by G. M. Ford
She thought about it.
"I guess it was just the size of the discrepancy between how she looked and the feeling she gave off." I waited.
"She was a cute little thing, but—I don't know— hard is maybe the closest word. You only had to look in her eyes. There was nothing soft about Allison Stark. Always immaculately groomed. Expensive clothes. Nothing but the best shoes and accessories. Everything perfect. A very pretty package, but very remote. Self-contained. Almost like she was manufactured. Very skilled at keeping her distance. Now that I think about it, that's why news of her accident seemed so unreal."
"Why's that?"
"Well ... I guess it's because she just didn't seem at all like a victim to me. She seemed like someone who happened to things rather than someone who had things happen to them, if you know what I mean."
"A predator rather than prey." "Exactly," Nancy Davies agreed. "That's it precisely."
"So I guess she never talked about her background?"
"Never. Absolutely nothing personal. Just how she'd been selling condos over in the eastern part of the state. I figured anybody who could make a living in that racket would surely survive in residential real estate."
"But she didn't?"
"Yes and no again."
She sensed my frustration.
"I hate to keep answering like that, Leo, but, like the man says, that's the way it is. Considering how little she worked at it, her two sales were quite remarkable. She just didn't work at it."
"Any idea why?"
"None. I figured maybe she had some kind of independent income and was just using the job as a supplement. Something like that. Whatever it was, she had some other agenda besides selling."
"And that was okay with you."
"In a flat market like this, I was willing to put up with it. In better times, I'd have gotten on her case about it. But hell, as it was, she was outselling a couple of the people who've been with me for years. People who work their butts off."
"When did she quit?"
"Never. She never did quit. She just stopped coming in altogether."
While I mulled this over in silence, Nancy leaned back against the window, resting her hands on the sill behind her.
"Married?" she asked with a smile.
Noticing that she'd taken me off guard, she widened her smile.
"I was once. But not for a long time now."
"I didn't mean to embarrass you."
"You didn't," I lied.
No matter. She ignored me.
"I hope I wasn't being too pushy for you. Twenty years of selling makes a person a mite forward."
"No problem. I bang on quite a few doors myself."
"Spoken for?" she persisted.
"Depends on who you ask," I hedged. "Sort of, I guess."
"Don't tell me you're one of those types who breaks out in a cold sweat and runs for the weeds at the very mention of commitment."
"Actually," I countered, "it's more like the other way around."
"She's the one who's scared?"
"No. What she is, is smart."
This new admission brought forth a deep-seated chuckle from her.
"How romantic. That sort of makes you the knight errant in pursuit of the unattainable lady, doesn't it?"
"God, I hope not."
"I can see now how come you're more accustomed to being the pursuer than the pursued. No wonder I upset you."
Denial wasn't going to work, so I quickly changed the subject.
"So, I assume that she had a real estate license."
"Absolutely."
"Do you have a copy?"
"Absolutely. It's the law."
"Could I see it?"
"Why?"
I told her the part about the missing next of kin, the aunt in Wisconsin, leaving out everything else. Her pale blue eyes filled with mirth as I wound my tale to a close. "I don't believe a word of it," she said when I finished.
"It's my story and I'm sticking to it." She again treated me to her throaty laugh. "Anyway, it's almost true," I added. "Close enough," she said, walking over to the file cabinets.
She rummaged through the files in the top drawer, finally pulling out a clean orange folder. From the folder, she extracted a photocopied real estate license. She surveyed the wreckage of the room.
"They took the copier in the first load."
I pulled out my notebook.
"I'll just write it down."
She handed it over. I wrote down everything that I could imagine to be useful and handed it back.
"Did the cops ask for the license?"
"Nope. They just asked about her employment history. I was no help there, I'm afraid."
"No letters of reference or anything like that?"
"Not worth the effort. Warm body. Current license. I'm covered. They either sell or they don't. Hello. Good-bye."
I handed the copy over; Nancy returned it from whence it had come. "Thanks," I offered my hand again. Again she took
it.
"Anything else?" she asked speculatively. "Not unless you can think of something else." "We've already covered that, haven't we?" she grinned. "I believe we have."
She rolled open the top drawer on the nearest desk, pulled out a business card, scribbled something on the back, and handed it to me.
"I'm moving the office over to Magnolia. Closer to home. Better rates. A more fluid area. I put the new address on the back. In case you need anything else."
"I appreciate it."
I was halfway back to the car before I remembered my wet foot.
11
"Pacific First Federal."
"Paul Waterman, please."
"May I tell Mr. Waterman who is calling?"
"Mr. Waterman."
I'd confused her.
"That is who you asked for, isn't it, sir?" she tried again.
"No. I mean . . . yes, it is. Tell him it's his cousin Leo Waterman calling."
"One moment please, Mr. Waterman. I'll try Mr. Waterman."
Two years my senior, Paul was the sole issue of the other branch of the Waterman family tree. As the only child of my Uncle Dan and Aunt Helge, Paul was my closest living relative on the paternal side of the family.
My father had, over the years, arranged a series of increasingly more responsible and thus increasingly more lucrative city jobs for his little brother Daniel. For his part, Uncle Dan, unlike my mother's brothers, had quelled the grumbling about cronyism by proving an adept if not particularly imaginative city administrator. By the time he passed away, back in the late seventies, he'd risen to the rank of city water commissioner and, within the corridors of power, become a force to be reckoned with.
Paul had been born old. Somehow sensing this quirk of fate, his parents had always dressed him accordingly. They'd trussed him up in scaled-down madras sport jackets, knit ties, miniature trench coats, and worst of all, those terrible little porkpie hats that made him look like a midget FBI agent. Paul and I had spent a great deal of our childhoods sequestered together at the mandatory social functions required of public officials. Invariably, before consigning me to the children's section of whatever gala we were attending, my mother's last words were always the same.
"Go find Cousin Paul, and I don't want to hear that you've been picking on him again. Do you understand me, young man?"
I'd reckon how I understood, and I'd mean it. I really would. I'd mean it all the way until I got my first look at his dour little face. From then on, it was all downhill.
They say time heals all wounds. They're wrong.
Predictably, Paul had become a banker. These days he was submerged among the legions of VPs over at Pacific First Federal. His specialty was commercial real estate. He called me two or three times a year, keeping his foot in the door, waiting for the day when he'd be able to broker the property in my trust fund. He hit the line affable. The strain was palpable.
"Leo, Leo. To what, pray tell, do I owe the honor of a call from you on this
fine Monday morning?"
"Desperation. I need a favor."
"Now, how did I know that?"
"Must be that prophetic streak of yours."
"Indeed." Paul took the offensive. "Still playing detective?"
"Sure am," I replied, determined to keep cool.
One of the ways in which Paul exacted his passive revenge on me was by also calling several times a year to let me know about insider employment opportunities to which he was privy, in the vain hope that he could induce me to take some steady but servile position, thus confirming his long-held reservations concerning my genetic deficiencies.
Experience had taught me what came next, so I was prepared.
"You know, Leo, I've been meaning to call you. Honestly. I was just thinking of you. I flew down for a seminar in the Bay Area last month. On wills and trusts. Incredibly interesting. They had a speaker from a big firm in New York. A fellow named Wrigley. I forget his first name. From what he told us about recent court decisions, I believe that we might actually be able to break that trust of yours. What do you think of that?"
"Interesting," I replied, as noncommittally as possible.
I resisted the temptation to tell him, as I had so many times before, that I had no desire whatsoever to mess around with my trust fund, that the old man's instincts had been right on the mark, that forty-five was, if anything, an optimistic estimate of when to give somebody like me a substantial amount of folding money.
"We could double, maybe triple the income on the principal."
"You don't say."
"I do. According to Wrigley—"
"Can you check a real estate license for me?" I interrupted.
"Check it for what?"
"Validity, I suppose. And anything else you can find out." "Like?"
"Where it was issued. Where the holder took the real estate test. When. Other places where she's worked. Stuff like that."
"What's in it for me?"
"I'll let you take me to lunch at your fancy club and run all this trust-busting stuff by me. I promise to sit through the whole thing. How's that?"
"You mean it?"
"I swear."
"You'll wear a tie? They won't serve you at the club without a tie." "Oh God."
"Everything has its price, Leo."
"Okay. Okay."
"You at home?"
"For another hour or so."
"Be back at ya."
We hung up together. I went back to the paperwork. Twice, I'd persevered through everything Heck had collected in the fancy green bag. Every phone bill, electric bill, and rent receipt. Nothing. Or almost nothing. Nicky Sundstrom had personally signed every credit card receipt. Allison, it seemed, paid strictly cash. Even for the rent. I'd called their building super to see if I could get a line on one of her personal checks. No such luck. The one occasion when Allison had done the actual paying, it had been in cash. The super remembered. Nobody had given him cash in years. Dead end.
First thing this morning, I'd started in on the long distance numbers. Thirty-five long-distance calls to fourteen different numbers. All Nicky's calls, it turned out. Medical specialists. Marine electronics suppliers. Marge's mother. Not one long-distance call attributable to Allison. The girl was either frugal or careful, or both. Another trail to nowhere.
I sorted the bills and receipts into their various categories. Credit card receipts in one pile, gas receipts in another, a third for the phone, and so on down the line. Then I arranged each pile chronologically. I had just finished stuffing each group into labeled business envelopes and was preparing to return them to their home in the bag when the phone rang.
"Waterman Investigations."
"This is just soooo tawdry, Leo. Even for you."
"What's that, Paul?"
"This whole thing with this license. You've embarrassed me again."
"Embarrassed? You're a banker. For most of human history, they stoned people for doing what you do. They called it usury, tied them to stakes, and pitched rocks at them. Nobody can embarrass a banker."
"Hardy-har-har."
"So, what's the matter with the license? It's not valid?"
"Oh, it's valid all right."
"Then what's the problem?"
"The problem is that this particular license was issued to one Rosalee Weber, that's Rosalee with two e's but Weber with one b, of Lakeside, Washington, on October eleventh, nineteen eighty-eight. She works and has always worked for Shore Properties Inc. of Lakeside, Washington. Your mythical Allison Stark appears nowhere in the state files."
"Thanks Paul, I'll—"
"Uh, uh, uh," he clucked. "There's the matter of our agreement." "I said I'd do it, and I will." "When? I want a firm commitment." "Don't I always keep my word?" "Only when you used to threaten to punch me." "See." "When?"
"How about early next week? Right now I need to follow up on what you just so graciously gave me." "I'll be in touch," he said ominously. "I have no doubt. Thanks again." "Ta ta."
I disconnected and dialed information for eastern Washington. "What city please?" "Lakeside. Shore Properties." "Just a minute, please."
After a brief interval, a disembodied, mechanical voice droned the number. I listened to it twice, just to be certain, hung up, and dialed again.
"Shore Properties." A woman's voice.
"Ah've lost your durn address," I drawled.
"We're located at four-fifteen Front Street. Right across from the Key Bank."
"Thank y'all."
"Is there—"
I replaced the receiver in the receptacle. No sense pressing my luck. Shore Properties existed. It was open for business. I called Marge. I got the machine at home, then tried the office. They patched me through.
"This is Marge."
"It's Leo."
Her relief was audible.
"Thank God. I was afraid it was the hospital. Every time the phone rings, I jump out of my skin." "Heck's bad?"
"He had another bad night, Leo. His vital signs were bouncing all over the place. They took him back to the lCU."
"Anything I can do?"
"He seemed to settle down a bit early this morning." "If there's anything I can do—"
"My mother's flying in this afternoon." "Good."
I heard her sigh again. "How's it going?" she said.
Her tone was different. The question posed more as a conversational filler rather than from genuine interest.
"You sure you want to hear this now?" I hedged.
"I could use the diversion."
I told her about the real estate career and the bogus license, sticking strictly to the facts, omitting Nancy Davies' intuitions concerning Allison as well as the prickly sensation that kept running down my back whenever I thought about the elusive Miss Stark.
"What do you think, Leo?"
"I'm withholding judgment until I get back from Chelan." "When will that be?"
"If I hurry, and get real lucky, I can maybe make Lakeside right before things close for the day. That way, maybe I can come back tonight. If I miss it, I'll stay over and do business in the morning."
"I'll be at the hospital every day from lunch on."
"I'll keep in touch."
I called the airport. Horizon flights to Wenatchee at nine, eleven, three, five, and again at nine. Since I was too late to make the eleven, any sense of urgency would be wasted effort. An hour in flight, the time wasted picking up the rental car, and the forty-mile drive from Wenatchee to Lake Chelan. Unless the folks at Shore Properties worked unusually long hours, I wasn't going to make Lakeside before the close of the business day.
I cleaned up, packed an overnight bag, and called Rebecca at work. Wrong again. It seemed she had the day off. I rang the house.
"It's me," I said.
"I tried to catch you last night." Her voice was slow with sleep.
"Hector and I went over to Jazz Alley and caught Benny Carter's second show." "You dogs. I'll bet he was great." "Incredible."
"If y
ou had a single shred of decency, you'd take me tonight."
"The Sundstrom thing. I've got to run over to Chelan."
"Lovely. This time of year, that area has a certain lunar charm." "Doesn't it though."
" 'Tis twice the pity, sir. I have tomorrow off." "Well then, fair lady, why don't you join me on my quest?"
"To Chelan? This time of year? Are you daft?" "Undoubtedly, but it's part of my charm. How's about it?"
"You wound me, sir. What would you have me tell my sainted mother? That I've decided to spend the night in some rural hostelry with an intermittently employed private dick who—"
"Intermittently employed, but boyishly handsome," I interjected.
"—who, as is his ilk, will almost certainly grope and fondle me in a most unseemly manner."
"Tell her that this time I kinda figured on skipping the groping and fondling part and moving right into the cross-dressing and spanking."
"Deviant."
"You've noticed, eh?"
"Degenerate."
"Flight's at three."
"Pick me up at two."
12
"Is your orange juice fresh-squeezed?"
"Most likely it was at some time or other, honey."
The pink plastic tag read, "Hi, My Name's Wynona. Please Let Me Serve You." Rebecca's question only served to deepen the overlapping pockets and pouches that made up the weathered satchel of Wynona's face. When Duvall stuck her nose back into the menu, Wynona shot out a massive hip, parking the green-and-white receipt book impatiently on the heavily starched half-acre ledge.
"You want the juice, dearie?"
"I'll have wheat toast, dry, and some decaf with two Equals. You do have decaf, don't you?"
Directing her bored gaze my way, Wynona ignored this last query.
"What about you, sport? You want the self-denial special too?"
"No," I said quickly, "I'll have the Paul Bunyan Breakfast."
"Good choice," she said, sending a short glance at Duvall and then back to me. Returning her pencil behind her ear, Wynona rustled off toward the counter.
"After this, I don't ever want to hear any complaining about the restaurants I choose," Rebecca said.
"I liked the name. 'Ruth's Snack and Yak.' Lyrical, don't you think?"
