Take a Number

by Janet Dawson

  That was the same bar where Acey Collins spent Saturday evening, until he was alerted by a phone call from Genevieve that Sam and Tiffany were having dinner at the restaurant where Genevieve worked. Had Acey gone back to the bar after observing his sister’s argument with Sam in the parking lot? Which reminded me that I still hadn’t interviewed Zeke, the waiter who had served Sam and Tiffany that night.

  My office answering machine flashed its red light rapidly, indicating numerous messages. I reached for pencil and paper, pressing the playback button. Alex Tongco had called. So had Bill Stanley and Lieutenant Bruinsma. Then there was a terse report from Admiral Franklin. “I started at the end of Piedmont and I’ve worked my way down one side of the street to Ridgeway. Nothing to report.”

  I smiled, tapping my pencil on the notepad. It sounded as though Joe Franklin was really getting into his assigned task. Good. That would keep him out of my hair, and Bill Stanley’s.

  The last message on the tape made me sit up and reach for the phone. It was from Genevieve Collins, informing me that her sister-in-law Tiffany had finally turned up, late Tuesday night.

  “Where was she?” I asked when Gen answered the phone.

  “With a girlfriend up in Citrus Heights, near Sacramento. I’m off tonight, so Tiff’s coming over for dinner. She’ll be here after work, about five o’clock. I figure you want to talk with her.”

  “You figure right.”

  “Okay. I won’t tell her you’re coming. By the way, Zeke’s working the lunchtime shift at the restaurant, if you haven’t already connected with him.”

  “I haven’t. I’ll get over there today.” I disconnected the call, then punched in Bill Stanley’s number. His secretary, Donetta Fox, told me he was in court all day, but if I was at the courthouse, I might be able to talk with him during a recess. I had to go over there anyway, to look up Norm’s real estate transaction. Now I turned on the computer and wrote a detailed report of my trip to Gilroy and the people I’d talked with after Sam Raynor’s funeral. That took more than an hour, during which I fielded several calls. I was about to leave my office when the phone rang again. I reached over my desk and picked up the receiver, hearing a man’s voice.

  “Seems to me we have a dinner date we never kept.”

  “Mark Willis,” I said, perching on the edge of my desk. His voice brought back memories of the case I’d been working on last March and his involvement in it. “Seems to me I was detained that night, by a couple of thugs in a parking lot.”

  “Water under the bridge,” he said. “I’m in town on business. Want to try again?”

  I ran through my mental list of things I had to do today. “I think I can make it. Say, seven o’clock? Shall we try for the same restaurant, Ti Bacio on College?”

  “I’ll be there. Hey, Jeri, don’t stand me up again.”

  At the Alameda County Courthouse I dug up the information Norm needed, then I waited outside one of the courtrooms until Bill Stanley was free. I gave him a quick overview of my day in Gilroy and the leads I planned to check out. Then I headed for Piedmont Avenue.

  I caught Zeke at New Sunshine Pizza just as his lunch-time shift began. He was a slender black man who wore round wire-rimmed glasses. He removed them and rubbed the bridge of his nose as he recalled serving Sam Raynor and Tiffany Collins Saturday night. He remembered them for several reasons. It was late, just before nine, when they walked into the restaurant. Besides, he knew Tiffany on sight, because she was Genevieve’s sister-in-law and she’d been in before. More importantly, Sam and Tiffany were arguing, the kind of low-voiced quarrel that attracts attention because the participants are trying so hard not to draw the eye and ear.

  “Could you hear enough to figure out what it was about?” I asked Zeke.

  He stuck his glasses back on his nose and nodded. “Sure. Something about a car and some insurance. She was really upset with him, like the problem was his fault. He kept saying he had nothing to do with it.”

  “Did they talk about anything besides the car?”

  Zeke nodded. “Right before they left, she said, ‘You never answered my question about Ruth.’ By then the atmosphere was definitely frosty.”

  It sounded as though Tiffany had done as her brother suggested and asked Sam Raynor flat-out if he’d ever hit his wife. He must have denied it, or from what the waiter just said, avoided answering. Zeke confirmed that the couple left the restaurant just after ten that night, which jibed with Acey’s observation. Acey had also said that the movie crowd was leaving the Piedmont Cinema at the same time he left the bar where he’d been drinking and walked up to the restaurant. I thanked Zeke and headed up the street to the Cinema at the corner of Piedmont and Linda. I checked the time card taped to the box office window. The first evening show was at seven o’clock and the late show started at nine-forty. Assuming a fifteen-minute break between features, the first show would have been over at 9:25.

  I walked back along the avenue to the Royal Flush, the tavern owned by Acey’s friend. The heavy wooden door was propped open with an old flatiron, and I stepped inside, momentarily blinded as my eyes adjusted from the sunny street to the interior darkness. I stood for a moment, getting my bearings. The room was long and narrow, with booths on my left and the bar itself on my right. At the back I saw a dart board, a pool table, and beyond that, a Wurlitzer jukebox. A couple of burly guys in work pants and white T-shirts were playing pool, one chalking his cue while the other leaned over the table to make his shot. All the booths were full, a mixed bag of customers having lunch and a brew. Four stools at the bar were occupied, and the bartender had his back to me as he drew a mug of beer from the tap. As I moved toward the bar, a woman in a white shirt and a short black skirt bustled by carrying an oval basket with a burger and fries nestled inside on a sheet of waxed paper. She set it in front of a man who had removed his suit jacket and loosened his tie, and asked if he wanted another beer. Suspended from the ceiling above the bar, a color television set was tuned to one of the noontime news programs, but I couldn’t hear much of the sound over the din of conversation.

  I took a stool at the front of the bar and waited. “What’ll you have?” the bartender asked in a gruff voice. He was tall and stringy, with a thin face and a hawk nose, his sandy hair shoulder length, combed straight back off his face. I ordered an Anchor Steam, watching him as he drew it. There was a lot of gray in his hair, and I guessed his age as past forty.

  “Are you the owner?” I asked when he brought my beer.

  “Who wants to know?” he asked, his blue eyes wary.

  I laid a five on the bar along with my business card. The bartender’s eyes flicked over both, then he picked up the five first, moving toward the cash register. He came back with my change and picked up the business card, examining it more closely. “Yeah,” he said finally. “I’m the owner. Acey Collins told me to expect you.”

  “Did he? What else did he tell you?”

  “That you’d be asking questions.” The bartender reached for a pack of cigarettes behind the bar, shook one out and lit it with a disposable lighter. “He was here Saturday night. Gen called from the restaurant, and he left, about nine-thirty. Came back about ten-thirty and had another beer. He and I shot the breeze till we heard the sirens and went to see if it was a fire or something. That was ‘round eleven-thirty. You want witnesses, talk to Lucy. She’s my barmaid. Anything else you want to know?”

  He’d looked amused during this recitation, which more or less confirmed Acey’s story. “Yes, there is.” I raised the beer to my lips and took a sip. “There was someone else here that night, a man about five-ten, brown hair in a short military cut, fair, with a round face.” I stopped, trying to recall what Steve Yancy had been wearing when I saw him at the murder scene early Sunday morning. “Blue jeans and a light-colored striped pullover with short sleeves.”

  The bartender shrugged and drew in smoke, knocking ash from the end of his cigarette into a round glass ashtray. “I get a lot of customers S
aturday nights. And I was busy this past Saturday.” He thought for a long moment. “I don’t remember what he was wearing, but there was a guy sitting about where you are. He came in about a quarter after seven. He must have stayed a couple of hours. I think he ordered a burger and nursed three or four beers. Didn’t talk much, looked morose, if you know what I mean.”

  “I think I do.” Steve Yancy would have been morose, given the fact that he’d argued with Claudia about her affair and she’d packed up and moved out. “What time did he leave?”

  “Before Acey got the call from Gen, and Acey left around nine-thirty. So he must have left around a quarter after nine.” In time to go to the theater as the first show let out, so he could follow Claudia and her friend to Fenton’s Ice Cream Parlor. But Steve Yancy said he’d been afraid Claudia would spot him as she waited in the line outside Fenton’s, so he came back to the bar until he too heard the sirens.

  “If he did, I don’t remember,” the bartender told me when I asked him if he’d seen Yancy later that night.

  Before I left the Royal Flush, I asked both the bartender and Lucy about Rosie, the homeless woman with the rose on her hat. They knew who she was, since she frequently raided the bar’s trash cans in search of bottles and cans, but neither had seen her on Saturday. I walked back up Piedmont. It was past noon and I was hungry. I ignored the temptations presented at several bakeries, opting instead for a sandwich shop. It was empty, save for a clerk slouched forward, elbows resting on the counter. He straightened as I glanced at the menu board on the wall in back of him, and ordered a Calistoga and a pastrami on rye.

  “Coming right up,” he said, taking the mineral water from a refrigerated case. I watched him as he reached for a loaf of bread and a container full of pastrami. He was young, his blond hair short and spiky in the front and long in the back, braided into a tail at the nape of his neck. A gold hoop glittered in his left ear, and he wore a black T-shirt decorated with spotches of red, green, and neon yellow, advertising some heavy metal band I’d never heard of.

  “Do you have any spicy mustard?” I asked, removing the cap from the bottle of Calistoga. It was a hot day and the cold sparkling water tasted good.

  He picked up a jar and waggled it at me. “This stuff’ll blow off the top of your head.”

  “Sounds good.” He began slathering mustard on a slice of rye. “Sparingly, sparingly.” I reached into my purse for my wallet and one of my business cards. “By the way, I’m looking for a street person called Rosie, a woman with a rose on her hat. Maybe you’ve seen her?”

  He looked up from his sandwich-making, glanced at my business card and grinned. “Your associate was already here.”

  “My associate?” I took a sip from my mineral water.

  “Yeah, an old guy named Joe. He had your card.” The deli clerk looked at me, a question in his eyes. “He’s on the level, right?”

  “Yes, he is. When did he come in?”

  “Yesterday afternoon, for a cup of coffee and a muffin. Things were slow, so he and I had quite a chat.”

  I couldn’t imagine anyone chatting with the Joseph Franklin I knew, let alone this guy with his hair in a braid and an earring in one ear. Evidently the Admiral had taken to heart my advice about being less intimidating, and he’d succeeded in getting people to talk with him. But was he getting any information?

  “I haven’t talked to Joe today,” I said as I paid for my lunch. I took a seat at a table just opposite the counter, wrapped my hands around the pastrami on rye and took a large bite. The mustard kicked in. I could feel it burning right through my tear ducts to the back of my head, and my eyes began to water. I reached for a napkin to mop the overflow. “Wow, you were right about this mustard. What did you tell Joe? Have you seen Rosie?”

  “Not for a week or so,” the deli clerk said. “Joe said Rosie probably liked our Dumpster because we toss so many cans and bottles, which is true. She even scratched her initial on it, like she was telling all the other street people it’s hers. He asked if I knew which other places she likes to scavenge, so I gave him a couple of possibilities. Later I saw him going into stores across the street.”

  I finished my sandwich, amused at the thought of the starchy Admiral Franklin canvassing Piedmont Avenue in search of a homeless woman. The laugh would be on me if he actually did find Rosie. Of course, I wanted him to find her. It sounded as though Franklin was doing a thorough job of it, and he was certainly saving me the time I’d have spent at the chore. It satisfied both his desire to do something to help solve his daughter’s problem and Bill Stanley’s edict to keep the Admiral out of the way.

  Thirty

  LENORE FRANKLIN OPENED THE DOOR OF THE HOUSE on Gibbons Drive, talking in hushed tones. “I just put Wendy down for a nap,” she explained as she ushered me through the living room to the kitchen. “Poor little mite hasn’t been sleeping well. She’s been acting up too. Before, she was well-behaved and quiet. Too quiet, really. Now she’s having tantrums. Yelling and throwing things. It’s all because of this, I know.”

  “I’d recommend some counseling.” I looked past Lenore, who leaned against the counter and reached for a frosty glass of iced tea. Through the kitchen window I saw Ruth at the far corner of the Franklins’ patio, sitting in a metal lawn chair, her back to the window.

  “You’re right,” Lenore said. She set the glass down again and wiped her hands on the sides of her blue slacks. Her topaz eyes were troubled. “Joe and I have talked about it. Joe’s enjoying himself, by the way. Playing detective. He was out of here early yesterday morning and didn’t get home till almost seven. If he doesn’t find that homeless woman, it certainly won’t be for lack of trying.”

  “I appreciate his help. I’ve been busy with other things Bill Stanley wants me to do.”

  “I’m not being a very good host,” Lenore said suddenly. “Want some iced tea? It’s been so hot, I’ve been gulping the stuff by the quart.” Even as I said yes she was moving toward the refrigerator. She clunked several ice cubes into a tall glass and filled it to the brim with tea from a pitcher on the refrigerator shelf. “Want some sugar or lemon?”

  “No, I’ll just take it straight.” I took the glass from her. Tea threatened to splash onto her spotless kitchen floor, and I quickly drank the liquid down an inch or so.

  “That was a good idea,” Lenore continued, “to get Joe involved. I’ve got my hands full with Ruth and Wendy. Joe wants to help. He’s very much a take-charge kind of person, and it frustrates him not to be able to do something. He wants to make everything all right again.” She glanced over her shoulder, at her daughter, and a shadow of worry crossed her face. “I’m not sure it will ever be all right again.”

  “How’s Ruth?” I asked.

  “Not well at all.” Lenore crossed her arms over her flowered cotton blouse. “She has this incredible guilt, as though the whole thing is her fault—and no one else’s. Wendy’s behavior, the divorce, Sam’s death. Yesterday morning, before we went to the arraignment, she even wondered out loud if she had killed him, in some kind of trance after he choked her. Jeri, when we got to the courthouse, I was afraid she’d plead guilty, just to get it over with. Thank goodness she didn’t. She just sat there and let Mr. Stanley handle it. But she’s so passive, as though she’s just going to let whatever happens, happen.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think she did it, Lenore. There are a lot of people with motives to kill Sam. He generated a lot of hate and anger.” I sipped my tea. “Where’s Kevin?”

  Lenore frowned again. “I’m not sure. He left this morning, said he was going over to the air station, that he had a lunch date with a friend. He knows a lot of people in this area, so he’s been visiting friends and renewing acquaintances before he flies to Japan.”

  “When does he leave?” I asked. If Kevin’s departure was imminent, I had to confront him about his whereabouts on Saturday night—and soon.

  “He was supposed to fly to Tokyo on Tuesday, but he contacted his comman
d at Yokosuka and asked for a week’s extension of leave, because of Ruth’s situation.” Lenore looked out the window at her daughter. When she turned back to me, her mouth was compressed into a thin line, an effort to stop her lips from quivering. Her eyes suddenly filled with tears. “She’s been sitting out there since this morning. Ignoring me, ignoring Wendy. Jeri, I don’t know what to do.”

  “Hang in there. We’ll get through this,” I told her, placing my hand on her shoulder. The words sounded trite, but at this point I had nothing else to offer her.

  Carrying my glass, I opened the back door and stepped outside. As I crossed the patio, Ruth did not move. When I came abreast of her I saw that she had a book in her lap but she wasn’t reading. Instead she stared into space, unmoving, her eyes gazing somewhere past her mother’s vegetable garden. She didn’t react until I pulled up another chair, its metal legs scraping the concrete patio surface.

  “Jeri,” Ruth said mildly, blinking her brown eyes. “I didn’t hear you.”

  I took another sip of tea, then set the glass on the nearby picnic table. “I’m glad to see you’re out of jail. I hope it wasn’t too bad.”

  Ruth looked at my face for a moment, then her eyes dropped. When she spoke, it was in a whisper, and I had to lean closer to hear her. “They put me in a cell with a prostitute. And a drunken woman who kept shouting and throwing up. When I got home, I felt as though I’d never be clean again. I kept showering and showering, until I used up all the hot water. I don’t know if I can stand to go back there.”