A Hopeless Case

by K. K. Beck

  She seemed incapable of any action, other than to think about Linda and Leonora, and about Richard English. Was this what her life would be like if she chose to tread the path Uncle Harold had picked for her? Frantic dashing around, interspersed with periods of brooding over what she found out in her active spurts?

  She wondered how many days it would be decent to wait until she approached Richard English’s widow. She also thought about going to his funeral. She assumed there’d be one, even though she’d recently read an alarming statistic in the newspaper about the number of people who were simply cremated without ceremony. Another sign that civilization was dying.

  If there was a funeral, she might find someone there who knew about a connection between English and Linda. She was a little irritated with herself for thinking next about what she would wear to the funeral. She had a black dress in wool crepe, but it was a little too drapy for a funeral.

  She started a little when she heard the knock on the door. Quietly, for she was feeling very wary after her assault, she walked to the door and looked through the little wrought-iron peephole. It was Detective Cameron.

  “Oh,” she said through the door, surprised. “Hello.” She opened the door and smiled. “Come in.”

  “I thought I’d just check up on things,” he said vaguely.

  “Oh?”

  He followed her into the living room, gazed for a second at Saint George, and sat down opposite her.

  “How’s it going?” she said. “Have you found out anything? About the murder?”

  “Funny,” he said with a little twist of a smile. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

  Jane immediately felt foolish, like some would-be Nancy Drew. “I can’t just charge in and ask everyone questions the way you can,” she said. “I suppose you talked to a lot of people who knew Richard English.”

  “Apparently, he was a hell of a nice guy,” said Cameron. “Happily married, no business problems, no known enemies.”

  “Have you checked into the Fellowship of the Flame?” said Jane.

  “Long gone,” said the detective. “For a while, back in the sixties and early seventies, we kept an eye on them. Outside of a lot of noise complaints, nothing.”

  “I thought they had a bunch of guns.”

  “Yeah, but we could never get anything on them. From what I can gather, talking to some of the guys who were around back then, they were basically just a bunch of wild kids, out for a good time.”

  “And there wasn’t any known connection between Richard English and Linda Donnelly?”

  “No.” He paused and cleared his throat. “Have you received any strange phone calls? Noticed anyone following you?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Any idea why the killer would search your purse and car?”

  “To find out who I was?”

  “Maybe.”

  She took a deep sigh. “And there was the diary.”

  His eyebrows rose, “Diary?”

  “Sort of a diary. A series of notebooks. Richard English wanted to see them. He thought I was going to bring them with me.”

  “You’d better fill me in.”

  Jane told him that when Richard English had asked how he’d found her, she’d lied and told him he was mentioned in Linda’s notebooks.

  “But you didn’t bring these notebooks?”

  “No. I never intended to.”

  “How did Richard English sound when you said you wanted to talk to him about Linda Donnelly?”

  “Scared.”

  “I see.”

  Jane closed her eyes and concentrated. “But kind of relieved, too.”

  “Where are the diaries now?”

  “I left them with a friend.”

  “What’s the friend’s name?”

  “Calvin Mason.”

  “The lawyer? Little office over in Fremont?”

  “That’s the one,” she said. “You know him?”

  “Sure. Never handles anything but a nickel-dime case, but he gets in there and fights like a terrier for his clients. Why didn’t you tell me about these notebooks earlier?”

  “I meant to. I—well, to tell you the truth, I wanted to make copies first. I was afraid I’d never see them again. Linda’s daughter would like to read them.”

  He gave her a stern look.

  “Would you like a drink?” she said. “Are you off duty?”

  “Thank you. Yes to both questions. That is, I’m as off duty as I ever am, which isn’t much these days.”

  She rose and rummaged around in the liquor cabinet. She’d explored it earlier and found it well stocked. “There’s scotch and gin. And vermouth.”

  “Scotch. And a little water.”

  “All right.” She went into the kitchen in search of ice cubes, glad of the chance to think. It didn’t take her long to decide that she’d better tell this man everything. It was a question of murder. Besides, if she talked to him, maybe he’d let something slip about his investigation. Just to help him along, she made his drink a little stiffer than she otherwise would have.

  She came back with two rattling glasses.

  “If you’re supposed to be off duty,” she said, “why are you here? Are you a workaholic?”

  “I’m afraid so.” He took a sip. “And I’m concerned about you. Here you are, running around doing some kind of investigation, and you nearly get killed, and you’re still not smart enough to tell the police everything you know.”

  “I meant to tell you about the diary.”

  “I want it.”

  “First thing in the morning.”

  “Okay.” He sounded pretty casual.

  “You sound as if you don’t think it’s important.”

  “It doesn’t mention Richard English, does it?”

  “No, it’s mostly a lot of rambling. Stuff about karma and higher consciousness.”

  “You mean like Shirley MacLaine?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I hate all that stuff,” he said with feeling. “People are such suckers.”

  She laughed. “I know.”

  There was a slight pause, and then Jane said, “How did he die?”

  “He turned his back on someone, and got his skull crushed by the base of a microphone stand. An old-fashioned cast-iron thing.”

  “So he probably knew his assailant.”

  “Probably.”

  “And he was probably killed by a man.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  The detective seemed to be sizing up her reaction.

  “Do you think I might be involved, somehow?” she said.

  “It’s something I’ve got to think about,” he said. “You show up in town, all very mysterious, make a strange after-hours appointment with the guy, and next thing you know, there are the two of you, attacked and laid out in his studio. Except you’re still alive.”

  “He didn’t think I was dead,” she said, startled as a scrap of memory returned. “At least I don’t think so. I think I remember him feeling for my pulse.”

  He set his drink down. “You do?”

  “Yes, just before I passed out. I’d forgotten about it until now. You know, on the wrist. Maybe I imagined it. Got it all mixed up with the hospital.”

  “Interesting,” he said. He leaned across the coffee table and took her wrist. “Like this?” He put his thumb on the inside of her wrist, touching the back lightly with his other fingers.

  The gesture jogged her memory. Now she was certain. “No. Two fingers on the part that pulses, and the thumb on the back. I remember it now. I guess he wanted me alive.”

  “Interesting,” he said again, releasing her wrist and settling back into his chair.

  “Do you think you’ll get the guy?” she said.

  “I think we’ve got a pretty good chance. There was a certain amount of physical evidence on the premises. When we get a good suspect, we can tie him in with the scene.”

  “You mean fibers and hair and so forth.”


  “That type of thing. With today’s forensics, it’s almost impossible to go somewhere without leaving evidence behind. Unless the killer was a complete stranger, who just wandered in off the street, we’ll find him.”

  “And Wendy said Richard let her go early that night. As if he was expecting someone,” said Jane.

  Cameron neither confirmed nor denied this. Instead he said, “Where are you from?”

  “Seattle. I was born here.”

  “But you just got here from Europe. Your identification, it was all European.”

  “I’ve lived there for some time.”

  “How come?”

  She shrugged. “It started with a love of travel, and then I was married to a man who made his living there.”

  “So why’d you stay after he died?”

  “I don’t know. I was used to it.”

  “Where’d you live over there? Some of your stuff was French and some was Dutch.”

  “France mostly. Holland most recently. But all different places. I liked to keep moving.”

  “Restless?”

  “I guess so. I like going places where I have to learn the language and where everything’s fresh. To tell you the truth, I never really have figured it out. But partly it’s that when you’re an expatriate you’re observing, you’re on the sidelines, you see everything differently because you’re not all enmeshed in it. It’s kind of exciting. Life in Paris was wonderful.”

  “Yeah, but the French . . .”

  “The great thing about them,” said Jane, “is they don’t give a damn about what anyone else does. So Paris is full of people from all over who just want to be left alone. All these people from all over the world get together in Paris and talk to each other in French. You can live in Paris for years and just hang out with other expatriates if you want.

  “Being an expatriate is a life with a style and identity all its own. Pretty soon you’re loyal to that life, even though it’s the kind of sidelined, marginal life of the observer, just the way people in a small town might be loyal to theirs.”

  The detective thought about this for a second. “In some ways it sounds like being a cop,” he said.

  “Is that what it’s like? Do you feel apart from the action?”

  “No. You feel right in the thick of it. Where most people wouldn’t feel comfortable. But you have to have a certain detachment if you’re any good. If you let it get to you, well . . .”

  “I can imagine. You must have seen a lot of horrible things.”

  “That’s right,” he said. “And that sets us apart.”

  “You hear that about policemen,” she said. “That they drink too much and get divorced more often.”

  He looked down at his glass. “Booze isn’t a problem for me. Not yet, anyway. But my wife asked me for a divorce last month.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “It’s pretty rough,” he said. “I’ve got two kids. I’m not saying I’m the easiest guy to live with or anything, but she could have hung in there for them. Looking back on it, I guess my mother put up with a hell of a lot from the old man, but they hung in there, and now they’re a couple of happy old people. And we kids had a good childhood.”

  “Women can leave now,” she said. “They can usually take care of themselves, so they don’t have to stick around when they’re miserable. But fortitude went out of fashion, too. People think it’s more important to be happy than to be good, I guess. Better for the grown-ups, but worse for the kids.”

  “My wife didn’t even know she was miserable until she met this other guy. She kicked me out and now she’s running around with my daughter’s softball coach. Can you beat that? He’s the sensitive type. She said I wasn’t communicating.” He sighed. “They get this stuff on Donahue and Oprah. If I ‘communicated’ some of the stuff I deal with, she’d have left me a lot sooner, I can tell you that.”

  “Maybe you should have told her anyway.”

  “Yeah, maybe. Anyway, I wish she’d just had an affair with this guy. Got it out of her system, you know? But no. She has to bust up everything, drag the kids into it, make a mess of everything.”

  He looked at her sharply, then laughed. “I guess you’ve heard all this before, from a million guys. How the hell did I get started on this, anyway?”

  She smiled. “Yeah, I’ve heard it before.” Men who’d been dumped often had that glazed-over look, as if they weren’t sure what hit them. Cameron had it. “These are rough times for men and women. Nobody seems to know what’s expected of them anymore.” She sighed. “I sound like one of those bartenders who gives soothing, banal advice. Would you like another drink?”

  “Why not,” he said. This time he got up and followed her into the kitchen for ice. While he was there, he checked the back door. “Decent lock,” he said approvingly. “Before I go I’ll check the other entrances.”

  “I think there’s something wrong with one of the basement windows,” she said. “Calvin Mason let himself in one of them while I was in the hospital.”

  “Getting those notebooks, huh?” said Cameron. He pointed to a door. “This lead to the basement?”

  She nodded. A few seconds later, she heard the sounds of vigorous hammering. He came thumping up the steps a few moments later and she handed him his second drink.

  “I nailed it shut,” he said, accepting his drink.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I really appreciate it. Now I’ll feel safer.”

  He smiled sadly. “I’m glad you do,” he said. “I like making people feel safer, but my wife’s been telling me it’s all some sicko male power thing.”

  “Men can’t help it,” said Jane. “I think it’s too bad when they get bashed for it. The day a man and woman are lying in bed together asleep and he wakes up and says, ‘I hear a funny noise, will you go check it out?’ is the day I’ll change my mind. If it makes you guys happy to make people feel safer, maybe it’s because your brains are wired that way.”

  “Interesting point of view,” he said. “But definitely not fashionable. In today’s climate, I couldn’t express it in mixed company.”

  “It always irritates me when people believe what they wish were true or think they should believe, instead of what they know is true,” said Jane. “Have you had dinner?”

  “Oh, I’ll grab a sandwich or something,” he said vaguely.

  “That’s what I had. But I’m still hungry.” She opened the refrigerator and peered inside. “I could make us an omelet.”

  “I hate to put you to the trouble,” he said unconvincingly.

  “Just keep me company while I do it.”

  He sat down at the kitchen table and took off his jacket. She glanced over at him as she broke eggs into a bowl.

  He caught her glance. “What is it?”

  She laughed. “I guess I’ve seen too many movies. I sort of expected you to have a gun in a shoulder holster.”

  He reached behind him and produced a gun from the small of his back, then replaced it. “Does it give you the creeps? My wife says it gave her the creeps having a man with a gun around the house.”

  “Are you kidding?” said Jane. “I just got beat up and left practically for dead. Under the circumstances, having a man with a gun in my kitchen is rather reassuring.”

  “How long have you been a widow?” he asked.

  “Twice as long as I was married,” she said. “I married him when I was twenty-two, and he died five years later.” She was chopping mushrooms and onions and green peppers, and arranging them with her knife in broad stripes on the cutting board. “His car ran into a wall.”

  “That must have been a terrible shock,” said Cameron.

  “It was, but it shouldn’t have been,” she said. “Bernardo was a Formula One driver. No one follows Formula One racing much over here, but he was the number-two-ranked driver the year he died, and pushing to make the top spot. Little boys all over Europe knew who Bernardo da Silva was.”

  “Da Silva. Portuguese
?”

  “Brazilian.” She poured the eggs into one of Uncle Harold’s Revere Ware frying pans. They made a satisfying sizzle.

  She turned around and looked at him. “I suppose you’re thinking he was crazy to race, that it didn’t serve any purpose, and that his death was pointless.”

  Cameron looked at her steadily. “How can anyone know a thing like that—whether his death was pointless or not? How can anyone know?”

  She sighed. “I don’t talk about Bernardo much because I think that’s what people are thinking. That he was a fool. And that I was too, to put up with him.”

  “I wasn’t thinking that,” said Cameron.

  “Well, he wasn’t a fool. He was just different from other people. He needed to go fast. It was that simple. He had to go fast. I could even understand it myself. I never presumed to try and change him.”

  “In that respect, Bernardo was a lucky guy,” said Cameron.

  “I was pretty lucky myself,” she said. “We had some good years.” Besides, she thought to herself with a little smile, there’s no point trying to change Latin men. If you ever actually managed to, which you couldn’t, they wouldn’t be appealing anymore.

  “There are some plates in that cupboard next to you. Would you put two on the table, and hand me one for the omelet?”

  The omelet looked a little lonely. She took an orange out of the refrigerator, cut it into slices, and arranged them on the plate.

  They sat down, and she divided the omelet. “You’re the first guest I’ve had here,” she said, feeling the stab of sudden, unexpected intimacy.

  “I’m glad to be here, to tell you the truth. I hate eating alone.”

  “I don’t mind it if I have a book,” she said.

  “I’ll just have to get used to it,” he said.

  “A person does,” she said. “But maybe you won’t have to. Maybe she’ll come to her senses.”

  He put down his fork and looked at her with a rueful smile. “I feel like a total jerk,” he said. “I’m whining. I can’t believe it.”

  “It’s all right,” she said, smiling back. “Actually, I kind of like it when people tell me their troubles. It’s interesting, and it makes me feel good—like I’m a sympathetic person.”

  “Then I guess you’ll enjoy carrying out your uncle’s wishes,” he said. “Helping the hopeless or whatever it is.”