffers.

Parking on a nameless Carmel side street beneath a pine tree, Easy got out. There was a tea shop immediately to his left, with arched windows and strawberry-patterned cafe curtains. Old women in silk dresses were eating sensible dinners by candlelight. Next came an art supply store with a red tile roof and then a souvenir shop with its windows filled with abalone shell ashtrays and decorative pine cones.

Around the corner was a small whitewashed adobe hotel, built around a tiled courtyard. The hotel clerk was behind a carved-wood check-in desk, wearing what appeared to be part of somebody else’s bullfighter suit. “Good evening, sir,” he said, glancing up from the local shopping paper he was studying.

Producing the picture, Easy asked, “Has this girl been here within the last week? I’m an investigator from Los Angeles. We’re trying to locate her.”

The dark-haired clerk studied the photo. “Why, that’s …” He stopped.

“That’s who?”

“I was going to say she looks quite a bit like Senator Nordlin’s daughter. I see there’s a different name attached to the picture.”

“Has this girl been here?”

“No, sir. If you were better acquainted with Carmel you’d know our hotel is rather a sedate one. Not a likely place for a single young girl to stay.”

“What would be a likely unsedate hotel?”

“You might try the Casa Piña, two blocks toward the beach on your right,” suggested the man in the sequined coat.

Easy tried that and two other inns. No one admitted seeing Jill Jeffers or registering her, though at the Casa Piña the chubby desk man showed the same guarded flash of recognition the sequined clerk at the first hotel had evidenced. After the hotels and inns Easy checked the cocktail lounges.

When he stepped out of an ivy-fronted bar on a side street near the ocean two large men left the shadows of a sidewalk walnut tree and drifted toward him through the cold night mist. They were as tall as Easy and each was considerably heftier. Both wore double-breasted blazers and bell-bottom pants. Each had his right fist shoved in his right blazer pocket.

“Mr. Easy, isn’t it?” asked the one on the left.

“Nope,” answered Easy. “My name is Frank Luther Mott and I’m just passing through your town on my way back home to Salinas.”

“Ha, ha,” said the one on the right.

“We mean you no immediate trouble, Mr. Easy,” explained his partner. He stepped close enough to Easy to nudge him with his pocketed revolver. “Won’t you come for a little walk with us?”

“Where?”

“Down to the beach. It’s sparsely frequented tonight, making it a good place for a talk.”

“I can talk to you right here.”

“We’re not the ones who want a conversation with you. Please come along now, Mr. Easy.”

The gun barrel nudged harder. Easy turned and commenced walking downhill toward the black water.

The scent of jasmine and sandalwood blended with the thick hanging fog. Standing a few feet from Easy on the moon-colored sand was a tall slender man of forty. He was tanned and narrow-faced, wearing a short-cropped blond wig. He had the same color hair as the cowboy actor’s fat poodle. “I thought we had satisfied your curiosity via the telephone, Mr. Easy,” he said in his careful voice.