No Sign of Murder

by Alan Russell

  With a few hours to spare, I decided to look up Anita’s old apartment. Russian Hill has always prided itself on its eclectic neighborhoods. The rich and the bohemian have historically lived side by side, even if today there are far more of the former and far fewer of the latter. Lombard Street, which advertises itself as “the crookedest street in the world,” is in Russian Hill, a street where every movie chase scene in the world has managed to get filmed.

  There are several stories behind the naming of Russian Hill. I liked a few of them, and those I didn’t I discounted. Some said a colony of Russians had settled on the 360-foot summit, while others said a group of Russian sailors had been buried there. Whatever, the name had stuck. The artists and writers had called it home—the poet Sterling, the satirist Bierce—but the spirit of the place had been in the William Penn Humphries house, now long gone. When the house was threatened by fire in 1906 and no water was available to stem the flames, its owner had challenged the conflagration with champagne. Smoking woodwork was doused with quarts and magnums of Mumm’s and Crug’s Private Cuvee. I don’t know if toasts were called or prayers made, but the flames retreated.

  Anita’s apartment was near where the Humphries Castle had once stood. It also wasn’t far from where the gallows for the first official execution in San Francisco were erected.

  I found Anita’s building, and buzzed long enough to get the manager’s attention. It was clear I wasn’t the first person to ask him about Anita. The man’s name was Rizzo. He talked to me through the security door.

  “Huh, what can I tell you? I been through this before, three, four times. I don’t know nothin’. Okay?”

  “Then how about letting me in so I can talk to her neighbors?”

  “Hey! This is a security buildin’, can’t you see? I let you in, it’s not secure, get it?”

  “Then maybe you can answer a few questions.”

  “Hey! You’re not listenin’. I don’t know nothin’.”

  It was clear my golden tongue wasn’t going to get me inside, or keep him there much longer. I waved Andrew Jackson, and found the key to the door.

  “I really don’t know nothin’,” said Rizzo, this time face to face, and Jackson already interred in his pocket. “I said hello a few times. She was a real looker, you know.”

  “What about her friends?”

  “Why should I see them? They buzz her, she buzzes back, they’re in.”

  “She was deaf, though.”

  “She had some kind of contraption hooked to a light when somebody buzzed.”

  “But she still wouldn’t have known who was downstairs.”

  “All the apartments got deadbolts and peepholes. She don’t want someone in her place, they don’t get in.”

  “Do you live here?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you handle noise complaints?”

  “What few there are. We don’t got rowdies here.”

  “Anita Walters had some parties in her place. Did you ever have to caution her?”

  “No.”

  “Were you ever in her apartment before her disappearance?”

  “Once.”

  “Why?”

  “I do repairs here. I do goddamn everything.”

  “And what kind of a repair did she need?”

  “She needed a couple of things. I don’t remember.”

  “Do you keep a log?”

  “Yeah. And do you want to fix the commode in 462 while I look it up?”

  I added another dead president, Hamilton, to gain his goodwill. By his expression he would have preferred to see Jackson again.

  “I’ll look it up.” He started to leave.

  “Who’s the best neighbor to talk to?”

  “Old lady Houston. Mrs. Houston. In 301. Been here forever and lives at her peephole. Gave the cops plenty of theories on that babe’s disappearance. Would’ve solved the Kennedy shooting if they had asked.

  “And Lincoln’s,” he added somewhat disdainfully, before disappearing around a corner.

  If Mrs. Houston wasn’t perched at her keyhole, she wasn’t far from it. Her voice was only a beat behind my knock. I announced myself, and upon request dutifully produced identification. The door opened slowly and I was ushered in.

  The apartment was well furnished, mainly with antiques. The air smelled as old as the furniture. I trudged through its mustiness while being led to a chair.

  It took some effort for Mrs. Houston to get seated, but her mind didn’t need the extra moments her body did. “I wondered why no one had come back,” she said, “but then the police didn’t seem too interested in my opinions.”

  “And which opinions are those, Mrs. Houston?”

  She pursed her lips and thought. She was an old woman who did not want to be excited or frightened by Anita’s disappearance, but she was both. She wasn’t confused, but it was important to her that she speak her thoughts clearly. She was neither crackpot nor eccentric, not feisty or senile, just a person who had lived more years than most. It was clear she remembered the past, maybe too well.

  “I told the police that they should question her acquaintances as to her whereabouts.”

  It was a logical enough statement, and one that begged for a little more prying. Mrs. Houston needed to know that I was interested in what she had to say, and not just another in a long line of skeptics. “I am trying to track down her acquaintances,” I said, using her word. “Can you tell me about them?”

  “I can.” She suddenly covered her mouth in alarm. “I should have offered you something to drink, Mr. Winter.”

  Normally a private investigator accepts any offer. A drink in hand means you can nurse a conversation for an extra five minutes. But in this instance staying wouldn’t be the problem. Getting away might be. “I’m fine, thanks.”

  “Maybe I am getting forgetful,” she said regretfully. “Imagine, not offering you tea. And imagine that at first I didn’t even notice she was deaf. I don’t know why. Maybe because she was so pretty. A lot of things get overlooked if you’re pretty. Or rich.”

  I smiled, already liking her. She was three for three in declarative statements.

  “And despite what Mr. Rizzo might have told you, Mr. Winter, I am quite content to let other people lead their lives without my interference. But I did take special notice of Anita, even if I didn’t know her.”

  “Why?”

  “I think the lonely-old-lady part is the smaller consideration,” she said with dignity. “I think anyone would have become interested in Anita. My patio window looks into her unit. Anita must have liked natural light. She never closed the curtains. Never. And because of that I noticed her flashing lights. It took me a while to figure them out. And to figure her out. But I did.”

  There was some pride in her voice.

  “I watched her from my dining room table. I’d sit and drink tea. I don’t think she ever noticed me. Old people are like chameleons. We blend in. Not like her friends.”

  “Tell me about her friends.”

  “They looked like beatniks.”

  I hid my smile. It was a word that preceded hippies, which long preceded hipsters. “Was there a regular group?”

  “A few. But there were always new faces.”

  “Were they noisy?”

  “No. When they came over it wasn’t a Quaker meeting, but I can remember having louder tea parties. I think they respected Anita that way. But I would rather they had been talkative.”

  “Why?”

  “They were strange. And not just from an old woman’s perspective.”

  “In what way?”

  “I think I’d like some tea. Are you sure?”

  I declined her pouring motion with a spread of my level hand. Maybe these books I was reading were right. Maybe most of our communication is without words. Mrs. Houston got her tea, and we moved to her viewing table. The drapes to Anita’s old apartment were now closed.

  “They put on shows.” Mrs. Houston tasted her tea, and made a
twisted face. I couldn’t be sure if it was from a memory or the tea.

  “What kind of shows?”

  She answered slowly. “Strange things. Hard to describe.”

  “Try.”

  “They were never the same. They used candles, and lights, and machines that projected pictures, sometimes awful pictures. There was artwork. Sometimes they even wore masks.”

  “Was everybody involved?”

  “No. Usually no more than three people.”

  “And how large was the audience?”

  “Ten people or so. Our apartments aren’t that large.”

  “How frequent were these performances?”

  “Once or twice a month.”

  “How many did you witness?”

  “Maybe six.”

  “The same performers?”

  “No.”

  I mulled the information over. “What about sound? Did they have tapes or music?”

  “Yes, but it was kept at a very low level.”

  “How long did these plays last?”

  “Usually not more than ten minutes.”

  The data still wasn’t computing. “Were these shows directed toward any one individual?”

  “I think two. Anita and a man I heard others call Vincent.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  “A big man, as tall as you, I think. And he always wore black. Always.”

  “He was there for all the performances?”

  “Yes.”

  “Describe him further.”

  “He had a thick beard. I don’t like beards. You can never read a bearded face.”

  “Any other physical characteristics?”

  “None that I remember. Or care to.”

  “Was Vincent ever over by himself?”

  “Not that I saw.”

  “Did Anita entertain any other men alone?”

  “Not that I noticed.”

  “Did she often have visitors?”

  “Not often. Maybe once a week.”

  “Did you ever notice any deaf people?”

  “Only a few.”

  “Can you describe them?”

  She looked embarrassed. “I can’t. I think mostly I watched their hands. They looked pretty to me. Their hands, that is.”

  “What kind of hours did Anita keep?”

  “Odd hours. She was in and out. Usually she was up and out before I awakened.”

  “Did she always sleep in her apartment?”

  “It seemed that way.”

  “Did you hear any other names? Can you describe the people with them?”

  “There was a dark-haired woman, big, that is, well developed. She didn’t wear a brassiere most of the time. She was one of the performers. And they called her Goldilocks. I couldn’t figure out why.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “No, I’m sorry.” Mrs. Houston finished her tea. We both stared at Anita’s apartment for a while. I wondered if it was only the drapes that she had left open. Maybe someone could have entered through her patio doors. It would have taken some gymnastics, but wouldn’t have called for a gold medal winner. Just another psycho.

  “Anita is thought to have disappeared on New Year’s Eve. Did you notice anything unusual about that time?”

  “No.”

  “You never saw her upset? Never saw her fight with anyone?”

  She shook her head.

  I got up. It was a tired get-up. “If I have any follow-up questions would you mind if I called you?”

  “Not at all,” she said, and gave me her number. Then she added, “If you do find her, I would appreciate it if you told me.”

  “I will,” I promised.

  “You must think me an awful snoop,” she said. “I’m ashamed I know as much as I do. But she was so pretty and unusual. I never even said hello to her in person. I wish I had done that.”

  I almost said, “Maybe you will,” but settled instead on a smile and a few comforting words. I gave her my card at the door, then heard the deadbolt behind me.

  I buzzed Rizzo for the third time, but he didn’t answer. I remembered the commode in 462 and rang there.

  “Mrs. Curtin ain’t here.”

  “Mr. Winter is.”

  Rizzo grumbled something, and then I heard pages flip over the intercom. “December twenty-eighth. Busted sink faucet. And broken cabinet. I credited her for the faucet. Charged her for the cabinet.”

  “What happened?”

  “I never asked.”

  “What about a guess?”

  “I ain’t good at guessing.”

  “Describe your repairs.”

  “The faucets are a bunch of crap. We’ve got the kind where there’s a long thinnish handle. You move it along towards hot and cold. Up gets you the water, down it’s off.”

  “And the handle was broken off?”

  “Right.”

  “How long was the handle?”

  “Six inches or so.”

  “Have other people broken them?”

  “I’ve seen the hell bent out of them.”

  “But not broken?”

  “No. I figured this was the first. Won’t be the last.”

  “And the cabinet?”

  “It was wrenched off its hinges.”

  “Are they well secured?”

  “I couldn’t pull one off.”

  I still had time before Will Harrady would be available for our text session, and decided to drive over to Norman’s professional building on Van Ness. My timing was good. Norman was using his time between patients to dictate into a machine and work on his third self-help book. I think his last one was cutely titled Rainbows from Blues. He never adequately answered whether there was a golden chamber pot at the end of his supposed rainbows.

  Norman never liked his genius interrupted, but he stopped his dictating when I walked into his office. I suspected he didn’t do it out of politeness, but rather fear of my commentary. I found my place on his couch and kicked off my shoes. “A trim,” I said, “light around the sides.”

  “One of us is working, Mr. Clean.”

  I ignored the name. “Both of us are. I need your expertise in the arts. I need a cognoscente.”

  Norman stroked his beard. That was his equivalent to a purr. But he did know his stuff.

  “I’m not too familiar with performance art,” I said, “but I think that’s what I’m dealing with. You’re versed in what’s going on?”

  “Quite.”

  “Does the name Goldilocks ring a bell?”

  I expected some remark about the three bears, but Norman was serious about his art. “Goldilocks is a very talented performer.”

  “What’s she doing now?”

  “She’s working on a new production scheduled to open in a few weeks. It’s going to be performed at the Masonic Temple. Better call well ahead for your tickets, and demand center seating.”

  “Did you ever meet Goldilocks in any of your gadfly functions?”

  “No. But I saw her in both Feathered Flesh and I Once Owned a Dog with Three Legs. She was excellent in both.”

  “I missed those,” I said, trying to be devoid of sarcasm. “Tell me about her and them.”

  “She’s a striking woman, and so are her pieces. In Feathered Flesh she plays Raca, a woman in a cage, in a cage, in a cage. She wants to become a phoenix, wants to burn and be reborn from the ashes and finally fly.”

  “And does she?”

  “Yes, but her resurrection doesn’t mean the disappearance of all the cages. Her rebirth is magical and then tragic. I don’t think I’ll ever forget her scream at the end. Imagine being given a miracle, and then facing the mockery of another cage. It was the essence of betrayal.”

  “So, she played a cagey character?”

  “God. My patients would sue me for malpractice if I punned like that. And if I had to analyze your puerile so-called wit . . . ”

  “Don’t. Tell me about another name: Vincent.”

  “I’m surprised you have
n’t heard of him. He’s one of the hottest names in art. And he also happens to be the director of the upcoming play at the Masonic Temple.”

  “So, he’s a director?”

  “No, that’s a first for him. He’s an artist.”

  “As in canvases?”

  “That and other material. I understand he’s designed a lot of the sets. I’m sure he’ll make more money from selling them than what the play will take in.”

  “Is he of any school?”

  “No. Which I guess means he’s Post-modern. His works are very bold, very graphic. Sometimes macabre. They don’t appeal to the senses—they challenge them.”

  I made some notes. I don’t think shrinks are comfortable on the other end of a jotting pen. Norman fidgeted.

  “Interesting case?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Missing young lady. Deaf. With a lot of hear-no-evil acquaintances.”

  “I’d like to hear more.”

  “Saturday night at the Castle? Ten o’clock?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Leave your couch at the office.”

  I gauged my time, and decided to swing by the Masonic Temple in the hope that rehearsals would be going on. The Temple is located at 1111 California. I had never been inside, but was able to gain entry when the door sentry went off on some task. My expectations of an intimate setting were quickly dashed. The auditorium contained about 3000 more seats than Anita’s apartment. I wandered down the far-left aisle toward the thrust stage. All the players were huddled on the sidelines watching a large, bearded man I assumed was Vincent. He commanded the stage with his brooding posture. Periodically he waved his arms in exaggerated gestures, and stagehands scurried to move the sets to his bidding. His black outfit seemed to match his mood.

  But there was someone else who interested me more, a woman who had to be Goldilocks. She was large and dark, coiffed with raven spikes and masked with a lot of pancake makeup. Her languid posture and insouciant expression contrasted with those of the other figures, which looked huddled and fearful. She wanted everyone to know she was bored.

  Goldilocks had on a flower print dress, with a potato bag top. Idaho would have been proud to lay claim to the harvest. She looked approachable, so I approached. I liked the fact that she didn’t pretend I wasn’t there. She searched me with dark eyes that managed to look intelligent even with red eyeliner.