M Is for Malice

by Sue Grafton

  I moved over to the cabinet and removed a mug, pausing to fill the electric kettle as I'd seen Myrna do. I glanced at Enid casually. "You have paper napkins somewhere?"

  "Third drawer on the right."

  I found the napkins and placed one, along with a teaspoon, on the tray. "I take it you heard about Jack's arrest."

  She nodded assent. "I was coming in the gate just as they were taking him away. I wish you could have seen the look on his face."

  I shook my head regretfully, as if I gave a shit. "Poor thing," I said. "It seems so unfair." I hoped I hadn't laid it on too thick, but I needn't have worried.

  "The police were asking about his running shoes," she said. "Something about a pattern on the soles – so there must have been bloody footprints in the bedroom where Guy was killed."

  "Really," I replied, trying to disguise my startlement. Apparently, she felt no reluctance about discussing the family's business. I'd thought I'd have to be cunning, but she didn't seem to share Myrna's reservations about tattling. "They picked up the shoes yesterday?"

  "No. They called me this morning at home. Before I left for work."

  "Lieutenant Robb?"

  "The other one. The woman. She's a cold fish, I must say. I hope she's not a friend of yours."

  "I only met her this morning when I went in to be interviewed."

  She flicked me a look as if taking my measure. "Myrna tells me you're a detective. I've seen 'em on the TV of course, but I never met one in real life."

  "Now you have," I said. "In fact, I work in the same firm as Jack's attorney, Lonnie Kingman. He's on his way over to the station house to talk to Jack." I was anxious to press her on the matter of the shoes, but worried she would clam up if I seemed too intent.

  She dropped her eyes to her work. She was tapping the Chinese cleaver in a rapid little dance that reduced all the garlic to the size of rice grains. "They searched for the shoes all day yesterday. You've never seen anything like it. Going through all the closets and trash cans, digging in the flowerbeds."

  I made a little mouth noise of interest. It was clear Enid had an avid interest in all the trappings of police work.

  She said, "They told me I was actually the one who put 'em on the right track. Of course, I had no idea the shoes would turn out to be Jack's. I feel terrible about that. Myrna's beside herself. She feels so guilty about mentioning the quarrel."

  "It must have been a shock about the shoes," I prodded.

  "Jack's my favorite among the boys. I came to work here twenty-five years ago. This was my first job and I didn't expect to stay long."

  "You were hired as a nanny?"

  "The boys were too old for that. I was more like a companion for Mrs. Malek," she said. "I never trained as a cook. I simply learned as I went along. Mrs. Malek – Rona – was beginning to fail and she was in and out of the hospital all the time back then. Mr. Malek needed someone to run the house in her absence. Jack was in junior high school and he was pretty much at loose ends. He used to sit out in the kitchen with me, hardly saying a word. I'd bake a batch of cookies and he'd eat a whole plate just as fast as he could. He was really like a little kid. I knew what he was hungry for was his mother's praise and attention, but she was much too sick. I did what I could, but it nearly broke my heart."

  "And Guy was how old?"

  She shrugged. "Eighteen, nineteen. He'd already given them years of aggravation and grief. I never saw anything like him for the trouble he made. It was one scrape after another."

  "How did he and Jack get along?"

  "I think Jack admired and romanticized him. They didn't pal around together, but there was always a certain amount of hero worship. Jack thought Guy was like James Dean, rebellious and tragic, you know, misunderstood. They never had all that much to do with one another, but I can remember how Jack used to look at him. Now, Bennet and Jack, they were close. The two younger boys tended to gravitate to one another. I never had much use for Bennet. Something sneaky about him."

  "What about Donovan?"

  "He was the smartest of the four. Even then he had a good head for business, always calculating the odds. When I first came to work, he'd already been off to college and was planning to come back and work for his dad full-time. Donovan loves that company more than any man alive. As for Guy, he was the troublemaker. That seemed to be his role."

  "You really think Jack might have been involved in Guy's death?"

  "I hate to believe it but I know he felt Guy broke faith with him. Jack's a fanatic about loyalty. He always was."

  "Well, that's interesting," I said. "Because the first time I was here, he said much the same thing. He was off at college when Guy left, wasn't he?"

  Enid was shaking her head. "That wouldn't have mattered. Not to him. Somehow, in Jack's mind, when Guy went off on his great adventure, he should have taken him along."

  "So he saw Guy's departure as betrayal."

  "Well, of course he did. Jack's terribly dependent. He's never had a job. He's never even had a girl. He has no self-esteem to speak of and for that, I blame his dad. Bader never took the time to teach them they were worth anything. I mean, look at the reality. None of them has ever left home."

  "It couldn't be healthy."

  "It's disgraceful. Grown men?" She opened the can of olive oil and poured a short stream in the stockpot while she turned up the flame. She moved the cutting board from the counter and balanced the edge of it on the pot, sliding garlic across the surface. The sound of sizzling arose, followed moments later by a cloud of garlic-scented steam.

  "What's the story on the shoes? Where did they turn up?"

  She paused to adjust the flame and then returned the board to the counter, where she picked up an onion. The peeling was as fragile as paper, crackling slightly as she worked. "At the bottom of a box. You remember the cartons of Bader's clothing Christie packed away? They were sitting on the front porch. The Thrift Store Industries truck stopped by for an early-morning pickup first thing yesterday."

  "Before the body was discovered?"

  "Before anyone was even up. I don't know how I connected it. I saw the receipt lying on the counter and didn't think much about it.. Later, it occurred to me – if the shoes weren't on the premises, they must be somewhere else."

  "How'd you figure out where they were?"

  "Well, that's just it. I was loading the dishwasher, you know, humming a little tune and boom, I just knew."

  "I've done the same thing. It's almost like the mind makes an independent leap."

  Enid flashed me a look. "Exactly. He must have realized he left a shoe print on the carpeting upstairs."

  "Did you see it yourself?"

  "No, but Myrna says she saw it when she went in Guy's room." She paused, shaking her head. "I don't want to think he did it."

  "It is hard to believe," I said. "I mean, in essence, he must have killed Guy, seen the footprint, slipped off his shoes and shoved them in the box on his way out of the house. He was lucky – or thought he was."

  "You don't sound convinced."

  "I just have trouble with the notion. Jack doesn't strike me as that decisive or quick. Doesn't that bother you?"

  She thought about that briefly and then gave a shrug of dismissal. "A killer would have to depend on luck, I guess. You can't plan for everything. You'd have to ad-lib."

  "Well, it backfired in this case."

  "If he did it," she said. She picked up a can and tilted it into the electric opener. She pressed a lever and watched as the can went round and round, rotating blades neatly separating the lid from the can. Kitchens are dangerous, I thought idly as I looked on. What an arsenal – knives and fire and all that kitchen twine, skewers, meat pounders, and rolling pins. The average woman must spend a fair portion of her time happily contemplating the tools of her trade: devices that crush, pulverize, grind, and puree; utensils that pierce, slice, dissect, and debone; not to mention the household products that, once ingested, are capable of eradicating human li
fe along with germs.

  Her eyes came up to mine. "Do you believe in ghosts?"

  "No, of course not. What makes you ask?"

  She glanced toward the corner of the kitchen where I noticed, for the first time, a staircase. "Yesterday I went upstairs to put some linens away. There was a Presence in the hall. I wondered if you believed in them."

  I shook my head in the negative, remembering the chill in the air and the roaring in my ears.

  "This one smells of animal, something damp and unclean. It's very strange," she said.

  Chapter 17

  * * *

  I left the Maleks' shortly after one o'clock. Driving home, I spotted a pay phone at a corner gas station. I pulled in and parked. Outside the service bay, a group of kids from the local, alternative high school had organized a car wash. According to the hand-lettered sign, the price was $5.00 and proceeds were being used to pay for a trip to San Francisco. There was not a customer in sight. Buckets of soapy water waited at the ready and the kids milled around in a manner that suggested they were about to spray one another down with hoses. With luck, I wouldn't end up in the line of fire.

  I looked up Paul Trasatti in the telephone book. There were two numbers listed; one a residence on Hopper Road, the other with no address – simply said Paul Trasatti, Rare Books. I found a handful of loose change at the bottom of my handbag and fed coins into the slots. I dialed the business number first, thinking it more likely I'd catch him at his desk. Trasatti answered before the phone on his end had finished ringing the first time.

  "Trasatti," he said, tersely. He sounded like a man who'd been waiting for a call regarding drop-off instructions for the ransom money.

  "Mr. Trasatti, my name is Kinsey Millhone. I'm a private investigator, working with Jack Malek's attorney. You knew he'd been arrested?"

  "I heard about that this morning. I called to talk to Jack and his sister-in-law told me they'd just taken him away. Did she tell you to call?"

  "Well, no. Not really. I –"

  "How'd you get my number?"

  "I looked you up in the telephone book. I need information and I thought maybe you could help."

  "What kind of information?"

  "I'll be talking to Lonnie Kingman and I know he'll want to hear about Jack's activities that night."

  "Why can't he ask Jack?"

  "I'm sure he will," I said, "but we're going to need someone who can verify Jack's claims. Christie says he drove you over to the country club Tuesday evening. Is that true?"

  There was a fractional hesitation. "That's right. He picked me up after dinner. Truth is, I ended up trading places with him, so I was the one driving. He was too tipsy. This is strictly off the record, right?"

  "I'm not a journalist, but sure. We can keep it off the record, at least for now," I said.. "Tipsy, meaning drunk?"

  "Let's just say I was the designated driver in this case."

  I closed my eyes, listening for the subtext, while cars passed back and forth on the street behind me. "Were you seated at the same table?"

  "Tables were reserved. We had assigned seats," he said. He was being as cagey as a politician. What was going on here?

  "That's not what I asked. I'm wondering if you can verify his presence at the pairings' party."

  A brief, most curious silence ensued. "Can I ask you a question?" he said.

  "What's that?"

  "If you're working for this attorney... what'd you say his name was?"

  "Lonnie Kingman."

  "Okay, this Kingman fellow. I know he can't repeat anything said between him and Jack, but what about you? Does the same thing apply to you?"

  "Our conversation isn't privileged, if that's. what you want to know. Anything relevant to Jack's defense, I'll be reporting to Lonnie. That's my job. I can be trusted with information. Otherwise, I'd be out of business by now," I said. "Were you sitting with Jack?"

  "See, that's what the police have been asking me," he said. His mouth must have been dry because I could practically hear him lick his lips before he spoke. "Jack's a good friend and I don't want to get him in any more trouble than he's in. I've done everything I could short of telling lies."

  "You don't want to lie to the cops," I said. Maybe the line was tapped and they were checking my attitude.

  "Well, no, I wouldn't. And that's just it," he said. "I didn't come right out and say so, but there was a stretch when Jack was, you know, uhm, off somewhere. What I mean is, I couldn't say he was right there in my line of sight."

  "Uhn-hun. How long a stretch?"

  "Might have been as much as an hour and a half. I didn't think anything of it at the time, but you know, later – like when this other business came up – I did, wonder about the time frame. I wouldn't want to be quoted, but just between us."

  "Do you know where he was?"

  "I know where he said he was. Out walking the tenth hole."

  "In the dark?"

  "That's not as odd as it sounds. I've done the same thing myself. Smokers go outside to have a cigarette sometimes. Most club members know the course by heart so it's not as if you're likely to get lost or fall down a hole."

  "But why would he do that in the middle of a pairings' party?"

  "He was upset – I'd say real upset – when he came to pick me up. That's another reason I insisted on driving. Jack tends to be careless about things like that."

  "Did he say what upset him?" I waited. "I can keep it to myself," I said.

  "He said him and Guy got into an argument."

  "About what?"

  "Probably the money. I'd say the money."

  "You're talking about the money Guy was due to inherit."

  "That's right."

  "So Jack was drunk and upset and when the two of you arrived at the club, he disappeared."

  "Uhn-hun."

  "Did you believe him?"

  "About taking a walk? More or less. I mean, it makes sense you know, if he was trying to sober up and cool off."

  "And did he seem cooler when he got back?"

  For a moment, I thought the line went dead. "Mr. Trasatti?"

  "I'm here. See, the thing is, he didn't actually get back in time to give me a ride. I had to find someone else."

  "And that's what you told the police?"

  "Well, I had to. I felt bad, but they were real persistent and it's like you said, I couldn't lie."

  "Was his car still there?"

  "I think so. I couldn't swear to it. I thought I saw it in the parking lot when I was set to go, but I might have been mistaken."

  "But you're sure there was no sign of Jack?"

  "That's right. A friend of mine said he saw him take off across the fairway at the first hole. Then this other fellow ended up giving me a ride home."

  "Can I have both those names?" I cocked one shoulder, anchoring the handset against my ear while I fumbled in my bag for a pen and a scrap of paper. I made a note of the names, neither of which rang a bell. "And how did you find out where Jack had been?"

  "He called first thing the next morning to apologize and that's when he explained."

  "He called Wednesday morning?"

  "I just said that."

  "I wanted to make sure I understood you correctly. Do you remember what time he called?"

  "About eight, I guess."

  "So this was before anyone knew Guy Malek was dead."

  "Must've been. I know Jack never mentioned it. You'd think if he knew he'd have spoken up."

  "Is there anything else you remember from your conversation with him?"

  "Not that I can think of. I probably got him in enough trouble as it is. I hope you won't tell him I told you all this."

  "I doubt I'll have occasion to talk to Jack," I said. "I appreciate your help. You may hear from Lonnie Kingman or me again on this." You're certainly going to end up on the witness stand, I thought.

  "I guess it can't be helped," he said glumly, as if. reading my mind. He disconnected before I could press him for anyt
hing else.

  I checked the pile of change I'd laid on the shelf near the coin box. I dropped more coins in the slot and dialed Lonnie's private line. He picked up on his end without identifying himself.

  "This is Kinsey," I said. "How'd it go?"

  "Don't let me handle any sharps. I might open a vein."

  "You heard about the shoes?"

  "Did I ever," he said. "Lieutenant Robb delivered the happy news with glee."

  "I take it the pattern on the sole matched the print at the scene."

  "Oh, sure. And to make things even better, he says the lab found bits and pieces of Guy Malek's brain spattered on the instep. I mean, Jesus, how's Jack going to explain a fleck of brain matter buried in the eyelet of his shoes? This is not like 'Oh gee fellas, Guy-accidentally-cut-himself-and-must-have-bled-on-me.' "

  "What'd Jack have to say?"

  "I haven't had a chance to ask. Once he invoked, the cops hustled him out to County jail for booking. I'm going out there later and have a long chat with him. He'll probably tell me the shoes were stolen. Oh yeah, right."

  "What about the murder weapon?"

  "They found a baseball bat shoved in with a bunch of sports equipment down at the pool house. Somebody'd made a clumsy attempt to wipe it clean, but traces of blood were still on the hitting area. At least there were no prints, so we can thank God for small favors. What about his alibi? I hope you're going to tell me a hundred club members had an eye on him at all times."

  "No such luck," I said. I laid out the sequence of events as Paul Trasatti had reported them.

  I could hear Lonnie sigh. "Too bad Jack wasn't out there screwing somebody's wife. You have a theory, I'm sure."

  "He could have left the club on foot. There are half a dozen places near the road where he could've climbed the fence."

  "And then what?" Lonnie said. "The country club is miles from the Malek estate. How's he going to get from there to the house again without somebody seeing him?"

  "Lonnie, I hate to tell you this, but the man has a Harley-Davidson. He could have hidden his motorcycle earlier. The house might be an hour away on foot, but it's only ten minutes by car."

  "But so what? Where was Bennet that night? And what about Donovan? He was right there on the premises when the murder occurred."