Kindred Crimes

by Janet Dawson

  I went home to my warm bed and my hungry cat. The burst of energy I’d felt earlier in the evening after talking with Vee Burke had disappeared, leaving only exhaustion. Then, as I was spooning cat food into Abigail’s dish, replaying the incident in my mind, something occurred to me.

  The black-clad figure with the crowbar could have been a woman.

  Nine

  ABIGAIL WOKE ME THE NEXT MORNING. SHE PADDED from the foot of the bed to my pillow and began her campaign to get me up and out to the kitchen to feed her. She poked at my face with her paw, claws in, and I shoved her away. She returned, nose to nose, and began a rumbling purr as her rough tongue sandpapered my cheek.

  My eyes flew open and I grumbled at her. I shifted position in bed and she moved to my stomach, kneading the blanket rhythmically. Her purring increased in intensity when I scratched her ears. So did the kneading. When a claw went through the blanket and pricked my stomach I sat up and dislodged the cat.

  “All right, I’m up,” I muttered, with a lack of enthusiasm.

  I pushed back the covers and examined my left leg. A purple-black bruise ran up the calf from my ankle. I poked at it and felt a twinge of pain. I crawled from my warm bed, shivering in the oversized T-shirt that served as a nightgown. Abigail trotted ahead of me as I walked barefooted to the kitchen. I dished up her food. Through my kitchen window the sky was gray, promising rain.

  I looked at the kitchen clock and swore. No wonder Abigail had been so persistent. I’d overslept. If I didn’t hustle I’d be late for my meeting with Lenore Franklin.

  I showered and dressed warmly in a pair of green corduroy pants and a plaid flannel shirt. By the time I crossed the Park Street bridge into Alameda, the rain had started, a steady curtain of drops that required windshield wipers.

  I parked on a side street and walked to Ole’s Waffle Shop, a homey place with Formica tables, orange vinyl booths, and a steady morning trade. As I entered I saw Lenore Franklin sitting at a booth near the back, a coffee cup on the table in front of her.

  “Good morning,” she said, “though it’s kind of dreary.” Her face, so animated yesterday, matched the bleak day.

  “I don’t mind the rain.” I slid into the seat facing her. A waitress handed me a menu and asked if I wanted coffee. I nodded and glanced at the menu.

  “I like the sun, so I can work in my garden.” She took a sip of her coffee, then put the cup down, her mouth twisting into a half-smile. “I feel awkward meeting you like this. Like I’m being disloyal to Joe by going behind his back.”

  The waitress returned, pen poised over her order pad. Mrs. Franklin ordered a cinnamon roll. “I’ll have the same,” I said, handing over the menu.

  “It’s just that he was so angry after you left,” she continued. “He was... ranting. I worry about his blood pressure. He’s been so preoccupied with this campaign, even though the election’s three months away. I know he doesn’t like being distracted, but his reaction was way out of proportion. I heard him on the phone, calling the Alameda chief of police to complain about you. I’m sorry he did that. After all, you’re only doing your job. Trying to find Elizabeth.”

  “I suppose he didn’t like my questions.” I sipped my coffee.

  “You implied that George and Franny Willis abused their children,” Lenore Franklin said.

  “The possibility of abuse was mentioned by several people I spoke with.” Mrs. Franklin and I regarded each other over the table. “What can you tell me?”

  She took her time answering. “I’ve been thinking about it since you left yesterday.” She stopped as the waitress set the rolls in front of us and freshened our coffee. “About George and Franny and the children. I’ve been trying to recall something I may have missed. You asked whether Mark got along with his parents. There may have been some friction, but I don’t remember anything specific. He was a teenager.” She shrugged, as if that explained everything.

  “Parents and teenagers have problems. If there was anything unusual going on I didn’t notice it. They seemed like a normal family, Miss Howard. They really did. Mom, Dad, and three bright, attractive children. Then one of those children picked up a gun and killed his parents. Things like that aren’t supposed to happen.”

  “But they do. More often than any of us would like to admit.”

  She looked as though she wanted to disbelieve me, but couldn’t quite manage it.

  “I even got out the old photo albums to go with the old memories.” She shook her head. “I don’t recall ever seeing George or Franny strike any of the children. But...”

  “But...” I repeated.

  “I suppose if you’re going to beat your children you won’t do it in front of the neighbors.”

  “Maybe not. Just tell me about Mr. and Mrs. Willis. Give me a sense of the kind of people they were.” I picked up my fork and cut into my cinnamon roll. “What do you remember about them?”

  She sipped her coffee. “George and Joe were friends, but they were an unlikely pair. George was a farmer’s son from the Florida panhandle. Joe’s father was a well-to-do banker. They both got their Academy slots due to an influential relative. I don’t think they had much in common besides the Navy.” She took a bite of her roll, chewed, and chased it with some coffee.

  “George wasn’t ambitious. No, I take that back. He wasn’t as ambitious as Joe. You have to be ambitious to get anywhere in the Navy. The whole structure is based on upward movement, at least for officers. Up or out, they call it. If George Willis had lived, he would have retired a captain, not an admiral. If he’d made it to captain at all.”

  “I’m not sure I understand. He was a commander when he was killed.”

  “He’d been passed over once for promotion to captain, at the same time Joe made it,” Lenore Franklin said, with the sagacity of a Navy wife. “The promotion boards were coming around again. If George had been passed over a second time, his career would have been over. Franny wouldn’t have liked that.”

  “She was the ambitious one?” I asked.

  “Franny enjoyed being a senior officer’s wife. She was the pusher, the aggressive one. I think George liked being in the Navy. It’s just that he didn’t care about playing the kinds of games it’s necessary to play to get ahead. But I thought he was a good officer, dedicated to his work. He was the kind of man who focused on his job, without paying attention to other things.”

  “Was his family one of those other things?”

  She thought about that for a moment. “Maybe. He was always rather formal with the children. Sometimes even with Franny. They were an oddly matched couple. George was — well, I guess the only word for it is stolid. And Franny was so alive.”

  “How did they meet?” I asked, picking up my coffee cup.

  “In a bar in San Francisco. George was at Treasure Island going through a school, and Franny worked in the city. They dated off and on for several months, even when George came down to San Diego to report to his duty station. Joe and I were in San Diego too. We’d been married about a year.” She smiled, remembering.

  “I was pregnant with Kevin. We lived in a little apartment. George stayed in the Bachelor Officers’ Quarters. He came over for dinner about once a week. One weekend he went to San Francisco to see Franny and brought her back with him, by way of Las Vegas. They’d eloped. So we became a foursome. Almost from the start.”

  “Sounds like you spent a lot of time together.”

  “We did.” She poked at her roll with her fork. “When Joe and George were gone, it was just us wives and kids. I appreciated Franny’s company.” She looked at me, then down at her cup. “They were good friends. I liked the Willises. Joe was always fond of Franny. And George.”

  I nodded, noting the pause. “They played golf together. Your husband and Mrs. Willis.”

  “All the time. I never cared for the game, hitting a little white ball around a green. Franny played a lot, especially when the kids were in school.”

  “What do you recall about the
Willis children?”

  “Normal kids, I suppose. Into things. Fun to watch.” She smiled. “I remember Kevin and Mark building a tree house in our backyard in San Diego. Ruth and Beth playing on a beach in Hawaii when we were stationed at Pearl Harbor. The Willis kids were the same ages as ours, as I told you yesterday.”

  “Except Karen. She was younger.”

  “Karen,” Lenore Franklin said, her tone chilly. “Yes. Five years younger than Beth.”

  “You act as thought you didn’t like her.”

  “Of course I did.” She looked startled and her words came too quickly. “She was a little hellion, though, compared to Beth. Beth was a sweet child, shy, unsure of herself, usually quiet and well behaved. Karen was always into something.” A troubled look came over her face.

  “No. I really didn’t like Karen. She was a brat.” Lenore Franklin stopped and looked at me, perturbed at her own admission. “My God, listen to me. I’m talking about a nine-year-old girl.”

  “Some kids are more difficult than others. I’ve been told Elizabeth was a moody child.”

  “All teenage girls are moody,” Mrs. Franklin said with a smile and shake of her head. “It goes with the territory.”

  “You haven’t told me much about Franny Willis, except that she played golf and she was ambitious. What was she like away from her husband and the kids?”

  The waitress brought the check and refilled our cups. Mrs. Franklin stirred some cream into her coffee, then picked up the cup with both hands and took a sip.

  “Franny drank a little.”

  I looked across the table. Her words had been spoken in a calm tone, but I saw something else in her eyes.

  “I think you mean she drank a lot.”

  Her topaz eyes widened. “All right. She drank a lot. She had flirtations with men while her husband was gone.”

  “Affairs?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, but her face gave her words the lie.

  “What do you mean by flirtations?”

  “Talk, gestures. Paying attention to men at the club, drinking with them, dancing close to them. The kind of playfulness between men and women that has an undercurrent to it. She was an attractive woman. Sensual, I guess you would call it. People used to talk about her. Just like I’m talking about her now, gossiping about a woman who’s been dead for fifteen years.” Lenore Franklin laughed, a short, unamused sound. “You’re really good at this, aren’t you? I wasn’t going to tell you this much.”

  “I just let people talk.” I sat back in the orange vinyl boom and looked at her soberly. “When you called me yesterday I assumed you wanted to talk. Something happened to cause people to gossip about Franny Willis. Tell me what it was.”

  “An incident at the officers club,” she said, taking a deep breath. “Late summer, the year before the murders. It was a Hail and Farewell. That’s a Navy party where you hail the newcomers and say farewell to the people who are leaving.”

  Her mouth thinned into a tight line. “One of the new officers was a young lieutenant in his twenties, unmarried, very attractive. Franny flirted with him quite openly, even though George was at the party. The lieutenant reciprocated. They danced like they were glued together. Someone took offense, only it wasn’t George. It was one of the departing officers, a lieutenant commander. One of Franny’s previous conquests. His wife was there, but the two men had words over Franny. She’d been drinking steadily all evening. While the men were arguing, she got up on a table and started taking off her clothes. She was down to her slip before Joe and George got her out of there. People talked about it for months.”

  “I can imagine. What was Franny like afterwards?”

  “Our relationship cooled,” she said slowly. She looked down at the table then raised her eyes to mine. “I was disturbed by her behavior. So I didn’t see her as often as before, even though we lived right next door to one another. She kept her distance too. I think she knew how I felt.” She laced her fingers together tightly and rested her hands on the table.

  “Besides, Joe and I were having some problems of our own. Nothing major, just one of those bad patches you go through in a marriage. What went on at the Willises’ became less important than what was happening at the Franklins’. After the murders, I regretted that. I wondered if there was something I could have done. We transferred to San Diego that August. I was never so glad to leave a place in my life.”

  “Now you’re back, living in the same house.”

  “Fifteen years is a long time. It creates distance. A young couple with two small children live in that house next door. It’s not the same place.” She sighed. “You’re right. I wanted to talk.” She pushed away her cup and reached for the check, but I covered it with my hand.

  “It’s on me.”

  She stood up and buttoned her raincoat. “I told Joe I was going shopping. I guess I’ll go buy something. Will any of this help you find Beth?”

  “Maybe.”

  Lenore Franklin walked away from me without saying goodbye. I watched her go past the front window of the coffee shop and wondered how fond of Franny Willis Joe Franklin had been.

  Ten

  KAREN WILLIS’S ADDRESS WAS A TWO-STORY brown-shingled house on Virginia Street in North Berkeley. Four mailboxes lined the porch rail, with the occupants’ names embossed on strips of red plastic tape. Karen lived in apartment C, and she hadn’t picked up her mail for a few days. I went up onto the porch and tried the front door. It was unlocked.

  I stepped into the hallway, wiping my feet on a woven mat. Ahead of me a staircase led up to a landing, then turned left. I took the stairs to the second floor. Apartment C was on my left, D on my right. A door at the end of the upstairs hallway opened onto a small deck with a set of back stairs leading down to the driveway.

  I walked back to apartment C and knocked on the door. I waited and heard nothing but the sound of rain pattering on the deck outside. A moment later the door to D opened. A young woman peered out, wearing gray sweatpants and a UC Berkeley T-shirt, her long black hair pinned in an untidy roll at the back of her neck. She carried a thick hardbound book in one hand, her finger marking her place as she looked me up and down, suspicion in her eyes.

  “She’s not there.”

  “That Karen,” I said with a quick smile. “I can never catch her at home. Do you know where she’s working now?”

  “I have no idea.” Karen’s neighbor brushed a strand of hair off her forehead. “She hasn’t lived here very long and she works a strange schedule. Sometimes she’s here during the day and sometimes she’s gone for a couple of weeks at a time. She takes a suitcase with her. I guess she travels. Her boyfriend comes over and picks up her mail. He’s got a key to the apartment.”

  “Is she still dating that big blond guy, the one that drives the Corvette?”

  “Blond? Her boyfriend’s dark, with a mustache. He rides a motorcycle.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure,” the neighbor said, sounding miffed. “He was here last Wednesday. That’s when Karen left.”

  “On the motorcycle?”

  “No. She took her own car. A brand-new white BMW.” The young woman sounded a bit jealous as she described the car. “Whatever she’s doing, it must pay well.”

  The deck held a couple of lawn chairs with rain puddling in their seats. I went down the back stairs and out to the street. Evidently neither the front nor the back door of Karen’s building was kept locked. If I had to come back and check out Karen’s apartment, I could at least get into the building.

  Getting into the apartment itself might be a problem, with Karen’s vigilant neighbor across the hall. As I unlocked the car door, once again I felt eyes on my back. I looked up and saw the woman from D staring at me from her second-floor window. She saw me looking and stepped away from the glass.

  The feeling didn’t go away, after I started the car. I looked around me. There was a lot of foot traffic in the neighborhood because it was close to
the university. Further down the street I saw a mail carrier, a woman with an umbrella, and two young men with small backpacks. A woman wearing a tan raincoat glided along the opposite sidewalk, short brown hair visible under a matching hat.

  I shook my head, wondering if I was getting the whim-whams. My instincts were usually correct, though. As I drove down Virginia Street a blue car fell in behind me. I turned left on Sacramento, then right again on University. The car was still behind me, several lengths back. Was it following me? University Avenue was heavily traveled, the main access to Interstate 80. Anyone headed for the freeway would be following me.

  Ahead of me an AC Transit bus angled to the curb to pick up a passenger, its rear end still protruding into my lane. I swerved into the left lane to avoid it. While I waited for the light to change at San Pablo Avenue I looked for the blue car I’d seen earlier, but it had disappeared.

  I concentrated on driving as I continued down University and took the ramp onto the interstate. Cars in the heavy midday traffic jockeyed for position on the wet pavement as we approached the maze where several freeways came together in a knot. I kept to the right lanes, leading to the Bay Bridge. I waited my turn to pay the toll, then headed across the span to San Francisco, my windshield wipers trying to keep ahead of the rain.

  I took the Ninth Street exit off the freeway and drove into San Francisco’s South of Market district, maneuvering through traffic until I found a parking place near the intersection of Eleventh and Folsom. I got out and locked my car, then I walked along Folsom Street, looking for a building that might be a studio. Midway down the block I saw a van parked in a driveway across the street, with the name of a catering firm painted on the side.

  I jaywalked over to the van and looked up at the building. In a previous life it had been a warehouse like its neighbors, but a foot-high sign above the garage opening said “Folsom Studio.”

  The back of the van was open and so was the door to the studio. I watched the doorway for a moment, looking for a guard, but I didn’t see anyone. Then a young woman in coveralls hurried out, grabbed a covered tray from the van, and slammed the door shut. She hurried back through the doorway. I followed her. Once through the vestibule I was in a long hallway, its linoleum floor dark and scuffed. The girl in coveralls disappeared into a stairwell on my left. At the end of the hall I saw the security guard, his back to me as he talked on a pay phone. I dodged up the stairs.