by Janet Dawson
“Listen, I’ve got a fire to tend. Can you come out back?”
“Certainly.” I stepped into a living room furnished with a lot of rattan furniture covered with flowered tropical cushions. What is it about rattan furniture and military people who’ve been stationed in the Pacific? They probably picked it up for a fraction of what it would cost here. The stuff was certainly lightweight and easy to move.
I followed Yancy through a small kitchen, appliances and counter on my right and an oak trestle table hugging the wall on my left. On the counter a covered glass dish held a couple of steaks marinating in reddish-brown sauce. Yancy pushed open a screen door. The backyard wasn’t much bigger than the front, half filled with a makeshift patio of concrete blocks. The patio was crowded with lawn chairs, a table, and a barbecue grill which now radiated heat from the glowing coals. Yancy had left a can of beer on the table. Now he picked it up and took a swallow as he poked at the coals.
“Don’t know what I can tell you about Sam,” Yancy said. “I don’t have any complaints about his job performance. Never have, in all the time I’ve known him.”
“You knew him on Guam,” I said, my words a statement more than a question.
“Yes, that’s where I met him.” Yancy set the beer down. “He didn’t work for me there. We were at different commands, at NAS Agana. We played a little poker. Still do, as a matter of fact. What else can I say? Sam’s a nice guy. I like him.”
I heard a sound from the house. A woman appeared in the kitchen, carrying a brown paper sack which she set down on the trestle table. She began unloading the bag, pulling out romaine, bell peppers, cucumbers, celery, and a package of carrots. I watched through the screen door as she grabbed a shallow plastic colander and rinsed the vegetables, leaving them to drain in the sink. Then she turned back to the grocery sack and pulled out a bottle of salad dressing and some canned goods before she looked up and saw me on the other side of the screen door. She froze, the red label on a can of tomatoes a splash of color in her hand.
“Steve?” She set the can on the counter as she walked to the door.
“I’m out here, hon.”
She pushed open the screen door and stepped out onto the patio, a slender blonde about five-foot-four. She was at least ten years younger than Yancy, maybe more, wearing shorts and a sleeveless blouse. Her straight hair was short and parted on one side, hugging her head. Her brown eyes wary, she looked me over, then darted a glance at her husband.
“This is my wife Claudia,” Yancy said, putting an arm around her shoulders.
“Jeri Howard.”
From what Ruth had told me, I knew Claudia Yancy was in the Navy. Both Yancys worked at the air station at Agana at the same time Sam Raynor had. As I introduced myself, I held out my hand and got a limp, noncommittal handshake in return, accompanied by a polite smile. On her right hand Claudia Yancy wore a ring with a large apple-green stone. Suddenly I recalled last week’s conversation with Betty Korsakov, Ruth’s neighbor on Guam. She’d told me about seeing Raynor in a jewelry store, buying just such a ring. Of course, lots of people have jade rings.
“Jeri’s asking some questions about Sam Raynor.”
At her husband’s words, Claudia Yancy’s eyes widened with alarm. Her smile disappeared. She masked it by stepping back into the kitchen, where she opened the refrigerator door. “What about Sam Raynor?” Her voice stayed steady as she pulled out a can of beer and popped the top.
I walked to the screen door and stared through the mesh, fixing the younger woman with my gaze. “How well did you know Sam Raynor when you were on Guam?”
She shrugged. “He was just another guy at the air station.”
“But you weren’t friends?”
She shook her head slowly behind the protective barrier of the screen door. “No. Not at all.”
“Actually, Claudia’s known Sam longer than I have,” Steve Yancy said, turning from his grill. The heat from the coals had turned his fair face red, and I saw the shine of perspiration on his forehead. “Before we got married. We got married on Guam, two years last January. Didn’t you know Sam when you were stationed at Pearl Harbor?”
“No, I didn’t.” Claudia bit off the words. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
“Sorry, hon,” Yancy said, a placating tone in his voice. “Sam was at Pearl before Guam, and so were you.”
“Pearl’s a big place.” Claudia had her hand clamped around the beer can as though it were a life preserver. She raised it to her lips again.
“My mistake.” Yancy gazed at his wife with a smile on his round face, obviously besotted with her. When she looked back at him, her eyes were so full of scorn I wondered at his inability to see it.
“You knew Sam better than I did,” Claudia said. She saw me watching her and she hastily dropped her eyes. “After all, you guys played poker every payday.”
“Yeah.” The chief laughed and took another swallow of his beer. “Sam and Harlan used to clean up at those poker games. I didn’t do too badly myself, though.”
“You know Harlan Pettibone?” I asked. It sounded like the whole cast of characters had made the move from Guam to Alameda.
The chief laughed. “Harlan and Sam were steaming mates on Guam. He’s a character.”
“He’s a creep,” Claudia snapped. “I’m surprised they haven’t thrown him out of the Navy by now.”
“He’s working on it,” Steve said. “Couple of months ago he did some time in the brig over at Treasure Island. Something about a fight with a Marine.”
“I hope the Marine beat the shit out of him.” Claudia snarled the words. “I’m hungry, Steve.” She set her beer down on the low table and gave me a pointed look that was meant to usher me out the door. “Are those coals ready?”
“Absolutely.” Chief Yancy smiled at his wife, then at me. “Hope we were able to give you what you need, informationwise.”
“You’ve been very helpful.” I spotted a gate at the side of the house, leading to the narrow passage that separated it from the next cottage. “I’ll let myself out.”
I walked back to the street. A car was parked in front of the red pickup, a car that hadn’t been there when I arrived. It was a cranberry-colored Nissan sedan, a red base sticker on the windshield, just like the car Acey Collins saw last week when Sam Raynor met a woman near the boathouse at Lake Merritt. A blonde, he said, in the backseat with Raynor, and they’d been doing more than talking.
Sam’s taste evidently ran to short blondes, and Claudia Yancy certainly fit that description. Was her affair with Sam of recent vintage, or a replay of something that began when they were stationed on Guam, or even as far back as Pearl Harbor?
Whatever its duration, her husband would be the last to know. And how would Steve Yancy react when he found out? Would he suffer quietly—or explode?
Eleven
“ARNOLD CLAUDE COLLINS,” ANGIE WALTERS SAID when I picked up the phone late the next morning.
“Known to all and sundry as Acey?” I knew from Tiffany’s comment about her brother’s parole officer that Acey must have a record, but I’d been waiting for Angie to get back to me with details. I’d figured it could take a while since Angie wasn’t supposed to be feeding me information. She did it anyway, for reasons of her own.
“Thirty-six years old,” Angie continued in her trademark raspy voice. “He’s got a sheet going back fifteen years. He used to ride with a motorcycle gang but he’s been out of circulation for a while, owing to a recent stretch at Folsom.”
“What was he in for?”
“Receiving stolen property. Plea-bargained, sentenced to three years. Got out in two. He’s on parole.”
“Who’s his parole officer? Do you have an address for Collins?” Angie gave me the name and two addresses.
Acey worked as a mechanic—that much I’d guessed from the condition of his hands. Both addresses were in North Oakland. The garage was located on Telegraph Avenue near the MacArthur BART station, and Acey’s residence
was in the Temescal neighborhood, on Miles Avenue near Forty-ninth Street. It was just after noon when I visited the garage. I didn’t see the car Acey said he was selling for his sister, but I supposed that now that the Mercedes had been stolen, Tiffany would need her Subaru.
A man in oil-stained coveralls told me Acey was on his lunch break. Had Acey gone home? It was a possibility, since he lived nearby. I headed for Miles Avenue, expecting an apartment building. Instead I found a small Victorian house, painted blue with gray trim, its window boxes full of geraniums, and a bird feeder hanging from the eaves of the porch.
I parked at the curb, got out of my Toyota and looked at the house, one story built high off the ground, with a garage tucked underneath. I didn’t see the Harley, but an old bronze Plymouth with California plates sat in the driveway. The lawn had been replaced by drought-resistant foliage surrounded by redwood chips.
If the flowers and the bird feeder weren’t enough to intrigue me, the sound effects certainly were. Rachmaninoff’s Second Piano Concerto poured through the open screen door, the volume turned up to an ear-splitting level. I climbed the steps leading to the front porch and spotted a bell to the right of the door. I pushed it, but the music was so loud it drowned out the buzzer, if that worked at all. I peered through the screen door and saw shelves on the right-hand wall, holding a stereo system and a television set.
I pounded on the door and shouted a greeting. “Hello? Anybody home?”
A woman appeared from the back of the house and saw me at the door. She picked up a small rectangle, aimed it at the shelves, and the music stopped abruptly. Compact disc remote, I realized.
“You like Rachmaninoff,” I said.
“I like piano music.”
She spoke in a crisp no-nonsense voice, hands on her hips as she walked up to the screen door. She was a slender woman, her long hair a straight shiny curtain down her back and shoulders, its dark brown strands touched here and there with silver. She wore black jeans, black espadrilles, and a white eyelet cotton blouse, its tail tucked into the waistband of the jeans. Gold hoops glinted in her ears. I looked at her left hand and didn’t see a wedding band.
“If you’re selling something, I’m not buying,” she said.
“I’m looking for Acey Collins.”
A pair of sharp brown eyes bored directly into mine. “Why? Who’re you?”
“Jeri Howard. I need to talk with him about his sister Tiffany.”
“The private investigator,” she said. “He told me about you. He’s not here.”
“Are you Mrs. Collins?” I asked. She nodded. “May I talk with you, then?”
She thought about it for a moment, then unlocked the screen door. “My name’s Genevieve. People call me Gen. We can talk for a little while. Then I’ve got errands to run.”
The first thing I saw when I stepped into the Collins’s living room was an old upright piano, its wood scarred and its ivory keys yellowed and chipped. A stack of sheet music was piled on top, and a backless stool was tucked under the keyboard. The piano stood against the wall opposite the front door, to the left of an open doorway leading to the back of the house. I walked over and played a scale. As far as I could tell, the piano was in tune.
“Do you play?” I asked.
“A little. Blues and boogie-woogie.”
“And Mozart.” I glanced at the sheet music on the top of the stack and saw the composer’s name.
“Blues I can handle.” She smiled. “Mozart’s a challenge. Look, you didn’t come here to talk about piano music. What’s on your mind?”
I turned and looked around the room. Genevieve Collins was a casual housekeeper, but so was I. The place wasn’t dirty, it was just cluttered, the kind of clutter that accumulates with day-to-day life and busy schedules, too many things and not enough places to put them. Some children’s toys, a stuffed bear and a doll, had been discarded on the seat of the rocking recliner chair that stood near the front window. Books were stacked haphazardly on a low bookcase under the window, as well as here and there on the shelves that held record albums, CDs, and audiotapes. The VCR rested on top of the TV set, and I saw a couple of videotapes as well.
Genevieve took the CD out of the player and replaced it in its case, then turned off the unit. She crossed the room to the old sofa. It was long with a high back, upholstered in a harvest print of squash, pumpkin, and ears of com spilling from a cornucopia, its rust and brown and yellow fabric worn and scratched at the bottom, as though a cat had been sharpening its claws there. A crocheted afghan in the same fall colors was folded lengthwise and lay across the top of the sofa. Genevieve sat down on the sofa and began straightening the magazines strewn atop the rattan chest that served as a coffee table. I pulled out the piano stool, its leg catching on the edge of the brown-and-gold-patterned rug that covered the hardwood floor. I righted the stool and sat down.
“How long have you and Acey been together?”
“Fifteen years. Married twelve. We’ve had our ups and downs and two kids.” She looked up from the magazines. “I thought you came to talk about Tiffany.”
“So tell me about Tiffany.”
Genevieve didn’t say anything for a moment, then she sighed. “She’s the baby sister, Acey’s the oldest. There’s two other boys in between. One’s in the Army, the other’s in jail.”
“Acey did some time too.”
“He was set up,” she snapped, the glare from her eyes hard and narrow. She didn’t ask me how I knew about Acey’s prison record. “Look, he stays out of trouble. We’re doing all right. He’s got a good job as a mechanic. He comes home every night and stays with the kids while I work nights, waiting tables. He hands me his paycheck every week and I pay the bills. We even manage to put a little money away. On weekends he gets together with his buddies and raises a little hell. But he stays out of trouble, because he doesn’t want to go back to the joint. So don’t hold that against him.”
“I’m not,” I said.
“Well, a lot of people do. It grinds my gears. What has this got to do with Tiffany anyway?”
“When I talked with Acey a few days ago, he made some threats against Sam Raynor.”
“So Acey doesn’t like Tiffany’s boyfriend. I met the guy. Believe me, he’s no prize.”
“Raynor got roughed up a couple of weeks ago over in Alameda. Two bikers grabbed him in a parking lot outside a club on Webster Street and slapped him around. Raynor wound up with a black eye, but they could have hurt him worse. I think the whole incident was designed to get his attention.”
Genevieve’s mouth twisted into a bitter smile. She sat back on the sofa, crossed her legs, and folded her arms over her chest, her head tilted to one side as she challenged me. “And you figure Acey had something to do with it. Just because he’s a biker and rides a Harley.”
“I think it’s a logical assumption. It’s not because Acey’s a biker. When I talked with him the other day, he seemed genuinely concerned about his sister. When it comes to protecting his family, who knows?”
Now she frowned and shook her head, the fingers of her right hand toying with one gold earring. “Acey’s got a blind spot where Tiffany’s concerned,” she admitted. “Ever since they were kids, he gets into this big brother number. He thinks he’s got to protect her all the time. I keep telling him she’s a grown woman. She’s twenty-five, been out on her own since she was eighteen. Tiff does all right. She’s just independent.”
Headstrong was the word I would have used to describe Tiffany Collins. I tempered my words, appealing to Genevieve to look at another side. “Sometimes the wrong kind of guy can turn a woman’s head. Even a sensible woman who can take care of herself. Did Acey tell you why I’m investigating Raynor?”
Genevieve nodded. “He said Sam’s in the middle of a divorce and he’s hiding some money from the wife. He also said Sam beat up on his wife. Tiffany wouldn’t put up with that. She’s got too much self-respect.”
“Are you sure? You said Acey has a blind sp
ot where his sister is concerned. What if Tiffany has a blind spot and can’t see Sam Raynor for what he is? I’m sure his wife didn’t, at first I’ll bet if I dig deep enough, I’ll find some past girlfriends with bruises. Guys who beat up the women in their lives have a pattern. It’s easy to get fooled. Acey said himself he’s afraid Raynor has Tiffany mesmerized. Raynor’s smooth, he talks a good line. He buys Tiffany presents, takes her out to dinner. He’s free with the money that he’s not supposed to have. I’ll bet he even had something to do with buying that Mercedes.”
“That’s what Acey thinks.” Genevieve’s frown had deepened while I talked. “Tiffany said it was her money, but she was really vague about whether it was her own savings or if she’d taken out a loan. I guess Sam actually found the car and negotiated the deal. According to Tiff, Sam picked up the car for a song, because it was several years old and needed some work. Acey checked it out, though. He said it was in good shape.”
“A used Mercedes is still worth a lot of money. I’d like to know where Sam Raynor found this bargain. Did he or Tiffany happen to mention that?” She shook her head. “Is she the type to save for a rainy day?”
“She’s the type to hit Nordstrom and blow a week’s salary on clothes. And bunnies.” Genevieve smiled as she spoke of Tiffany’s penchant for rabbits. Then her face grew serious again. She shifted on the sofa, recrossing her legs.
“When Acey and the other kids were growing up, they were dirt-poor, didn’t have much. I think that’s why Tiff spends money on herself. She’s gotta have all those pretty things she didn’t have when she was little.”
“Does she just have her civil service salary?” I asked. “Where would she come up with the kind of money it takes to buy a Mercedes, even a used one?”
Genevieve leaned forward and tapped one finger against her knee. “When Acey’s mom died last year, there was some insurance money. All four of the kids got a share. It was a good chunk of cash. Acey and I locked his share up in an IRA. I don’t know what Tiff did with hers. I kept talking IRAs, but you can’t preach to someone that age about retirement. They think they’re gonna live forever. Tiff talked about buying a condo. Then she turned up with this flashy car that cost a bundle. I think that’s why Acey was upset with her. Why put all that money into a car when she could have used it for a down payment and closing costs?”
