by Sue Grafton
“Good boy. Now what?”
“Iona thought you might put in a good word for me.”
“Frankie, come on. You know better than that. No one gives a shit what I think. My opinion carries no weight at all. It’s like Iona thinking I had the clout to offer Pudgie a deal. It’s ridiculous.”
“Those cops like you.”
“Sure they do, but so what? Look, I’m perfectly willing to pass the story along, but trust me, without an alibi, my big, hot endorsement won’t help.”
“But you believe me?”
“Let’s put it this way; nothing would make me happier than your telling the truth. I’m sure the cops will be crazy about the idea, too.”
He dropped his cigarette and stepped on the ember with the toe of his boot. “You try, okay?”
“I’ll call Lieutenant Dolan tomorrow. Meantime, if I were you I’d get back to town before your PO gets wind of what’s going on.”
“I’ll do that. And thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
I closed the window and had it latched again before Frankie reached the truck. I heard the door slam and she backed out, the headlights doing a reverse angle on the draperies as she pulled away. I shook my head. What a baby. Gone was the tough guy I’d met the first time around. As for his story, I wasn’t sure whether to believe him or not. Sincerity aside, he was capable of manipulation if it suited his purposes.
In the morning, I changed rooms. There were far too many people who knew where I was and I didn’t feel safe. I chose an innocuous location on the second floor in the middle of a stretch of rooms. No ice machines. No vending machines. No reason to be up there unless you were a paid motel guest. At ground level, I figured I was a sitting duck for Peeping Toms or guys with a penchant for picking locks. Up here, even if the housekeeper propped my door open for hours on end, it would take nerve for someone to climb the stairs and pretend to be wandering around lost. From the second floor I had a nice view of the parking lot. I’d left Dolan’s car in a row of cars to one side so there was no way to associate the vehicle with my whereabouts.
At 9:15, I called Dolan’s house. Stacey picked up. I told him my concern that someone had entered my room and had taken a long hard look at my notes. He told me to change rooms, which I told him I’d done. He told me Dolan had left for an appointment with the cardiologist. I told him about Medora’s house, the note, and Frankie’s late-night visit. He told me I better watch my step and I said I would. Then he said, “What have we picked up in the way of elimination prints?”
“We’re not doing so well. Last I heard Edna had gone in, but none of the other four.”
“What’s up with that? I don’t like them thinking they can bypass us. Go back and threaten. Tell them it looks bad, like maybe one of them has something to hide.”
“So how’s Dolan doing?”
“He’s good. I’d say good. Doing better than I thought.”
“You think the living arrangements are going to work?”
“Jury’s still out on that. I could probably do worse—though, frankly, the guy’s a colossal pain in the ass. Of course, he says the same thing about me.”
“Makes you the perfect pair,” I said. “Better than some of the marriages I’ve seen.”
“Amen to that. What’s the latest down there?”
“I haven’t heard anything since I was at the Tuley-Belle last night, but I can stop by the sheriff’s office and talk to Lassiter.”
“Do that and call me back. I’ve been trying to get in touch with him, but so far no luck. Meantime, we’ll see what we can find out about Frankie’s whereabouts on Friday night.”
“Great. Tell Dolan I said hi. I really miss you guys.”
Stacey said, “Ditto. And you take care of yourself.”
I retrieved Dolan’s car and drove the few short blocks to the Sheriff’s Department. Todd Chilton and a civilian clerk seemed to be the only ones in. He was chatting with one of the church ladies I’d seen at Edna’s. She was in her seventies, wearing a pale green leisure suit. Her hair had just been done and it puffed out as nicely as a dandelion. She’d placed a parking ticket on the counter, and I waited politely while she wrote out a check and tore it from her register. I flicked a quick look at the name printed on the face of the check: Adele Opdyke.
“How are you, Adele? We met at Edna’s on Saturday. Nice seeing you again.”
“Nice seeing you, too.” She seemed flustered to realize I was standing close enough to see what she was doing. “Don’t go thinking this ticket’s mine. It’s my husband’s. He parked in a fire lane Friday night, late going to a movie. He’s always doing that. Doesn’t matter how many times I tell him not to.”
Deputy Chilton said, “Why are you the one paying? He’ll never learn this way.”
“You’re right, you’re right. I’m entirely too good to him. I should make him take care of it. It would serve him right.” She glanced at me. “You’re that private detective, but I forget your name. Edna told us all about the fabric in her quilt.”
“Kinsey Millhone,” I said. “Did you get that mailing out?”
“It’s done and it’s been delivered by now.” She turned back to Chilton. “How’s the investigation? That poor Cedric had a sorry life and what a terrible end.”
“We’re all working overtime, doing everything we can. Quorum PD’s pitching in so we’re on it.”
“That’s good.” She tucked her checkbook in her handbag. “Well, I’m off to run my errands. I wanted to get this done first before I forgot. Nice talking to you.”
As soon as she left, I said, “I was looking for Detective Lassiter, but I gather he’s not here.”
“He’s at the Tuley-Belle. The coroner thinks Pudgie was killed with a tire iron, which hasn’t turned up yet. Detective Lassiter thinks it’s possible it’s still out there—dumped or buried. Detective Oliphant left a couple of messages for him, but they’ll have to wait. I know he’s concerned about this business with the McPhees’ fingerprints, but we’ve got all our personnel at the crime scene, so even if they came in there’s nothing we could do.”
“Well. First things first. I’ll tell Stacey someone will get back to him later in the day. I’m sure he’d like an update.”
26
I sat in the car in front of the Sheriff’s Department, thinking about tire irons. As murder weapons go, the lowly tire iron has the virtue of being genderless and easily obtainable. Lots of people have tire irons. They’re probably not as common as a set of kitchen knives, but they’re cheap, readily available, have no moving parts, and no one would think to question your possessing one. You don’t need a license to buy one and you don’t have to worry about a three-day waiting period while your local hardware salesman runs a background check.
I’d seen a tire iron in the past week. I knew it was only one of millions in the world, and the chances were remote that I’d seen the very tire iron used on Pudgie’s head. Still, it seemed like a good mental exercise. Where had I seen tools? McPhee’s automobile upholstery shop, both in the two-car garage where he sat to smoke and in the second garage where Dolan and I had found the Mustang. Also Cornell’s garage where I’d seen him at work constructing a dog house for his daughters’ pup. The question was, did any of these locations warrant another look? It seemed like a waste of time except for the fact that I had nothing else to do. While Detective Lassiter and the deputies were out combing the area surrounding the Tuley-Belle, the killer might have scrubbed the blood and brains off the murder weapon and put it back where it’d been. So finding it wouldn’t mean anything and not finding it wouldn’t mean anything, either. Well, that was dumb. I decided to try something more productive.
I started the car and went back to the Ocean View. I wanted to call Felicia and see how she was doing. I was also interested in the arrangements she’d made for Pudgie’s funeral. My message light was blinking. I dialed 6 and picked up a message indicating that Lieutenant Dolan had called at 10:00. It was only 10
:20 now, so I was hoping I’d catch him before he left the house again. He picked up on the first ring.
“Hey, Lieutenant, this is Kinsey. How are you?”
“I’m fine. Sorry I missed your call earlier.”
“That’s okay, though with all these phone calls flying back and forth, Stacey really doesn’t need to come back. I think I’m talking to you guys more now than I did when you were here.”
“Don’t tell him. He can’t wait to get down there and back to work.”
“So what’s up?”
“Nothing much. We’re restless and bored. Hang on. Here’s Stacey. He has something he wants to say.”
He handed the phone to Stacey, and we went through an exchange of pleasantries as though we hadn’t spoken in days. Then, he said, “I’ve been thinking about this Baum guy and he bothers me. I got sidetracked and left without asking him for leads. Stands to reason she was killed by someone she knew, so let’s broaden the search. Can you check it out for me?”
“Sure. Give me the address of the car lot and I’ll pay him a visit.”
Before I left for Blythe, I put in a call to Pudgie’s sister. She sounded better; subdued, but not weepy. She probably found it therapeutic to be caught up in the clerical work that follows in the wake of a death. I could hear the murmur of voices in the background. “You have people there?”
“Friends. Everybody’s been great. A cousin stayed with me last night and another one’s driving in from Phoenix.”
“Are you having services?”
“On Friday. I’m having his body cremated as soon as the coroner releases him, but people are stopping by this evening if you’d like to join us. The memorial on Friday probably won’t amount to much, but I thought I should do something. The pastor keeps calling it ‘a celebration of his life,’ but that doesn’t seem right to me with him in jail so much.”
“Up to you,” I said. “What time tonight?”
“Between five and eight. I’ve borrowed a big coffee urn and there’s tons of food.”
“I’ll aim for seven. Can I bring anything?”
“Please don’t. I’m serious. I’ve already got far more than I can use,” she said. “If you run into anyone who knew him, tell them they’re invited, too. I think he’d be happy if people turned out for him.”
“Sure thing.”
The Franks Used Cars lot looked like just about every other car lot I’d ever seen. The business was housed in what must have been a service station once upon a time, and the showroom now occupied one of the former service bays. An assortment of gleaming cars were lined up street-side with slogans painted in white on the windshields. Most were spotless and polished to a high shine, making me glad I’d parked Dolan’s half a block away.
George Baum was the only salesman on the premises. I caught him sitting at his desk, eating a tuna sandwich, the open packet of waxed paper serving as a handsome lunch plate. I hated to interrupt his feeding process—I tend to get cranky when someone interrupts mine—but he seemed determined to do business. I sat down in the visitor’s chair while he rewrapped half his sandwich and tucked it in the brown paper bag he’d brought from home. I detected the bulge of an apple and imagined it held cookies or a cupcake as well.
On his desk, he had a formal family portrait in a silver frame: George, Swoozie (who still looked perky as could be), and three stair-stepped adolescent boys wearing jackets and ties. The color photograph was recent, judging by hair and clothing styles. While only in his mid-thirties, George was already portly, wearing a brown suit of a size that made his head look too small. Stacey was right about his teeth—even, perfectly straight, and bleached to a pearly white. He wore his hair short and the scent of his aftershave was fresh and strong.
I introduced myself, watching his enthusiasm fade when he realized I was there to pump him for information. “This is your father-in-law’s place? I didn’t realize you worked for him.”
“You know Chester?”
“No, but I heard you were married to Swoozie Franks. I put two and two together.”
“What brings you here? I already talked to someone about Charisse Quinn.”
“That was my partner, Detective Oliphant. He’s the one who thought we should have another chat.”
“What now?”
“We need the names of the guys who were involved with her. ‘Involved’ meaning screwing, just so you know what I’m talking about.”
He smiled uncomfortably. “I can’t do that.”
“Why?”
“What’s the point in asking me? Why don’t you go over to the high school and get names from the yearbook? It’d be the same list.”
“I could do that,” I said, “but I’d rather hear it from you. And skip what’s-his-name—Toby Hecht. Cornell says nobody’s heard from him in years.”
“That’s because he’s dead. He was killed in Vietnam.”
“Sorry to hear that. Who else would you suggest?”
George shook his head. “I don’t see the relevance. So maybe a few classmates had sexual relations with her. What bearing does that have on where they are now in life?”
“I’m not worried about where they are. I’m worried about Charisse. Somebody killed her. That’s what I’m here to discuss.”
“I understand that. Of course. And if I thought any one of them was capable of murder, I’d speak up.”
“Let me tell you something, George. The person who killed her turned around and killed Pudgie Clifton. And you want to know why? Pudgie knew something he shouldn’t have. I’m not sure what, but it cost him his life. You keep quiet and you could end up putting yourself at risk. That’s not a smart move, especially if your only motive is to protect a bunch of horny high school dudes.”
“I do business with a lot of those dudes. Honest, I don’t mean to be uncooperative, but I don’t like being put on the spot.”
I was watching him, fascinated, because he’d started to perspire. I’d never really seen that, a man breaking out in a sweat while he talked. I said, “All right. Try this. Let’s just talk about you. Were you intimate with her?”
“Swoozie would have killed me.”
“You never made it with Charisse?”
“I’d rather not answer that.”
“Which means yes.”
He paused, taking out a handkerchief to mop at a trickle of sweat running down the side of his face.
“George?”
“Okay, yes, but that’s just between us. If it ever got out, my marriage would be over. Swoozie thinks I was a virgin. I told her she was the first. She hated Charisse. All the girls did.”
“I’m listening.”
“I was kind of nerdy. You know the type—smart and earnest and inexperienced. I’d pretend I’d made out. The guys’d be talking about sex and I’d act like I knew what they meant when I didn’t have a clue. Then Charisse came along and she was really nice to me. I liked her—I mean that sincerely—so when she offered to, you know, I just figured what the hell, no harm was ever going to come of it. I felt better about myself after that, a lot more confident.”
“How many times?”
“Three. Swoozie and I had been dating since we were kids. I knew we’d get married and then I’d never have a chance to be with anyone else. I didn’t want to live my whole life only knowing one girl.”
“And afterwards?”
“I wasn’t sorry I’d done it, but I was scared Swoozie would find out. I already had a job lined up with her dad.”
“You must have been relieved when Charisse disappeared.”
“Well, hey, sure. I’ll admit that, but so were a lot of guys, including Mr. Clean.”
I smiled. “Mr. Clean?”
“Sure. Cornell. We called him that because he worked for his dad and his hands were always dirty. He used to scrub ’em with lye soap, but it never did any good.”
My smile had faded because I’d blocked out his explanation and tuned into what he’d actually said. “Cornell was screwing Char
isse?”
“Sure. Justine was holding out for marriage. She came up from nothing. And I mean her family was for shit—”
“I know about that,” I said, cutting him off.
“She saw Cornell as the answer to her prayers. She wasn’t about to put out unless he married her.”
I thought about that. “I did hear Charisse had the hots for him.”
“Oh, sure. She was also jealous of Justine. Compared to her life, Justine’s already looked better, so she got competitive.”
“And Justine knew about this?”
“Oh, no. No, no. Charisse knew better. After all, she was living at Justine’s. She wasn’t about to get herself thrown out on the street.”
“You’re telling me Cornell was in the same jeopardy you were.”
“Big time. Even more so. He was everybody’s hero—scholastics, sports, student government, you name it. We all looked up to him.”
“Who else knew about this, aside from you?”
“Adrianne, I guess. She walked in on ’em once over at the Tuley-Belle. That’s how she found out.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because she told me.”
“Why? Were you a close friend of hers?”
“No, not really. We were in the same church youth group. We went on a weekend retreat and I could see she was upset. I asked and she told me what was going on. She thought she should talk to our pastor, but I disagreed. I said it wasn’t her job to save Cornell’s soul. He was a big boy and he could work it out for himself.”
I arrived at Felicia’s house in Creosote at precisely 7:00 that Wednesday night. Cars were lined up at intervals along the darkened street. I didn’t think I could manage to parallel park in Dolan’s tank so I was forced to leave his car around the corner and walk back. Cornell’s white pickup truck was parked in front of the house, behind Justine’s dark Ford sedan. The moon had been reduced to the size of a fingernail paring. The air was dry and cold. The usual wind whiffled through the trees, making the shaggy palms sway, fronds rustling like rats running through an ivy patch. Lights shone from every room of Felicia’s small house. Despite her admonition, I’d brought a dense chocolate cake in a pink bakery box.
