by Sue Grafton
I approached the house on foot, my flashlight raking back and forth across the path in front of me. The porch light contributed a soft wash of yellow that blended with the shadows at the edge of the yard. I moved around the side of the house to the patio in the rear, where two harsh spotlights made the property inhospitable to prowlers. I crossed the concrete slab and went down four shallow steps to the formal garden. The cushion on Peter’s chaise had been folded in half, possibly to spare it further weathering. Over the years, the sun had bleached the canvas to a tired and cracking gray. I could see that snails were currently using the surface as a playground.
The grass had been cut. I could see parallel paths through the back lawn, swaths overlapping where the mower had doubled back. Where I’d seen toadstools, there was nothing. I crossed the yard, trying to remember the placement of the fairy rings. Some toadstools had grown singly and some in clumps. Now everything had been obliterated by the passing mower blades. I hunkered, touching minced vegetable matter, whitish against the dark grass. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught movement . . . a shadow passing through the light. Yolanda was home, tramping through the wet grass to the place where I was crouched. She was wearing another two-piece velour running suit, this one magenta. Her walking shoes seemed to flash with short strips of reflecting tape, the pristine leather uppers sprinkled with clippings from the mown grass.
“What are you doing out here?” Her voice was low, and in the half light her face was gray with fatigue. Her platinum-blond hair was as stiff as a wig.
“I was looking for the toadstools that were here the first time I came.”
“The gardener came yesterday. I had him mow all of this.”
“What’d he do with the clippings?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Morley Shine was murdered.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Her tone was perfunctory.
“Really?” I said. “You didn’t seem to like him much.”
“I didn’t like him at all. He smelled like someone who drank and smoked, which I don’t approve of. You still haven’t explained what you’re doing on my property.”
“Have you ever heard of Amanita phalloides?”
“A type of toadstool, I presume.”
“A poisonous mushroom of the type that killed Morley.”
“The gardener puts the clippings in a big heap over there. When the pile gets big enough, he loads up his truck and takes it all to the dump. If you like, you can have the crime lab come haul it away for analysis.”
“Morley was a good investigator.”
“I’m sure he was. What’s that got to do with it?”
“I suspect he was murdered because he knew the truth.”
“About Isabelle’s murder?”
“Among other things. You want to tell me why you sent a four-hundred-dollar check to Curtis McIntyre?”
That seemed to stump her. “Who told you that?”
“I saw the check.”
She was silent for a full thirty seconds, a very long time in ordinary conversation. Reluctantly she said, “He’s my grandson. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Curtis?” I said with such incredulity that she seemed to take offense.
“You don’t need to say it like that. I know the boy’s faults perhaps better than you.”
“I’m sorry, but I never in this world would have linked you with him,” I said.
“Our only daughter died when he was ten. We promised her we’d raise him as well as we could. Curtis’s father was unbearably common, I’m afraid. A criminal and a misfit. He disappeared when Curt was eight and we haven’t heard a word from him since. When it comes to nature versus nurture, it’s plain that nature prevails. Or perhaps we failed in some vital way. . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“Is that how he got involved in all this?”
“This what?”
“He was set to testify in the civil suit against David Barney. Did you talk to him about the murder?”
She rubbed her forehead. “I suppose.”
“Do you remember if he was staying with you at the time?”
“I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”
“Do you happen to know where he is at the moment?”
“I haven’t any idea.”
“Somebody picked him up at his motel a little while ago.”
She continued to stare at me. “Please. Just tell me what you want and then leave me alone.”
“Where’s Peter? Is he here?”
“He was admitted to the hospital late this afternoon. He’s had another heart attack. He’s in the cardiac care unit. If it’s not too much to ask, I’d like to go in now. I came home for a bite of supper. I have some phone calls to make and then I have to go back to the hospital. They’re not sure he’s going to make it this time.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I had no idea.”
“It doesn’t matter now. Nothing really matters much.”
I watched with uneasiness as she tramped back across the grass, her wet shoes leaving partial prints on the concrete. She looked shrunken and old. I suspected she was a woman who would follow her mate into death within months. She unlocked the back door and let herself in. The kitchen light went on. As soon as she was out of sight, I began to cross the grass, my flashlight picking up occasional fragments of white. I hunkered, brushing aside a clump of grass clippings. Under it was a scant portion of mower-chopped toadstool—less than a tablespoon from the look of it. The chances of its being A. phalloides seemed remote, but in the interest of thoroughness I took a folded tissue from my jacket pocket and carefully wrapped the specimen.
I went back to my car, feeling somewhat unsettled. I was reasonably sure I understood now how Curtis had gotten involved in the case. Maybe he’d heard the jail talk among informants and had approached Kenneth Voigt after the acquittal came down. Or maybe Ken had heard from the Weidmanns that Curtis had been jailed with David Barney. He might well have approached Curtis with the suggestion about his trumped-up testimony. I wasn’t sure Curtis was smart enough to generate the scheme himself.
I sat in my car on the darkened side road. I rolled the window down so I could listen to the crickets. The feel of damp air against my face was refreshing. The vegetation along the berm smelled quite peppery where I’d trampled it. I worked for the Y as a camp counselor (briefly) the summer before my sophomore year in high school. I must have been fifteen, full of hope, not yet into flunking, rebelling, and smoking dope. We’d gone on an “overnight,” the whole batch of us from day camp, me with the nine-year-old girls in my charge. We did pretty well until we settled down for the night. Then it turned out the tree under which we’d arranged our sleeping bags was a vast leafy nest full of daddy longlegs spiders that commenced dropping down on us from above. Plop, plop. Plop, plop. You’ve never heard such shrieks. It scared the little girls half to death I’m sure. . . .
I glanced at my rearview mirror. Behind me, a car turned the corner, slowing as it reached me. The logo on the vehicle was the Horton Ravine Patrol. There were two men in the front seat, the one in the passenger seat directing a spotlight in my face. “You having a problem?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “I’m just on my way.” I turned the key and put the car in gear, easing forward on the shoulder until I could pull onto the pavement in front of them. I drove sedately out of Horton Ravine, the guys in the patrol car following conspicuously. I got back on the freeway, more from desperation than from any concrete plan. What was I supposed to do? Most of the leads I’d pursued had suddenly petered out, and until I talked to Curtis I couldn’t be sure what was going on. I’d left word for him to call. My only choice seemed to be to head for home, where at least he could reach me if he got one of my messages.
It was 8:15 by the time I reached my place. I locked the door behind me and turned the downstairs lights on. I transferred the tissue-wrapped toadstool to a Baggie, pausing to search through a kitchen drawer until I found a ma
rker pen. I labeled the Baggie with a crudely drawn skull and crossbones and tucked it in my refrigerator. I peeled my jacket off and perched on a stool. I studied the bulletin board with its road map of multicolored index cards.
It was aggravating to think there might be something right in front of me. If Morley had spotted something, it had probably cost him his life. What was it? I ran my gaze up one column of information and down the next, watching the sequence of events unfold. I got up and walked around the room, came back, and peered. I went over to the sofa bed and lay down on my back, staring at the ceiling. Thinking is hard work, which is why you don’t see a lot of people doing it. I got up restlessly and returned to the counter, leaning on my elbows while I scanned the board.
“Come on, Morley, help me out here,” I murmured.
Oh.
Well, there was a bit of a discrepancy that I hadn’t paid much attention to. According to Regina Turner at the Gypsy Motel, Noah McKell was struck and killed at 1:11 A.M. But Tippy hadn’t reached the intersection at San Vicente and 101 until approximately 1:40, a thirty-minute difference. Why had it had taken her so long to get there? It was probably only four or five miles from the Gypsy to the off-ramp. Had she stopped for a cup of coffee? Filled her tank with gas? She’d just killed a man, and according to David she was still visibly upset. It was difficult to picture what she’d done with that half hour. Maybe she’d spent the time driving aimlessly around. I couldn’t think why it would matter, but the question seemed easy to clarify.
I reached for the phone and punched in the Parsons number, staring at the bulletin board while it continued to ring. Eight, nine. Oh, yeah. Friday night. I’d forgotten about Rhe’s opening at the Axminster Gallery. I hauled out the telephone book and looked up the number for the gallery. This time somebody picked up on the second ring, but there was such a din in the background I could hardly hear. I pressed a hand to my free ear, focusing on the sounds from the gallery. I asked for Tippy and then had to make the same request only doubling the volume and pitch of my voice. The fellow on the other end said he’d go and get her. I sat and listened to people laughing, glasses clinking. Sounded like they were having a lot more fun than I was. . . .
“Hello?”
“Hello, Tippy? This is Kinsey. Listen, I know this is a bad time to try to talk to you, but I was just thinking about what happened the night your aunt was killed. Can I ask you a couple questions?”
“Right now?”
“If you don’t mind. I’m just curious about what happened between the time of the accident and the time you saw David Barney.”
There was silence. “I don’t know. I mean, I went up to my aunt’s, but that’s it.”
“You went to Isabelle’s house?”
“Yeah. I was like really upset and I couldn’t think what else to do. I was going to tell her what happened and ask her for help. If she told me to go back, I would have done it, I swear.”
“Could you speak up, please? What time was this?”
“Right after the accident. I knew I hit the guy so I just took off and headed right up to her place.”
“Was she there?”
“I guess so. The lights were on. . . .”
“The porch light was on?”
“Sure. I knocked and knocked but she never came down.”
“Was the eyepiece in the door?”
“I didn’t really look at that. After I knocked, I walked around the outside, but the place was all locked up. So I just got in my truck and headed home from there.”
“You went home on the freeway.”
“Sure, I got on at Little Pony Road.”
“And got off at San Vicente.”
“Well, yeah,” she said. “Why, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing really. It narrows the time of death, but I can’t see that it makes any difference. Anyway, I appreciate your help. If you think of anything else, would you give me a call?”
“Sure. Is that all you want?”
“For now,” I said. “Did you talk to the cops?”
“No, but I talked to this lawyer and she’s going in with me first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Good. You’ll have to let me know what happens. How’s the opening?”
“Really neat,” she said. “Everybody loves it. They’re like freaking out. Mom’s sold six pieces.”
“That’s wonderful. Good for her. I hope she sells tons.”
“I gotta go. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
I said good-bye to an empty line.
The phone rang again before I could remove my hand. I snatched up the receiver, thinking maybe Tippy had remembered something. “Hello?”
There was an odd breathy silence, very brief, and then I heard a man’s voice. “Hey, Kinsey?” Then the breathiness again.
“Yes.” I found myself squinting at the sound. I pressed my fingers to my ear again, listening to the quiet as I’d listened to the party noises at Rhe’s opening. The guy was crying. He wasn’t sobbing. It was the kind of crying you do when you want to conceal the fact. The air was bypassing his vocal cords. “Kinsey?”
“Curtis?”
“Uh-hunh. Yeah.”
“What’s wrong? Is somebody there with you?”
“I’m fine. How are you?”
“Curtis, what’s the matter? Is someone there with you?”
“That’s right. Listen, why I called? I was wondering if you could meet me so we could talk about something.”
“Who is it? Are you okay?”
“Can you meet me? I have some information.”
“What’s going on? Can you tell me who’s with you?”
“Meet me at the bird refuge and I’ll explain.”
“When?”
“As soon as possible, okay?”
I had to make a quick decision. I couldn’t keep him on the line much longer. Anybody monitoring the call would get cranky. “Okay. It might take me a while. I’m already in bed so I’ll have to get dressed. I’ll see you down there as soon as I can make it, but it might be twenty minutes.”
The line went dead.
It wasn’t nine o’clock yet, but there wasn’t much traffic around the bird refuge at night. The preserve encompasses a freshwater lagoon on a little-used access road between the freeway and the beach. The twenty-car parking lot is usually used by tourists looking for a “photo opportunity.” There was a tavern across the street, but the property was currently without a tenant. I wasn’t going to go down there alone and unarmed. I picked up the phone again and called the police station, asking for Sergeant Cordero.
“I’m sorry, but she won’t be in until seven A.M.“
“Can you tell me who’s working Homicide?”
“Is this an emergency?”
“Not yet,” I said tartly.
“You can talk to the watch commander.”
“Just skip it. Never mind. I can try someone else.” I depressed the button and tucked the telephone in against my shoulder while I checked my personal address book. The “someone else” I called was Sergeant Jonah Robb, an STPD cop who worked the missing persons detail. He and I had had a sporadic relationship that fluctuated according to the whims of his wife. Theirs was a marriage of high drama and long duration, the two having met at age thirteen in the seventh grade. Personally, I didn’t think they’d progressed much. At intervals, Camilla would leave him—usually without notice or explanation—taking their two daughters and any money they had in their joint bank account. Jonah always vowed each time was the last. It was during one of these periods of domestic upheaval that I entered, stage left. I was the understudy, a role I discovered I didn’t like very much. I’d finally severed the connection. I hadn’t spoken to Jonah now for nearly a year, but he was still someone I felt I could call in a pinch.
A woman answered the telephone in a bedroom tone of voice, Camilla perhaps, or her latest replacement. I asked for Jonah and I could hear the receiver being passed from hand to hand. His “Hello” was groggy. God, these peop
le went to bed earlier than I did. I identified myself and that seemed to wake him up some.
“What’s happening?” he said.
“I hate to bother you, babe, but a jailbird named Curtis McIntyre just phoned and asked me to meet him at the bird refuge as soon as I can get there. My guess is the guy had a gun to his head. I need backup.”
“Who’s with him? Do you know?”
“I don’t have an answer to that yet and it’s too complicated to go into on the phone.”
“You got a gun?”
“It’s in my office at Lonnie Kingman’s. I’m just on my way over there to pick it up. Take me fifteen minutes max and then I’ll head down to the beach. Can you help?”
“Yeah, I can probably do that.”
“I wouldn’t ask, but I don’t have anyone else.”
“I understand,” he said. “I’ll see you there in fifteen minutes. I’ll drive past and then double back on foot. There’s plenty of cover.”
“That’s what concerns me,” I said. “Don’t trip over the bad guys.”
“Don’t worry. I can smell them puppy dogs. See you down there.”
“Thanks,” I said and hung up.
I grabbed my shoulder bag and my jacket with the car keys in the pocket, congratulating myself that I’d had the presence of mind to get the VW gassed up. It would take all the time I’d allotted to get from my apartment to the office and back down to the bird refuge. Whomever Curtis had with him was going to be edgy about delays, suspicious if I didn’t show up in the time I’d said I would. I drove faster than the law allows, but I kept an eye on the rearview mirror, watching for cunningly concealed black-and-whites. I hoped I wouldn’t have trouble laying hands on the gun. I’d moved only five weeks ago, hauling my hastily packed cardboard boxes from California Fidelity to Lonnie Kingman’s office. I hadn’t actually seen the gun since I bought it in May. I’d resented the necessity for the purchase in the first place, but I’d heard that my name was at the top of somebody’s hit list. A private eye named Robert Dietz had stepped into the picture when I realized I needed help. Once I accepted the fact that my life was truly endangered, I gave up any passing interest in being politically correct. It was Dietz who’d insisted that I replace my .32-caliber Davis with the H&K. The damn gun had cost me an arm and a leg. Come to think of it, I wasn’t all that sure where the Davis was either.
