“So Julie managed to reach you?”
“Oh yes. She looked just like Leslie.”
“You and Leslie Harmon roomed together from what I understand.”
Dulcey’s green eyes held a spark of amusement. “I suppose so, in a manner of speaking.”
“What do you mean?”
“I used to let out the second floor of the house. It’s a separate apartment really, although it doesn’t have its own kitchen or entrance. Leslie rented it from me for several years.”
I held the mug between my palms, warming them. “When was that?”
“I don’t recall the dates exactly, but must have been about sixteen, seventeen years ago. It was right before she took the job in New York.”
“Before Julie was born.”
“Goodness, yes. I wouldn’t rent to someone with children. Too much noise, too much of a chance that things would get broken or damaged. Not that I have anything against children in and of themselves.”
I took a sip of tea and nodded. I understood all too well about the noise and the damage.
“Leslie didn’t have time for a child anyway,” Dulcey added. “Not at that stage of her life. She was devoted to her job. Made her an easy tenant, though. Wasn’t always tromping around the way some of them do.”
“Had you met Julie before last month?”
Dulcey shook her head. “Never laid eyes on her. Leslie and I kept in touch, but very irregularly. I probably knew more what she was up to by watching TV than from her letters.”
The tea had a heavy, eucalyptus flavor. I didn’t like it, but I didn’t want to offend my hostess by leaving it untouched so I took another small sip. “You must have been surprised when Julie contacted you.”
“Could have knocked me over with a feather. Isn’t that so, Bill?”
He nodded, while continuing to transfer the yarn from his arm to the spindle. “Julie was quite the charmer, though. Very polite and well spoken. A lot of kids today aren’t.”
“What was it Julie wanted to know?” I asked.
“Oh, all kinds of things,” Dulcey said. “About her mother’s friends from the early days, the stories she worked on, what she did in her spare time—that sort of thing. She wanted to know if her mother and I were close. I think she was disappointed to learn that it was more business than friendship. I had my life, Leslie had hers.”
“But you must have been able to tell Julie something.”
“Unfortunately, nothing important.”
“I think simply meeting you was important to her,” Bill said encouragingly. “She seemed to hang on everything you said.”
“Do you have any idea why she was interested?”
Dulcey frowned into her cup. “I suspect she was trying to deal with her loss. It’s understandable. Julie was visibly moved when I showed her the apartment her mother had rented. It’s been repainted over the years, of course, but otherwise it’s the same as it was then. Only now we keep it available for out-of-town guests.” She looked at her husband and chuckled. “Bill’s family, mostly.”
Trying to deal with her loss. It was pretty much the same thing Claudia Walker had said. And it made sense. It even made sense that Julie would want the letters sent to her in care of Dennis. She must have known the Shepherds wouldn’t have approved of her inquiry into her mother’s life, just as they hadn’t approved of her mother. Julie might have been using her mother as the subject of her newspaper project as well. That would explain why she approached the assignment so eagerly.
Not such a big mystery after all.
While it was gratifying to have the matter settled, I couldn’t help but feel a tinge of disappointment. I’d been hoping the letters might shed light on Julie’s death, but that apparently was not to be.
Unless she’d somehow, inadvertently, stirred up trouble that had been buried all these years.
I made one last attempt at a connection. “Julie was in Berkeley the night she was killed. A witness saw her getting into a car. Did you by any chance give her the name of another of her mother’s friends, someone local she might have been meeting that night?”
Dulcey shook her head. “No. As I said, I didn’t know much about Leslie’s personal life. The only thing I could give Julie was a box of her mother’s mementos. If she’d come six months earlier, I wouldn’t even have been able to do that.”
“Mementos? What sort?”
“Books, some costume jewelry, maybe some letters and papers. I didn’t go through it myself. Leslie left a number of boxes here when she moved to New York, asked me to send them to her once she was settled. This one must have been somehow overlooked. We found it when we were clearing out the basement to make a darkroom for Bill.”
Funny that nothing like that had shown up when the police went through Julie’s belongings. “Do you remember anything in particular from the box?”
Dulcey thought a moment. “The only book I remember was a cookbook. One of those books churches and schools sometimes put together as a fundraiser. I can’t remember the name of it though. And a silver picture frame. I could tell it was real silver because of the tarnish.”
“What was the picture of?”
“There wasn’t one, just the frame. Oh, and there was an envelope. It fell out of the box when Julie was leaving. I picked it up and handed it to her.”
“What kind of envelope?”
“Business size. It wasn’t thick so there couldn’t have been much in it.”
“Addressed to Leslie Harmon?”
“It wasn’t addressed at all. Just a blank envelope. From some law firm in San Francisco.”
A further lead Julie might have pursued. “Do you remember the name?”
Dulcey Haggerty spent another moment in thought, then shook her head. “There were three names. Emerson something, I believe. On Pine.”
“Do you think you’d recognize the name if you saw it again?”
“I might.”
If the firm was even still in existence. “Did Julie give any indication of other people she’d contacted, or was planning to?”
“Not besides Claudia Walker.”
I’d sipped about all of the foul-tasting tea I could stomach, and I’d about run out of questions, as well. I thanked Dulcey for her help and left my phone number. “If you think of anything else, I’d appreciate it if you’d call me.” “I’ll do that.” She rubbed the bridge of her nose. “It seems so sad, first the mother and then the daughter. Both of them such lovely people too. Some families seem to attract tragedy.”
Chapter 26
The Walnut Hills library is a bustle of activity on weekends and after school, but at midday on Monday it was practically deserted. A small cluster of retired men sat at the table by the window poring over the stock market and business newsletters, and a mother with her two preschoolers had spread out in the children’s room. I had the rest of the place to myself.
I pulled out the San Francisco yellow pages and scanned the listing of law firms. There were an astonishing number of them, but none that began with the name “Emerson.” Of course the envelope Dulcey had seen would have been close to twenty years old. The firm could easily have broken up. It could have moved too, but I glanced through the addresses anyway, looking for firms on Pine Street. I was almost ready to give up when I found a listing for Richards and Emerson, still on Pine. I let out a squeal of delight, which elicited a quick and stern frown from the reference librarian. As soon as I’d copied the phone number, I left for home.
<><><>
The first thing that caught my eye when I entered the kitchen were the slivers of broken glass scattered across the floor near the sink. A larger piece remained on the counter’s edge, and a pool of clear liquid dripped down the face of the cabinet.
“Faye?” I called. Guilt washed over me. I should never have left her alone when she wasn’t well, not for the whole morning.
I scurried down the hall to the bedroom, where I found her curled on her side in bed, seemingly unhurt.
With a sigh of relief, I started to back out of the room. As I was leaving, she stirred and opened her eyes.
“I broke a glass, Kate. Left such a mess.” Her voice was dry and tired. “I just didn’t have the strength to clean it up.”
I felt a flicker of irritation, soon doused by another wave of guilt. “Don’t worry about the mess,” I told her. “Did you hurt yourself?”
“No, I’m fine.” Faye managed a weak smile. “I’m afraid your poor kitchen isn’t, though. I knocked over the bottle of ginger ale as well as the glass. It’s going to be sticky by now.”
“I have plenty of experience with sticky. How are you feeling?”
“Better, I think.” She tried to sit up, then flopped back down on the bed. “Those pills helped my head and I think my fever’s gone down. But I’m so drained I can barely move.”
When I’d poured her a fresh glass of soda and helped her sit up to drink it, I tackled the kitchen. Faye was right about it being a mess. It was almost half an hour later when I sat down to make my call.
The firm’s receptionist answered after the fifth ring, rolling out the name “Richards and Emerson” in a flat, bored monotone. I opened my mouth to speak and then closed it again with the realization that I had nothing to say.
Hi, I found an unaddressed envelope, almost two decades old, with a return address similar to that of your firm’s. Can you tell me what the contents of the envelope might have been?
It was hardly the sort of query that would net me anything but being stamped a kook. Conceivably, I could ask whether Leslie Harmon had been a client and whether Julie Harmon had been in touch recently. I doubted I’d get answers though, and certainly not from the receptionist.
“Can I help you?” she said again. A note of annoyance had crept into her otherwise indifferent tone.
I cleared my throat. “Could I speak to Mr. Emerson?”
“He’s in court.”
“How about Mr. Richards then?”
“It’s Ms. Richards, and she’s out of town on a deposition. I can take a message if you’d like.”
I slouched back in the chair. “I think it would be better if I tried again later.”
Without another word, the woman hung up—-just as I thought of something else I wanted to ask. I redialed, trying on this go-round to pull off a Southern drawl and thereby disguise my voice. Not that she probably cared one way or another if it was the same caller she’d spoken with moments ago.
“Ah was wonderin’,” I said, slow and sweet, “if you could tell me how long Richards and Emerson has been located on Pahne Street?”
“It’s Pine Street, ma’am. They’ve been here a long time, but I couldn’t begin to say how long.”
“Ten, fifteen years?”
“At least.”
Chances were, it was the same firm listed on the envelope. How had some of its papers come to be in a box of Leslie Harmon’s belongings?
“Cahn you tell me,” I asked, “does the firm have some sort of specialty?”
“They’ll take on a civil case if they’re interested, but the primary emphasis is on criminal defense. Are you in need of representation?”
“No, uh, just inquiring for future reference.” I could feel my Southern ties evaporate with each word. “Thanks for your help.”
Criminal defense? Why would Leslie Harmon have needed the services of a criminal defense attorney? My mind was sifting through this latest bit of information when it struck me that her involvement might not have been as a client, but as a journalist. An important, newsworthy case, perhaps. Or maybe she’d been working on a documentary pertaining to some sociological aspect of the justice system.
And then I was struck by another thought. Could this investigation of Leslie’s have been something Julie was pursuing anew for her own class assignment? Had it also gotten her killed?
While the scenario was at least plausible, it left enough holes and unanswered questions that it was of little practical use.
Which is exactly what Michael said when he called that evening. “We don’t have the manpower of the U.S. Army,” he added.
“Can’t you find out if Leslie Harmon was one of the firm’s clients?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Depends on how co-operative they want to be.”
“But you’d know if she’d been charged with a crime, would you?”
“I could find out.”
“You could also find out who her attorney had been.”
“Probably.” His voice was about as animated as a sleepwalker’s.
I tried the other tack. “How about any big trials Leslie followed? Or investigative assignments concerning the legal system?”
“Again, it depends. We’re talking about a long time ago, don’t forget. More to the point, I don’t see how it’s going to help find Julie’s killer.”
“What if it was a Mafia case?” I suggested, my own enthusiasm for the notion growing in direct proportion to Michael’s lack thereof. “Or a high-profile murder trial where the defendant got off when he shouldn’t have. What if Leslie’s papers contained important information, information Julie pursued—”
“I have to tell you, Kate, I think you’re way off base here.”
“But it’s possible, isn’t it?”
“More possible in Hollywood than elsewhere.”
I let out my breath in an irritated huff. The frustrating part was that he was probably right. “What about the doll shoes?” I asked. “Am I off base there, as well?”
There was a moment’s hesitation. “I wish to hell I knew.”
I think a part of me had expected him to dismiss the episode outright. When he hadn’t, I’d felt my anxiety mount. The uncertainty of this latest response didn’t help.
“I don’t like what’s happening, Michael. I’m scared.”
“I know. I’m worried as well.”
“But why Libby?” I asked, feeling my stomach tighten anew.
“She was a friend of Julie’s, so that might be it. Then, too, it might be for my benefit.” There was a strained quality to his voice.
“What do you mean?”
“The skeleton in the mailbox, and now the shoes. They might both be a bid for my attention. Julie Harmon lived in Walnut Hills. I’m the local detective on the case. Probably in most people’s minds, I’m in charge.”
I wasn’t sure I followed. “A bid? You mean the killer is, like . . . taunting you?”
“It’s not unheard of. I doubt the fact that I’ve temporarily moved out is common knowledge.”
“Isn’t there something you can do?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know.” Uneasiness gave way to frustration. “Something.”
“Unfortunately, there’s not.” The same thing Don Luce had said when I’d called Sunday evening.
I wound the phone cord around my thumb. “When are you coming home?”
“As soon as I can, probably in a day or two. I don’t like leaving you alone there.”
Michael sounded tired. I knew he was worried about us as well as worn down by his own investigation.
“I miss you,” I told him.
“I miss you, too. How’s Libby doing?” he asked after a moment.
“About what you’d expect. I’ve started driving her to school and picking her up afterwards. She doesn’t like the idea, but she’s not arguing about it either.”
“Tell her she’ll be okay as long as she stays alert and uses her head. It wouldn’t hurt to get her a can of pepper spray, and make sure she knows how to use it. You too, Kate.”
“Can’t you just make an announcement that you’re not heading up the investigation of Julie Harmon’s murder?”
“I am in charge of the Purcell case, though,” Michael said.
“You think that’s what this is about?”
“Sweetheart, if I knew what it was about, I wouldn’t be spinning my wheels.”
I leaned against the wall. “But if Frank Davis is in Texas, then he couldn’t have
been the one who left the skeleton or shoes at our place. Did you find him yet?”
Michael groaned. “For all the good it’s done.”
“He’s not a suspect anymore?”
“Davis says Cindy stood him up. They’d been communicating back and forth on the Internet for a month or so, and when he came out to visit his mother, they set up a time and place to meet. Cindy never showed. Never answered another e-mail of his, either.”
“Do you believe him?”
Michael sighed. “This meeting where she never showed, it was a couple of weeks before she was killed. I guess that might have made him angry enough to go after her, but he claims he was back home here in Dallas when she was killed. That’s one of the things I want to check on. Gates is following through with the Internet stuff as far as Julie is concerned. Maybe we’ll get lucky and come across a name that shows up on both lists.”
“You really think that’s the connection? That it was the same killer?”
“I don’t know what to think at this point.”
“Are you going to tell Gates about Julie’s letters, and about Leslie’s tie-in with a criminal defense firm?”
I could hear Michael pause midway through an intake of breath. I expected grumbling, but what I got instead was a weary laugh.
“Christ, Kate, you demand a lot of a guy.”
<><><>
Tuesday morning I got to school early and stopped by the newspaper lab in hopes of catching Marvin. He was working on the computer at the back of the room. “Have you got a minute?” I asked.
He jumped, flipped off the screen, and stood. “Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I thought you heard me come in.”
Marvin ran a hand through his fine blond hair. “I was just finishing up a few things before class. What can I do for you?”
I told him what I’d discovered of Julie’s efforts to learn more about her mother. “It ties in with what you were saying about her class project. I’m wondering if you found any notes. Or maybe some papers that belonged to her mother. Julie had a box of her mother’s things from years ago.”
Murder Among Us (A Kate Austen Mystery) Page 21
