Grave Error

by Stephen Greenleaf

  “I didn’t think so. Go on. Get out. You won’t move in over there. No one has and no one ever will. I don’t even think you’re looking at real estate. I think you’re after that cunt Angie. Well, lots of luck and I hope it’s all bad. For both of you.”

  Her voice rose quickly to a scream, then fell silent. She grabbed a towel from the chair beside her and draped it over her breasts, putting the jewels out of sight of a customer who was just browsing.

  I went back to my car and left Shannon Drive. I tried the post office, the electric company, and a few other places but couldn’t get a new address for Angie Peel or Angie Parsons. It was too long ago. In towns like Rutledge, ten years is forever.

  TWENTY-THREE

  My apartment had that musty smell the coastal air brings out whenever anything old and dusty stays closed up too long. I sneezed a few times, opened some windows, put on some Mozart, bathed some ice in some Scotch, and skimmed the mail and the papers. They didn’t tell me anything essential to survival. Then I sat back and did nothing much except wish I could spend the rest of my life listening to Mozart and wonder what the world would be like if he’d been a politician instead of a composer.

  At some point it got dark. At some other point my neighbor took out her garbage. At some other point the telephone rang. It rang for a long time, cruelly and belligerently. Uninvited. Unacknowledged. When it finally stopped I got up and made a bowl of tomato soup and a peanut butter sandwich. The bread was stiff and stale. So was I.

  I took a hot shower, then looked longingly at my bed. It was unmade and the sheets had the consistency of unbaked pie crust, but it still took a lot of effort to keep off of it. Reluctantly, I went back to the living room and pulled the phone out from under a pile of unread New Yorkers.

  My first call was to Ruthie Spring. By the third sentence she was making remarks I wouldn’t want my niece to hear, so I decided to stop worrying about her. When she asked if I would take her to the funeral in the morning I told her I would, trying to sound more eager than I was. When I was nineteen I had watched a man who didn’t know them speak a bunch of nonsense about my parents to some people who didn’t like them just before they put them in the grave. I swore I would never endure that again, but never is a long time. It usually gives out when you get past forty.

  I asked Ruthie if the cops had been a problem. She said Fannon and his partner had been around to go through the files, but they had been reasonably civil and had only stayed for an hour. They told her not to throw anything away and didn’t ask many questions. Ruthie felt they hadn’t been all that enthusiastic about the job, mainly because they were convinced Harry’s killer was a junkie or mugger who would never be found. When Ruthie asked me how I was I told her a lie, but she didn’t seem all that interested. She didn’t even ask me what I’d found out about Harry’s murder. By the time I hung up I was worrying about her again.

  The telephone book listed an Alvin Rodman in the Outer Mission district, so I dialed the number. The voice that answered didn’t belong to Rodman, but it was one I recognized. I was speaking to the Ivy Leaguer-in-Residence for Mr. Duckie Bollo. I told Sylvester who I was and asked to speak to his roommate.

  “Very amusing, Tanner,” Sylvester snarled. “My roommates don’t have hair on their chests.”

  “Tattoos?”

  “Cut the funny stuff. What do you want?”

  “Put Rodman on.”

  “He’s not here.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What are you doing there, breaking and entering or just sniffing dirty underwear?”

  Sylvester said something they didn’t teach at Princeton. “Actually I’m doing the same thing you are,” he growled. “Looking for Rodman.”

  “Is he lost?”

  “Let’s just say he’s recently been neglecting his obligations to Mr. Bollo and we’re trying to find out why. We’re confident there’s a reasonable explanation.”

  “Maybe he got tired of working with garbage that doesn’t come in a can.”

  “I’ll do you a favor and not tell Mr. Bollo you said that, Tanner. I figure I owe you one, since you were such a good boy and took my advice and kept your nose out of the mental health business.”

  “The day I take your advice will be the day you’re chosen Queen of the May, Sylvester. You tell Duckie he’d better mine that little racket for all it’s worth, because someone’s going to blow the whistle on him real quick.”

  “Someone like Roland Nelson?”

  “What do you know about Nelson?”

  “I know whatever Mr. Bollo needs to know, about Nelson and about everything else.”

  “Except Al Rodman.”

  “True. For the moment. We’ll locate Al. It won’t take long. It never does.”

  “When you do, tell him I want to talk to him.”

  “What about?”

  “I want the name of the man who gave him his nose job. I’ve never met a doc who does plastic surgery with a rolling pin.”

  “Your mouth is going to earn you an early grave, Tanner.”

  “You mean I’m not getting a living wage? I’d better speak to my union.”

  We went on like bad Bogart impersonators for a couple more rounds, then I asked Sylvester if he had any idea where Rodman might be and of course he didn’t tell me. He asked me the same question and of course I didn’t tell him, not that I could have anyway. We exchanged some more pleasantries and hung up. I was getting to like Sylvester, kind of the way I liked the Doberman down the block.

  The girl at the answering service told me that Sara Brooke and Jacqueline Nelson had called. Both of them said it was important that I get back to them as soon as possible. I dialed Jacqueline Nelson. She was excited and angry. Her voice scraped in my ear like a scoop shovel in a pile of gravel.

  “The police have been here, Mr. Tanner,” she announced rapidly. “They’re working on your friend’s murder, that man Spring or whatever his name was.”

  “That was it.”

  “Evidently they have already spoken to Claire. They found her name in Mr. Spring’s files. She was a client, of all the ridiculous things. And for some reason she refuses to tell the police anything about it. Now they want to talk to her again, in our presence. Only no one can find her. She’s disappeared. Roland suggested you might know something about all this. Do you?”

  “I think I’d better come out and talk to you,” I said. “And your husband. Is he there?”

  “Not now. He’ll be back by midnight, or so he said. I don’t know where he is.”

  “I’ll come by then, if it’s not too late.”

  “So you do know something.”

  “Something,” I admitted.

  “Where is Claire? Is she with you?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know where she is? My God, do you realize who you’re dealing with? Do you know what Roland will do if he finds out you’ve hidden his daughter away from him? He’ll have you arrested for kidnapping.”

  “I think you’d better calm down,” I said. “I’ll see you at midnight.”

  She sputtered some more threats, sounding the way wives of important men always sound. I kind of felt sorry for her, but not enough to want to listen to any more of her diatribe. I hung up on a dire prediction and dialed again.

  Andy Potter was at home. He quickly informed me he was throwing a party for a friend who had just announced his candidacy for Congress. Andy’s words were long and slurry, but they tightened up considerably when I told him there had been some developments and he’d better meet me at the Nelson house at midnight. He wanted me to go out and report to him immediately, but I told him I didn’t have time.

  “Just tell me this, then,” he said. “Has anything bad happened?”

  “Yes.”

  “How bad?”

  “Murder.”

  “Another one?”

  “You’ve got it.”

  “Who’s dead?”

  “No o
ne you know.”

  “Do they know who did it?”

  “No.”

  “Do you?”

  “No.”

  “Is Roland involved?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Andy’s relief was audible. “How about Claire?” he asked.

  “She may be involved indirectly. The dead woman was her grandmother.”

  “Shit.” Andy paused and voices rolled and tangled in the background, making sounds I’ve learned to avoid. “I’ll want to know more at the Nelsons’,” he added.

  “You will.”

  I put down the phone and it rang before I could make another call. It was Sheriff Marks.

  “Been out of town, Mr. Tanner?” he asked pleasantly. Too pleasantly.

  I told him I had.

  “Still working on the Spring case?”

  I told him I was.

  “Find out anything?”

  “Not much.”

  “That’s too bad. I was hoping when I see you tomorrow you might have something to contribute to the conversation.”

  “Am I going to see you tomorrow, Sheriff?”

  “You certainly are. Right here in my office. At nine sharp. If all goes well you’ll be out in time for church. If it doesn’t you may not be out in time for Christmas.”

  “Why the hard line, Sheriff?”

  “Some interesting things have happened.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like another murder.”

  “Who?”

  “We’ll go into that when you get here. In the meantime you can guess. I’m sure you have a long list of candidates. Much longer than mine. It’ll give you something to occupy your mind on the way down here.”

  “I can’t be there at nine, Sheriff,” I said. “Harry Spring’s funeral is in the morning. Ruthie asked me to take her and I said I would. I’d like to do it.”

  The sheriff grunted, then said something inaudible to someone in the room with him. “I shouldn’t do you any more favors,” he said at last, “but okay. Go to the funeral. Give Mrs. Spring my condolences. But the minute that casket hits the hole you’d better be on your way down here.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m not doing if for you, I’m doing it for the widow.”

  “She’ll appreciate it.”

  “Good. You just get your butt here as fast as you can.”

  “Why all the hurry to talk to me?”

  “Because as long as we were only dealing with your pal Spring I felt you were entitled to a little leeway. You can cut some corners that I can’t, and you know what he was into and I don’t, no matter what you say, so up to now I’ve let you go along all by your lonesome. But as far as I know you haven’t come up with a damned thing, and in the meantime a citizen of this fair city has gotten herself killed. I’m paid to keep that kind of thing from happening, Tanner. If it does happen, I’m paid to see to it that the person who did the job doesn’t make a habit of it. So as of now I’m revoking your license to play the Lone Ranger. You’re going to turn in your silver bullets and your little black mask and tell me every single thing you know about this case, and then you’re going to think it over and tell me again, and then you’re going to tell it a third time, to make sure you haven’t left anything out, and then you’re going to tell it all over again because I’m such a slow learner. Do I make myself clear?”

  “As clear as a coloratura, Sheriff.”

  “A what?”

  “Never mind. I’ll be there.”

  “Good. I’ll look forward to seeing you.”

  “One more thing, Sheriff,” I said. “How do you figure this new killing has anything to do with Harry Spring’s murder?”

  “I figure so because you told me it did. You didn’t mean to, of course, but you did.”

  “How?”

  “When you asked me about the Peel case. I’m not such a fool to think it’s only a coincidence that two days after you stroll in here and ask a bunch of questions about a twenty-year-old crime someone tied up very closely with that crime ends up dead. So you can see why I eagerly await your return to our fair city. Don’t disappoint me.”

  I told him I wouldn’t.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  I fixed another drink and switched the music to Beethoven and then asked the operator to put me through to Room 105 at the Cypress Inn in Carmel. In her message, Sara had said she was registered there under the name Hester Prynne. I hoped the desk clerk wasn’t literate.

  Sara answered on the second ring and I asked her how she was.

  “Okay, I guess,” she said. “I’ve been worried.”

  “About what?”

  “About the balance of payments deficit,” she cracked. “What do you think, you idiot? I’ve been worried about you.”

  “There’s no reason to do that.”

  “There’s no reason to do most of the things I do, but that doesn’t keep me from doing them.”

  “Is Claire with you?”

  “She’s in the bathroom doing her hair. Shall I call her?”

  “In a minute. Does anyone know where the two of you are?”

  “No. At least I don’t think so. I used that assumed name. We even wore wigs. Just like in the movies.”

  “Or Hawthorne novels.”

  “Yes. I keep my A under the mattress so no one will steal it.”

  “I thought you were supposed to wear it on your chest.”

  “My chest isn’t big enough to support it. As you well know.” Sara laughed and I fidgeted. The only thing that came to mind was a dirty joke, so I kept my mouth shut. “Did you find Angie Peel?” Sara went on.

  “No. She was long gone.”

  “Any trace at all?”

  “One. I’m trying to check it out now.” I didn’t want to tell her or Claire about Angie Peel and Al Rodman until I had to. Things were going to get rough enough for Claire without telling her that her fiancé and her real mother were long lost buddies. Or worse.

  “Where do you go from here, Marsh?” Sara asked.

  “I don’t know. All I know is the pot’s starting to boil. Sheriff Marks is putting heat on me to tell him what I know and the cops have zeroed in on Roland and Jacqueline Nelson. Mrs. Nelson is upset and wants to know where Claire is and I have to drive back to Oxtail and meet with the sheriff tomorrow right after Harry’s funeral. I think it’s time to tell Claire all about Michael and Angie and all the rest and persuade her to let me tell the Nelsons and the sheriff all about it, too. For one thing, I don’t particularly like keeping Roland Nelson in the dark about the possible danger to Claire. I’m not the girl’s father and you’re not her mother and we’d better stop playing like we are.”

  “Marsh,” Sara interrupted. “Claire knows. She knows all about Michael and Angie and what they did, or what people claim they did. I told her last night.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m fond of Claire and because I know all of this will come out sooner or later. I wanted Claire to hear about it first from someone who knew her parents, someone who could tell her that her father, at least, wasn’t the kind of man the police think he is, someone who could make her proud of who she is and where she came from.”

  “Someone like you.”

  “Yes. And I think I was able to do all that.”

  “Are you sure you told her everything?”

  “I didn’t hold back. I even told her I was in love with her father when I was young. I think she liked the idea of that. She seemed to feel good about it all, once we talked it out. I felt good about it, too. I think having the chance to talk to someone about Michael and what we shared and how I felt about him helped me put the whole thing in perspective. I think maybe I’m free of him now, no matter what happens.”

  “That’s good. I guess.”

  “It is good. For both of us. I want to see you, Marsh. Can we come back to the city?”

  “I think you’d better stay down there tonight. I’m going out to talk to the Nelsons later this evening
. I’ll see what they have to say and get back to you in the morning. After he knows the situation, Roland will probably want to make his own arrangements for Claire’s safety. So stay put for a little longer.”

  “Claire’s here, Marsh,” Sara said. “She wants to talk to you.”

  The motor on Claire’s chair whined faintly in my ear. I took a long pull at my drink. “Hello, Mr. Tanner,” she said. Her voice was as bright as a baby’s tooth.

  “Hello, Claire.”

  “Sara told me all about what you’ve learned so far. About my parents and everything.”

  “Good. How do you feel about it?”

  “I didn’t expect to learn I was born of some magical union between Eleanor Roosevelt and Winston Churchill, Mr. Tanner. I have no regrets about what you’ve found out. On the whole I’d say I’m better off than most people. Did you find my mother?”

  “No. She moved out of Rutledge more than ten years ago. There’s not much trace of her.”

  “Will you keep trying?”

  “If you want me to. I talked to your grandfather. Mr. Whitson. He’s quite a man.”

  “Really? That’s wonderful. I want to meet him. Tell me about him.”

  “Later. My first priority is still finding out why Harry Spring is dead.”

  “I know, but it’s all wrapped up together somehow, isn’t it? Mr. Spring’s death and my grandmother’s death. And my grandfather Peel’s, too?”

  “It looks as though there’s some kind of connection,” I admitted, “but I don’t have any proof. I don’t even have any proof that your father’s alive. All I know is your maternal grandparents were both murdered, twenty years apart. The first death was apparently accidental and the second was definitely premeditated. In between, a friend of mine was found dead in the same town. That’s not much to hang a theory on.”

  “Well, I won’t fall apart if it turns out my father’s a murderer. I am what I am. Nothing’s going to change that, for better or for worse.”

  “I’m glad you realize that.”

  “I just feel bad because I’m responsible for Mr. Spring’s death. I got him into this and now he’s dead and I feel terrible about it.” Her voice began to tremble and a sniffle blasted over the wire.