by Sue Grafton
"It's not me you have to worry about. It's the cops who count."
"What cops?"
I shook my head. "You know who your friendly local cops are," I said. "If somebody puts a bug in the wrong ear, you'll be sitting in the hot seat."
He was all outrage. "Why would you do that to me?"
"Because you're not leveling with me, William."
"I am leveling with you! I've told you everything I know."
"I don't think so. I think you knew about Daggett's death. I think you saw him this week."
He put his hands on his hips and looked off across the room, shaking his head. "Man, this is all I need. This is no lie. I've been straight. I'm minding my own business, doing like I been told. I didn't even know the dude was up here."
"You can stick to your story if you like," I said, "but I'll give you a word of advice. I've got the license number of that car you bought. You bolt and I'm calling Lieutenant Dolan down at Homicide."
He seemed as much puzzled as dismayed. "What is this? A shakedown? Is that what this is about?"
"What's to shake? You don't have a cent. I want information, that's all."
"I don't have any information. How many times I gotta tell you that?"
"Look," I said patiently. "Why don't I let you think about the situation and then we can talk again."
"Why don't you go fuck yourself!"
I put my slicker on, tucking the strap of my handbag over my shoulder. "Thanks for the beer. I'll buy yours next time."
He made an exaggerated gesture of dismissal, too pissed off to reply. He headed toward the door and I watched him go. I glanced at my watch. It was well after midnight and I was exhausted. My head was starting to ache and I knew everything about me smelled like stale cigarette smoke. I wanted to go home, strip down, shower, and then crawl into the folds of my quilt. Instead, I took a deep breath and went after him.
Chapter 10
* * *
I gave him a good head start, then followed him back to the trailer. The temperature felt like it had dropped into the fifties. The eucalyptus trees were still tossing occasional showers at me when the wind cut through, but for the most part, the night was clear. Above me, I could see pale puffs of rain clouds receding, wide patches of starry sky breaking through. I parked half a block away and padded into the park on foot as I had before. Billy's car was parked beside the trailer. I was getting bored, but I had to be certain he wasn't heading off to consult with some confederate I didn't know about.
The same lights were on in the galley, but a dim light now glowed at the rear of the trailer, where I imagined the bedroom to be. I picked my way through the bushes to that end. Curtains were pulled across the windows, but the venting system was piping a murmured conversation right out through a mesh-covered opening. I hunkered down by the torn skirting, leaning my head against the aluminum. I could smell cigarette smoke, which I guessed was Coral's.
"... want to know why she showed up now," she was saying. "That's what we have to worry about. For all we know, they're in it together."
"Yeah, but doin' what? That's what I can't figure out."
"When'd she say she'd get in touch?"
"She didn't. Said I should think about the situation. Jesus. How'd she get a bead on the Chevy so fast? That's what bugs me. I had that car two hours."
"Maybe she followed you, dimwit."
The silence was profound. "Goddamn it," he said.
I heard footsteps thump toward the front of the trailer. By the time the door banged open I was easing my way around the end. I peered out into the carport. The nose of the Chevy was about six feet away, the space on either side of it crowded with junk.
The door to the trailer had been flung open. Light poured out, washing as far as the point where the asphalt began. With a quick look over my shoulder, I waded into the refuse, picking my way around to the far side of the car, where I crouched, listening intently. Sometimes I feel like I spend half my life this way. I heard Billy fumble his way around the bedroom end of the trailer just as I had.
"Jesus!" he hissed.
Coral peered out the side window, whispering hoarsely. "What's wrong?"
"Shut up! Nothing. I banged my goddamn shin on the trailer hitch. Why don't you clean up this crap?"
My sentiments exactly.
Coral laughed and the curtain dropped back into place.
Billy appeared again at the far end of the carport, rubbing his left shin. He did a quick visual survey, apparently convinced by then there wasn't anybody lurking about the premises. He shook his head and thumped up the steps, banging the door shut behind him. The carport went dark. I let out my breath.
I could hear them murmuring together, but by then I didn't really care what else they discussed. As soon as I was convinced it was safe, I crept out of the driveway and headed for my car.
Sunday morning was overcast. The very air looked gray, and dampness seemed to rise up out of the earth like a mist. I went through my usual morning routine, getting a three-mile run in before the skies opened up again. At 9:00, I put a call through to Barbara Daggett at home. I brought her up to date, filling her in on my night's activities.
"What now?" she asked.
"I'm going to let Billy Polo stew for a day or two and then get back to him."
"What makes you think he won't skip?"
"Well, he is on parole and I'm hoping he won't want to mess that up. Besides, it feels like a waste of money to pay me to sit there all day."
"I thought you said he was the only lead you had."
"Maybe not," I said cautiously. "I've been thinking about Tony Gahan and the other people killed in the accident."
"Tony Gahan?" she said with surprise. "How could he be involved in this?"
"I don't know. Your father hired me originally to track him down. Maybe he found the kid himself and that's where he was early in the week."
"But Kinsey, why would Daddy want to track him down? That boy must hate his guts. His whole family was wiped out."
"That's my point."
"Oh."
"Do you have any idea how to locate him? Your father had an address on Stanley Place, but the house was apparently empty. I can't find a Gahan listed in the telephone book."
"He lives with his aunt now, I think, somewhere in Colgate. Let me see if I've got an address."
Colgate is the bedroom community, attached to Santa Teresa like a double star. The two are just about the same size, but Santa Teresa has all the character and Colgate has the affordable housing, along with hardware stores, paint companies, bowling alleys, and drive-in theaters. Colgate is the Frostee-Freeze capital of the world.
There was a pause and I could hear pages rattle. She came back on the line. "My mistake. They live near the Museum. Her last name is Westfall. Ramona."
"I wonder why your father didn't know about her."
"I don't know. She was there for the trial. I do remember that, because someone pointed her out to me. I wrote her a note afterwards, saying that of course we'd do anything we could to help, but I never heard back."
"You know anything else about her? Is she married, for instance?"
"I think so, yes. Her husband manufactures industrial supplies or something like that. Actually, now that I think about it, she was working at that kitchenware place on Capilla because I spotted her when I was in there shopping a couple of months ago. Maybe you could catch her this afternoon if she still works there."
"On Sunday?"
"Sure, they're open from twelve to five."
"I'll try her first and see how far I get," I said. "What about your mother? How's she holding up?"
"Surprisingly well. Turns out she handles death like a champ. If it's covered in the Bible, she trots out all the appropriate attitudes and goes through the sequence automatically. I thought she'd flip out, but it seems to have put her back on her feet. She's got church women sitting with her, and the pastor's there. The kitchen table's stacked with tuna casseroles and chocolate c
akes. I don't know how long it will last, but for now, she's in her element."
"When's the funeral?"
"Tuesday afternoon. The body's been transported to the mortuary. I think they said he'd be ready for viewing early this afternoon. Are you coming by?"
"Yes, I think I will. I can tell you then if I've talked to this Westfall woman or the kid."
Jorden's is a gourmet cook's fantasy, with every imaginable food preparation device. Rack after rack of cookware, utensils, cookbooks, linens, spices, coffees, and condiments; chafing dishes, wicker baskets, exotic vinegars and oils, knives, baking pans, glassware. I stood in the entrance for a moment, amazed by the number and variety of food-related implements. Pasta machines, cappuccino makers, food warmers, coffee grinders, ice cream freezers, food processors. The air smelled of chocolate and made me wish I had a mother. I spotted three saleswomen, all wearing wraparound aprons made of mattress ticking, with the store's name embroidered in maroon across the bib.
I asked for Ramona Westfall and was directed toward the rear aisle. She was apparently doing a shelf count. I found her perched on a small wooden stool, clipboard in hand, checking off items on a list that included most of the non-electrical gadgets. She was sorting through a bin of what looked like small stainless steel sliding boards with a blade across the center that would slice your tiny ass off.
"What are those?" I asked.
She glanced up at me with a pleasant smile. She appeared to be in her late forties, with short, pale sandy hair streaked with gray, hazel eyes peering at me over a pair of half-glasses which she wore low on her nose. She used little if any makeup, and even seated, I could tell she was small and slim. Under the apron, she wore a white, long-sleeved blouse with a Peter Pan collar, a gray tweed skirt, hose, and penny loafers.
"That's a mandoline. It's made in West Germany."
"I thought a mandolin was a musical instrument."
"The spelling's different. This is for slicing raw vegetables. You can waffle-cut or julienne."
"Really?" I said. I had sudden visions of homemade French fries and cole slaw, neither of which I've ever prepared. "How much is that?"
"A hundred and ten dollars. With the slicing guard, it's one thirty-eight. Would you like a demonstration?"
I shook my head, unwilling to spend that much money on behalf of a potato. She got to her feet, smoothing the front of her apron. She was half a head shorter than I and smelled like a perfume sample I'd gotten in the mail the week before. Lavender and crushed jasmine. I was impressed with the price of the stuff, if not the scent. I stuck it in a drawer and I'm assailed with the fragrance now every time I pull out fresh underwear.
"You're Ramona Westfall, aren't you?"
Her smile was modified to a look of expectancy. "That's right. Have we met?"
I shook my head. "I'm Kinsey Millhone. I'm a private investigator here in town."
"Is there something I can help you with?"
"I'm looking for Tony Gahan. I understand you're his aunt."
"Tony? Good heavens, what for?"
"I was asked to locate him on a personal matter. I didn't know how else to get in touch with him."
"What personal matter? I don't understand."
"I was asked to deliver something to him. A check from a man who's recently deceased."
She looked at me blankly for a moment and then I saw recognition leap into her eyes. "You're referring to John Daggett, aren't you? Someone told me it was on the news last night. I assumed he was still in prison."
"He's been out for six weeks."
Her face flooded with color. "Well, isn't that typical," she snapped. "Five people dead and he's back on the streets."
"Not quite," I said. "Could we go someplace and talk?"
"About what? About my sister? She was thirty-eight, a beautiful person. She was decapitated when he ran a stoplight and plowed into them. Her husband was killed. Tony's sister was crushed. She was six, just a baby..." She bit off her sentence abruptly, suddenly aware that her voice had risen. Nearby, several people paused, looking over at us.
"Who were the others? Did you know them?" I asked.
"You're the detective. You figure it out."
In the next aisle, a dark-haired woman in a striped apron caught her eye. She didn't open her mouth, but her expression said, "Is everything all right?"
"I'm taking a break," Ramona said to her. "I'll be in the back room if Tricia's looking for me."
The dark-haired woman glanced at me briefly and then dropped her gaze. Ramona was moving toward a doorway on the far side of the room. I followed. The other customers had lost interest, but I had a feeling that I'd be facing an unpleasant scene.
By the time I entered the back room, Ramona was fumbling in her handbag with shaking hands. She opened a zippered compartment and took out a vial of pills. She extracted a tablet and broke it in half, downing it with a slug of cold coffee from a white mug with her name on the side. On second thought, she took the second half of the tablet as well.
I said, "Look, I'm sorry to have to bring this up..."
"Don't apologize," she spat. "It doesn't do any good." She searched through the bag and came up with a hard pack of Winston's. She pulled out a cigarette and tamped it repeatedly on her thumbnail, then lit it with a Bic disposable lighter she'd tucked in her apron pocket. She hugged her waist with her left arm, propping the right elbow on it so she could hold the cigarette near her face. Her eyes seemed to have darkened and she fixed me with a blank, rude stare. "What is it you want?"
I could feel my face warm. Somehow the money was suddenly beside the point and seemed like too paltry a sum in any event. "I have a cashier's check for Tony. John Daggett asked me to deliver it."
Her smile was supercilious. "Oh, a check. Well, how much is it for? Is it per head or some sort of lump sum payment by the carload?"
"Mrs. Westfall," I said patiently.
"You can call me Ramona, dear, since the subject matter's so intimate. We're talking about the people I loved best in this world." She took a deep drag of her cigarette and blew smoke toward the ceiling.
I clamped down on my temper, controlling my response. "I understand that the subject is painful," I said. "I know there's no way to compensate for what happened, but John Daggett was making a gesture, and regardless of your opinion of him, it's possible that Tony might have a use for the money."
"We provide for him very nicely, thanks. We don't need anything from John Daggett or his daughter or from you."
I plowed on, heading into the face of her wrath like a swimmer through churning surf. "Let me just say something first. Daggett came to me last week with a cashier's check made out to Tony."
She started to speak, but I held up one hand. "Please," I said.
She subsided, allowing me to continue.
"I put the check in a safe deposit box until I could figure out how to deliver it, as agreed. You can toss it in the trash for all I care, but I'd like to do what I said I'd do, which is to see that Tony Gahan gets it. In theory, it's Tony's to do with as he sees fit, so I'd appreciate it if you'd talk to him before you do anything else."
She thought about that one, her eyes locked on mine. "How much?"
"Twenty-five thousand. That's a good chunk of education for Tony, or a trip abroad..."
"I get the point," she cut in. "Now maybe you'll allow me to have my say. That boy has been with us for almost three years now. He's fifteen years old and I don't think he's slept a full eight hours since the accident. He has migraines, he bites his nails. His grades are poor, school attendance is shit. We're talking about a kid with an I.Q. right off the charts. He's a wreck and John Daggett did that to him. There's no way... no way anyone can ever make up to Tony for what that man did."
"I understand that."
"No, you don't." Her eyes filled suddenly with tears. She was silent, hands shaking again so badly now that she could scarcely get the Winston to her lips. She managed to take another drag, fighting for control. Th
e silence lengthened. She seemed to shudder and I could almost see the tranquilizer kick in. She turned away abruptly, dropped the cigarette, and stepped on it. "Give me a number where I can reach you. I'll talk to my husband and see what he says."
I handed her my card, taking a moment to jot down my home address and telephone number on the back, in case she needed to reach me there.
Chapter 11
* * *
After I left Ramona Westfall, I stopped by my apartment and changed into pantyhose, low heels, and my all-purpose dress. This garment, which I've owned for five years, is made of some magic fabric that doesn't wilt, wrinkle, or show dirt. It can be squashed down to the size of a rain hat and shoved in the bottom of my handbag without harm. It can also be rinsed out in any bathroom sink and hung to dry overnight. It's black, lightweight, has long sleeves, zips up the back, and should probably be "accessorized," a women's clothing concept I've never understood. I wear the dress "as is" and it always looks okay to me. Once in a while I see this look of recognition in someone's eye, but maybe it's just a moment of surprise at seeing me in something other than jeans and boots.
The Wynington-Blake Mortuary-Burials, Cremation, and Shipping, Serving All Faiths – is located on the east side of town on a shady side street with ample parking. It was originally built as a residence and retains the feeling of a substantial single-family dwelling. Now, of course, the entire first floor has been converted into the equivalent of six spacious living rooms, each furnished with metal folding chairs and labeled with some serene-sounding word.
The gentleman who greeted me, a Mr. Sharonson, wore a subdued navy blue suit, a neutral expression, and used a public library voice. John Daggett was laid out in "Meditation," which was just down the corridor and to my left. The family, he murmured, was in the Sunrise Chapel if I cared to wait. I signed in. Mr. Sharonson removed himself discreetly and I was left to do as I pleased. The room was rimmed with chairs, the casket at the apex. There were two sprays of white gladioli that looked somehow like pristine fakes provided by the mortuary, instead of wreaths sent by those who mourned Daggett's passing. Organ music was being piped in, a nearly subliminal auditory cue meant to trigger thoughts about the brevity of life.
