Beyond Blame

by Stephen Greenleaf

  I stopped and turned. The woman on the front stoop wore a gray sweat suit, the old kind with elastic at the ankles and a drawstring at the waist, and incongruous blue silk house slippers. The red babushka atop her head was gnarled in the shape of hair curlers.

  She was panting and she looked exhausted, as though she’d just finished a long run. But I had the feeling she hadn’t run anywhere in years. “I’m sorry I knocked,” I said. “I didn’t notice the sign until it was too late.”

  She didn’t let me off the hook but she didn’t curse me, either. “What do you want?” she asked again.

  “My name’s Tanner. I’d like to talk to you about Dianne Renzel.”

  “Dianne’s dead.” Her voice was a match for the condition she described. Her eyes were as flat as paired decals.

  “I know she’s dead,” I said. “I’d like to talk to you about why.”

  “Why she’s dead?”

  “Yes.”

  She frowned. “Who are you? I mean, what are you? I’ve already talked to the police.”

  “I’m a private investigator.”

  She showed interest for the first time. “Who hired you? Lawrence?”

  “I can’t tell you who hired me,” I said, then took a shot at bettering my chances of learning something. “But I can tell you that Lawrence Usser did not.”

  “Honest?”

  “Honest.”

  I could hear her sigh from where I stood. It blended so nicely with the breezy wheezes in the branches overhead, it seemed the city itself was weary with my presence. “You might as well come in, I guess,” she said finally, and crossed her arms across her chest and waited for me to join her on the stoop. When I reached her side she stepped aside without a word and allowed me to precede her through the door.

  The house was cool and dark, the shades pulled, shutters closed, the evergreens that grew beyond the windows scratching softly at the panes and masking the queer house even further. In contrast to the Usser house and its numberless signs of intellectual and physical activity, this one had an abandoned feel, as though its occupants were ghosts that left no traces and had no needs.

  From what the Renzels had said, there should have been a teenage girl living there, but the only evidence of such a being in the living room was a framed color photograph propped on top of the end table beside the couch. The girl in the picture was lissome and listless, dressed in the tawdry beads and feathers and leathers of the avant-garde, a sharp contrast to her vivacious friend across the street. Her lips were burnt orange, her hair a frothy pink, her eyes twin bags of glitter. A single incisor, blackened for some outlandish purpose, was exposed by the reach of her carefully calibrated yawn. She was so disdainful of the photographer I assumed it must have been her mother. I wondered if she was persuasive as well, so much so that she had convinced her neighbor Lisa to change her ways and adopt an exasperating style.

  I looked away from the photograph and back to my hostess. She wore no makeup and no jewelry, and I guessed she wore nothing beneath the sweat suit. She motioned toward the chair and took one herself, wearing the look of cautious expectancy of those who live alone and believe they have come across someone who will talk to them. “I’m Phyllis Misteen,” she said.

  “Marsh Tanner.”

  “A private eye.”

  “Right.”

  “I didn’t know they made them anymore.”

  “I don’t think they’re made; I think they’re born.”

  I smiled more than the axiom warranted. Phyllis looked like she wanted to do likewise but couldn’t summon the strength. I started to apologize again for waking her but she waved it away. “You didn’t wake me. No one wakes me anymore. I suppose it’s because I so seldom find myself asleep.”

  “Does it have anything to do with Dianne Renzel?”

  Her smile was small and pained. “That didn’t help matters any, that’s for sure. Dianne was my best friend. But—” She stopped, as though her thought had veered.

  “What is it?”

  “I was just thinking how different that term ‘best friend’ becomes as you grow up. In high school my best friend was Connie Waitley. I saw her ten hours a day, at least. Now I call Dianne my best friend and I didn’t see her ten hours a month.”

  “But her death isn’t why you’re losing sleep.”

  “No. Not usually. What I’m losing sleep over is my daughter. Sherry.” She glanced quickly at the photograph, then looked as quickly away from it, as though it was too bright to behold without a filter.

  “What happened to her?”

  “She ran away.” Although short, the sentence didn’t end before there was a break in the voice that uttered it.

  “When?”

  “Two months ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I. I’m sorrier than I ever thought I could possibly be. Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem to make any difference. Sorriness does not seem to be rewarded in this world.”

  Her voice edged toward a self-mocking hysteria. I asked the first question that came to mind. “Is there a Mr. Misteen?”

  “I’m sure there is. Somewhere. He ran away too. In 1972, when Sherry was five and I was frantic. That one I’m not sorry about at all.”

  She wiped her brow, then twisted the sleeve of her sweatshirt between fingers that had begun to spot and swell with age. “Everyone but me thinks Sherry’s dead,” she said, so softly I almost didn’t hear. “I can tell from the way everyone avoids the subject, the way they do when someone gets fired or gets cancer. But she isn’t dead. I can prove it.”

  “How?”

  “I get these calls.”

  “What kind of calls?”

  “From kids. Not from Sherry, but from people she knows. Street people.”

  “What do they say?”

  “That Sherry needs clothes, or food, or money. They tell me what to bring and where to leave it and I go there and then I sneak back to see if Sherry comes to get the things but she never does. It’s always just some frightful-looking boy. I try to follow him but I always lose him before he can lead me to Sherry.” She laughed ruefully. “The police say they’re taking advantage of me, those kids, stealing, that even if Sherry’s alive she’s probably long gone from Berkeley by now, but I don’t think so. I think she’s still here. Don’t you?”

  It was somehow a serious question. Her eyes enlarged, as though to search out my concurrence with all their power. I struggled for an answer for so long that she spoke again before I had come up with one. “But you’re not interested in Sherry, are you? You’re here about Dianne.”

  I nodded, relieved that she had been the one to point that out.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “I suppose you’ve heard they arrested her husband,” I began.

  “Yes. I heard.”

  “Did it surprise you?”

  “No.” It was her first firm word.

  “So you think Usser was capable of … that?”

  “Any man is capable of that.”

  She seemed about to launch a tirade, so I tried to focus her. “Were they having problems? Did you see something like this coming?”

  I regretted the question as soon as I’d asked it. Phyllis Misteen gave me a look that curled my toes. “If I had seen this coming, I would have killed the bastard myself. And I’d have done it the same way he did.” The eyes that had been so murky when I arrived now blazed clear and hot.

  “I’m sorry. I phrased that badly. But I think you know what I meant.”

  She nodded. “Have you ever spent much time with an intellectual, Mr. Tanner? I mean with a genuine, certified, grade A genius?”

  She shoved her voice into a country twang. I shook my head, though the answer was not that simple. I’ve known some bright people in my day, but they weren’t bright from top to bottom. Somewhere in the middle of each of them there had been a hole, and what had leaked out of it had been the reason I’d gotten to know them, the reason most of them were eventually
put in jail or in an early grave.

  “Well, Lawrence Usser was a genius,” Phyllis Misteen was saying. “Is a genius. And if you didn’t recognize that right away, he’d be sure to let you know it about two minutes into the conversation. Do you know the concept of battered wives, Mr. Tanner? The syndrome?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, Dianne Renzel was a battered wife, even though her husband never laid a hand on her, at least not until the night he killed her. What Lawrence beat her with was his mind. He used his brain like a club; he slapped her around with words and phrases, bludgeoned her with criticism and accusation. And I’ll tell you something, Mr. Tanner. It hurt like hell. If you could get inside Dianne Renzel, you’d see her psyche was completely black and blue.”

  “Was it always like that between them?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, I moved here three years ago, so what was going on before that I don’t know about. See, it’s not as if Dianne saw it the way I did. She worshiped the ground the asshole walked on, at least she did till lately. Not as a person—she knew Larry was basically a jerk—but as a … paragon. A god. She thought Lawrence Usser was a Christmas gift to the downtrodden of the world, but she was in pain all the same. And it was getting worse.”

  “How about recently? Did she say anything that indicated there was a change in Usser’s behavior? That he was doing things he’d never done before? Acting strangely? Anything?”

  “I’d like to tell you there was something like that. Believe me. But I can’t. Larry turned odd as hell after the murder, but not before, at least not that I heard.”

  “What was he doing after the murder?”

  “Oh, wandering around the yard at all hours. Talking to himself. Calling out for Lisa. Calling me up to talk, then hanging up after three words.”

  “If he did do it, what do you think was his motive?”

  “Another woman, probably.”

  “Why not just get a divorce?”

  “Money. Lawrence liked to live high, liked nice things. He had a lot but he didn’t have enough.”

  “Do you know of a specific woman he might have been in love with?”

  “No. I heard there was someone at the law school, but I don’t know who she was. Dianne knew he slept around, by the way. She didn’t care, I guess. I don’t know, we didn’t talk about Larry all that much. She knew I didn’t like him.”

  “How about Dianne? Was she bothered by anything recently? Afraid of anything? Or anyone?”

  Phyllis Misteen’s expression grew more tormented. “I don’t know. All I know is that she tried to reach me four different times on the day she died. And I wasn’t here for her. It’s been hard to live with that, let me tell you, Mr. Tanner.”

  “Tried to reach you how?”

  “By phone. I have this answering machine, because of Sherry. If Sherry calls, I want to know it. If she wants me to come and get her, I want her to be … well, I just want her to be able to say whatever she wants to say.”

  “So Dianne Renzel left a message on your machine?”

  “Right. Four of them.”

  “What did they say?”

  “Just to call her back. That it was important.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “No.”

  “Do you still have the tape?”

  She shook her head. “I erased it before I knew she … died.”

  “Do you have any idea at all what it might have been about?”

  Phyllis Misteen clasped her hands in an unconscious prayer. “What I hope is that it was about Sherry. I hope Dianne saw her or heard something, and was trying to let me know.”

  “But it could have been that she was in trouble. That something had scared her. It could have been almost anything, right?”

  I had splashed water on the fires of hope and it angered her. She rose halfway out of her chair, then sagged back into it and glared at me. “You’re working for them, aren’t you?”

  “Who?”

  “The Ussers. Mr. and Mrs. High-and-Mighty. They hired you to get him off, didn’t they? Christ. I thought that was her car over there. Listen. I think I want you to leave. Now.”

  I shook my head and held up a placative hand. “They’re not my clients. And I’m not trying to get Usser off. I’m just trying to find out what happened.”

  “Then who did hire you?”

  “I can’t say. Really. So how about it? Was anything at all unusual going on in Dianne Renzel’s life of late?”

  Phyllis Misteen shrugged. “What we talked mostly about was her work. That was always unusual.”

  “What did she do, exactly?”

  “She was a counselor at the Community Crisis Center, over by the campus. She saw it all over there, believe me.”

  “Where was her office?”

  “On Bowditch, between Channing and Durant.”

  “Near the law school.”

  “Right. He used to walk right past her window when he was going off to lunch with one of his precious students. Women students, mostly. God, that man attracted a crowd. And all of them with dripping cunts, excuse my French.”

  “You think he slept with students?”

  “Sure. I mean, I think he was capable of murder, so of course I think he was capable of screwing his students.”

  I smiled because I thought Phyllis expected it. I was wrong. She saw nothing funny in Lawrence Usser. “How about Dianne?” I asked. “Did she have a lover?”

  Phyllis gave me an odd look. “I told the police I didn’t know.”

  “Was it the truth?”

  She looked at me, still deciding. “No. It wasn’t. That man Kinn made me mad. He didn’t want to hear one word about Sherry all the time he was over here.”

  “So who was her lover?” I asked, taking my own risk of making Phyllis mad by avoiding her daughter’s plight.

  “Pierce Richards. Her boss.”

  “How long were they together?”

  “Not very. A few months. Like I said, Dianne finally saw Larry for what he was—an ambitious smart-ass who made his reputation putting lunatics out on the streets.”

  “Did Usser know about her affair?”

  “I doubt it, but I really can’t say.”

  “If he found out, do you think he’d react violently?”

  “Maybe. He’s a man, isn’t he?” Her eyes widened with concern. She had clearly told me more than she’d planned, and wanted to think it over. “Listen,” she said. “I got some things I’ve got to do, so …”

  She stood up and I followed suit. “One last thing,” I said as we walked toward the door. “How about Lisa? The daughter. What’s the story on her?”

  Phyllis Misteen stopped and turned to look at me. “Lisa. God. If Lawrence is a genius, then Lisa is genius squared. She’s sixteen, but half her classes are upper division courses at the university. She played Mozart at six and gave up music entirely at ten, except for the punk stuff. She toys with people; her parents, her friends, everyone. Every day she’s a different person. Half the time I thought Sherry was corrupting her, and half the time I thought it was the other way around. One day she brings me flowers from the garden, the next I see her sneaking into the house as I get home at six A.M., stoned out of her mind, babbling away about something or other. The past couple of months Lisa’s hardly been home at all. She’s totally and completely fucked up, if you want the truth. Dianne used to go on and on about her to me. But I’d screwed my own kid up so bad I wasn’t much help.” A tear appeared at the corner of her eye and she smeared it across her cheek.

  “Were Lisa and your daughter friends?”

  “On and off. Off, before Sherry ran away.”

  “Did you ever talk to Lisa about why Sherry left home?”

  “I tried. Believe me. But talking to Lisa is even less satisfactory than talking to Lawrence. Not only wasn’t she helpful, she seemed not to care. But then Dianne said lately Lisa didn’t care about anything, even herself.”

  “Do you think Lisa knows why Usser kille
d her mother?”

  “If you mean specifically, I doubt it. But even if she does know, you’ll play hell getting it out of her.”

  “Can you give me some idea of how to approach her?”

  Phyllis shook her head. “Lisa is a true schizoid, if you ask me. I have no idea how she’d react to anything. Sherry was the same way, though not as bad. I …”

  She looked at the photograph once again, and once again it seemed to daze her. “Listen. If you’re going to be wandering around Berkeley, asking questions and all, would you keep your ears open for anything about Sherry? And if someone mentions her name, would you try to find out where she is? And let me know? I’d really appreciate it. I’d try to pay you something, maybe monthly?”

  “No problem,” I said. “If I hear anything, I’ll let you know.”

  “Thanks. You don’t know what I … Thanks.”

  She was right. I didn’t know and I was thankful for my ignorance.

  I reached into my pocket for a business card, jotted my home number on it as well and gave it to her. “If you think of anything that might help explain what happened over at the Usser place, give me a call. Or if you just want to talk.”

  She smiled a sad smile and shook her head. “I can’t tie up the phone just to talk,” she said, then stuck my card under the edge of an ashtray and showed me to the door.

  ELEVEN

  I left my car on Hillside Lane and set out on foot for the law school. It was a ten-minute trip. The way was lined with frat houses and apartment complexes, their windows filled with wine bottles or street signs, their lawns littered with beer kegs and broken furniture, their surfaces marred with graffiti or decay, their sidewalks swarming with students of every size and stripe, from preppies to punks, surfers to stoners, nerds to jocks. Despite all that, by the time I reached my destination I felt a spring in my step, a bounce to my stride, a whistle on my lips, but I was haunted by the suspicion that I was late for class and unprepared for the quiz in second period.

  The Berkeley Law School was housed in a former University of California dormitory, a high-rise structure on Channing Way just south of the UC campus. As befitting its origins, the exterior was nondescript and austere, more a fortification than an educational institution. The view from the top floors must have been spectacular, but below that the windows revealed only the high stone wall that surrounded the place.