Ellipsis

by Stephen Greenleaf

  I had made plenty of mistakes over that time, but they had not usually turned out fatal, or even often embarrassing, until lately. But then I’d shot Charley Sleet. And in the case before this one—the death of a young woman down near Salinas—I’d made so many miscalls the local sheriff thought I was both nuts and inept. And just this week my unprofessionally romantic impulse to do a favor for Jill Coppelia had cost Wally Briscoe his life, not to mention that my tug-of-war with a gang like the Triad could have put my only child in jeopardy. As if that weren’t enough, the woman I loved wanted me to quit my job and move somewhere I could cultivate a nice tan.

  There were subjective aspects to the issue as well. Now that Charley was dead and I no longer had a sidekick, I wasn’t all that crazy about the job any longer. Plus, other people’s problems, particularly those brought on by stupidity or self-indulgence, which in my experience is most of them, seemed to provoke my ire more than my sympathy these days. Also, by any measure of the concept, I could no longer argue, even to my inner self, that I was much of a success at my trade. All of which would seem to resolve the issue except for one thing—I was broke.

  I’d always been broke, more or less, but had usually been content to be thus, given the toll of being otherwise. But I was only a few weeks short of fifty. I needed to create some financial security. IRAs; 401(k)s; mutual funds; annuities. I needed all the stuff they prattle on about on CNBC to become part of my life.

  Or maybe that was silly. Maybe my retirement plan was already in place. Ruthie had money to burn. She would pay me a handsome wage just to keep Conrad out of the house most of the day or to water her roses or whatever. And if Jill and I stayed together, I could sit back and let her pay the bills while I fished or played checkers or surfed the Web or did any of a number of other things retired people claim are fascinating. Jill seemed willing to participate in such an arrangement, and she certainly had the wherewithal to support me far beyond the style to which I’ve become accustomed.

  All well and good, except if my life meant anything at all, it meant that morally and philosophically such arrangements were taboo. Under the Tanner Tenets, there are certain things a man doesn’t do—lie doesn’t cook anything fancier than tuna sandwiches, he doesn’t pay more than ten bucks for a haircut, he doesn’t drink herbal tea, he doesn’t watch PBS, and he doesn’t live off of women.

  But if Ruthie and Jill were out, where did that leave me? Looking for another line of work, presumably. But what? I had no particular skills, no particular expertise, no particular passions at this stage of the game. I’m not on-line, I’m not into wine, I’m not long in the stock market, I’m not transported by popular music. I’m neither notably energetic nor productively aggressive, and with fewer and fewer exceptions, I don’t care for my fellow citizens a whole lot. I couldn’t work with someone who thought he was my boss or with someone who believed I was his. So what the hell could I do? As with most questions I pose in the morning hours, nothing comforting came to mind.

  In the nature of a diversion, I called Jill at the office. When she answered, I asked how it had gone at the arraignment.

  “They all got bail but Hardy.”

  “Any of them looking for a deal yet?”

  “All of them, almost. Hardy’s going to be hit by a ton of adverse testimony. Even Jake Hattie won’t get him out of this one.”

  “Jake’s his lawyer?”

  “And proud of it, so he says.”

  “How’s Hardy affording Jake’s tab?”

  “We think Hardy made a fortune from his Triad operation. We’re trying to trace his assets, but it’s going to be tough. Hardy’s not stupid and he can afford to pay someone to help him hide them.”

  “Do you think the Triad is out of business at this point?”

  “Pretty much. Oh. I’ve been talking with Lark McLaren. I sent one of our computer people over to Ms. Wells’s house and he’s found stuff under a hidden file named Wally B. that has even more on the Triad than Briscoe gave us at the grand jury. Lots of names; lots of crimes; lots of narrative links. He spilled his guts to the woman for some reason.”

  “I think the reason was Charley Sleet. I think Wally figured, with his help, the next Chandelier Wells magnum opus could serve as Charley’s memorial.”

  “You know that for a fact?”

  “Not to a moral certainty. But Wally was a good guy and he thought Charley was God.”

  “So did you, you know.”

  I laughed because I’d just had the same thought myself.

  “Want to have lunch?” she asked. “My treat.”

  “Can’t. I’ve got things to do.”

  “Like what?”

  “Call Cleveland, for one. Oh. Remember Pearl, the lady who lived below me?”

  “Sure. She’s a sweetheart.”

  “She died last night.”

  “Murdered?” Jill blurted.

  “My reaction exactly, but apparently not. Probably natural causes, pending the final PM. My question is, what if she has no friends or no next of kin? Who takes care of her stuff and who arranges for burial?”

  “The public administrator, if there’s no will and no family. The current administrator’s a man named Hardesty. Nice guy.”

  “You know him?”

  “A little.”

  “Would you ask him to look into it for me? Pearl Gibson was her name. I don’t want her lying around the morgue any longer than she has to. Tell him if there’s a money problem, I’ll take care of the funeral.”

  “I didn’t know you were that close to her.”

  “She was a neighbor.”

  Jill waited for more, but I didn’t have any. “Okay. I’ll give Hank a call. You’re a good man, Marsh Tanner.”

  “Only on special occasions.”

  After I hung up, I called the Cleveland number Millicent Colbert had given me. When I told her it was safe for her and Eleanor to come back to the city, her relief was audible. “Are you sure?”

  “Reasonably.”

  “Is that enough?”

  “I think so.”

  She hesitated. “Stuart called. He’s quite upset.”

  “I don’t blame him.”

  “He wonders if it’s a good idea for you to come to the house any longer.”

  “I don’t blame him,” I repeated as a tremor swept through my veins. I envisioned Stuart blocking the door to his house the way George Wallace had blocked the door to the university.

  “Or see Eleanor at all in the future,” Millicent expanded.

  My words were desperate and automatic. “I don’t blame him. But I’m going to make it all right from now on.”

  “How?”

  “I’m going to quit my job.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “And do what?”

  “No idea.”

  “I can’t see you working nine to five, somehow.”

  “Maybe I could help Stuart dress the models for the fashion shows.”

  Millicent wasn’t sure I was joking. “I guess we don’t need to discuss this now.”

  “Probably not.”

  “We’ll fly back in the morning.”

  “Good. I’ll meet you at—”

  “Stuart can make the arrangements,” she said with uncharacteristic primness. “But thank you. I’ll call when we get home.”

  “Good.”

  “Eleanor’s at the grocery with her aunt Margaret, or I’d put her on.”

  “Tell her hi for me.”

  “I will. Thanks for calling, Marsh. And for doing whatever you did to make things right.”

  “Tell Stuart I won’t let anything happen. To either of you.”

  “I will.”

  “He won’t believe it, but it will be true.”

  In the grip of a wild foreboding that the worst thing that could possibly happen to me might be in danger of actually occurring, I got in the car and drove across the bay to Alta Bates. If the Colberts put Eleanor off limits, the death of Charley Sleet
would seem like a tailgate party.

  Lark McLaren was where she always was, waiting for her boss’s summons. This time she had her laptop whirring and her fingers flying, but above the machinery her lovely face had taken on the exhausted countenance of a refugee.

  I took the seat next to her and touched her arm. “How are you?”

  Lark started and looked up. “Mr. Tanner. You surprised me.” She rubbed her face and closed the cover on her machine. “I’m fine. Just helping Gert put out a publicity release. You can’t believe the press—they act like Chandelier’s the reincarnation of Princess Di or something.”

  “You look like you forgot to sleep this month,” I said easily.

  “Nonsense. I’m up to three hours a night. It’s a veritable feast of snooze.”

  “How’s the boss?”

  “Better, actually. Even I can see it.”

  “Can she have visitors?”

  “Briefly.”

  “I’d like to see her for maybe a minute.”

  “Can I know why?”

  “I’d like to give her my final report.”

  Her eyes grew lively and inquisitive. “You know who planted the bomb?”

  I nodded.

  “It has something to do with the police, doesn’t it? The guy who came to look at the computer and the thing on the news this morning.”

  “Most of it does,” I agreed.

  Her eyes grew lively. “Wait a minute. You’re the private investigator who was out there, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t they give your name?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, but what I thought was that Jill was trying to protect me from recriminations from the members of the Triad still afoot in the general populace. I didn’t know if I liked that or not, since I wasn’t in a position to protect Jill nearly as well.

  “Are Chandelier and Violet out of danger?” Lark was asking fervidly.

  “I think so.”

  “Thank God.” She put her laptop aside and stood up. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  She hurried away and returned in two minutes, which was plenty of time for me to worry that I was being more optimistic than the situation warranted. “You can see her now.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Follow me.”

  She led me down two and a half corridors to the area marked INTENSIVE CARE. A doctor was waiting for us. So was Ruthie Spring.

  I pulled Ruthie off to the side. “How’s it going?”

  “Slow as Sunday. What brings you by?”

  “It’s pretty much wrapped up, I think. You can take off anytime.”

  “That business on the news this morning have anything to do with it?”

  I nodded.

  “Quite a party out there, sounds like.”

  “Hats and horns.”

  “You were there?”

  “Yep.”

  “I didn’t hear your name mentioned.”

  “Just as well.”

  “So the cops Sleet was disposing of the night he got shot were the ones who did the deed to Chandelier?”

  “Right. Most of the rest were collared last night.”

  Ruthie’s eyes twinkled. “By your own personal DA, am I right?”

  “So she says,” I bragged, and felt oddly ecstatic about the sound of it.

  I turned Ruthie toward the exit and gave her a little shove. “Go. Make Conrad happy. And send me a bill or I’ll sue you.”

  Ruthie turned away, then back. “Some lady lawyer named Sundstrom was by. She wasn’t pleased. With you or with me or with anything.”

  “People like Ms. Sundstrom are never pleased. It’s why they’re lawyers. They get paid to be malcontents.”

  After Ruthie had gone and Lark had introduced me to the young doctor, he gave me some scrubs and a mask to put on, then opened the door. “Second bed to the left. Don’t make her laugh; don’t make her cry; don’t make her sneeze.”

  “Noted,” I said, and entered the room, which, like all hospital rooms, gave me the willies and made me resolve to lose weight.

  Chandelier Wells was a sight, and that was putting it mildly. There were tubes running into her and tubes running out. Her flesh was pink in some spots and black in others and swaddled in others with what looked like yards and yards of cheesecloth, as though they were preparing her for the deli case. The only part that looked normal were her eyeballs, and they were so bright they seemed fake. Even the bed was dramatic, with curved bars and ropes and pulleys and little motors that made it look like a car on a thrill ride, one that twists and twirls and makes you wish you’d skipped lunch. I wasn’t sure, but I think it was so they could turn her over without touching her.

  A nurse was hovering and so was the doctor. I walked to the side of the bed and sat in the chair already beside it. “It’s Marsh Tanner, Ms. Wells. The detective. You hired me to learn who sent the notes and set the bomb.”

  I paused to see if she’d heard me. Only the blinks of her eyes suggested she did. And even that much response seemed agonizing for her.

  “In both cases, it was cops,” I went on, my voice a buzz through the mask. “Members of a gang called the Triad. The one Wally Briscoe told you about when you talked to him while doing research for your next book.”

  I got another blink so I went ahead.

  “The leader, Vincent Hardy, admitted what he did to you and the DA has it on tape. Hardy’s in jail without bail and the rest of the gang is spilling its guts to the DA. I don’t think you or your daughter will have any more trouble from them. As far as I’m concerned, I’m off duty. It’s been nice working for you. I hope you feel better soon. Oh. They killed Wally Briscoe. It was my fault. It didn’t have anything to do with you and your book.”

  The next blink extruded a tear. Whether it was for Wally or me or herself was left for me to decide.

  “If you have questions,” I said, “I’ll be happy to answer them, but your doctor would probably rather you didn’t ask.”

  When nothing more happened, I stood up and left the ward after shedding the mask and the scrubs. Lark McLaren caught up to me as I was about to leave the hospital. “I want to thank you, Mr. Tanner.”

  “I was lucky. It happens that way sometimes. I’m just sorry Chandelier got hurt so badly.”

  “You were awfully nice to work with. People aren’t, always. I just wanted to say I appreciate it.”

  I grabbed her hand and kissed it. “You’re easy to be nice to, Ms. McLaren. You ought to give some nice young man the chance to reciprocate.”

  When I got back to the office, the phone was ringing. When I picked it up, a woman began screaming in my ear like a banshee.

  Chapter 32

  The woman was Jill Coppelia and she had five sentences out of her mouth before I understood a single one of them.

  “You’re going to have to start at the beginning,” I said as soon as I could get a word in edgewise.

  Her breath heaved and wheezed as though she’d just played tag with someone far more energetic than I am. “Okay. Okay,” she panted. “Just let me take a few breaths. There. Now. Where was I? Oh. The beginning is, I got a call from Hank Hardesty.”

  “The public administrator.”

  “Right. He was calling about your friend Pearl Gibson.”

  “Has he made the funeral arrangements?”

  “Yes. Or almost.”

  “Good. I just hope he holds down the expenses in case I end up footing the bill.”

  Jill’s titter was giddy, bordering on hysterical. “You’re not going to believe it, Marsh.”

  “Believe what?”

  “What happened to Pearl.”

  My pulse started thumping the way it does when the subject turns grisly. “What? Was she murdered after all? Was someone after me and got Pearl by mistake?”

  “No, I … Nothing like that. Calm down. Maybe I should start at the beginning again.”

  My heart began to decelerate. “Please do.”

  She gulpe
d a deep breath. “Last night about three A.M., the police got a call from a man named Guernsey. Peter Guernsey.”

  “Like the cow.”

  “Whatever. Anyway, this Guernsey guy called the cops to report a possible medical problem with a woman named Gibson.”

  “What kind of problem was he talking about?”

  “He didn’t know. He just thought something might have happened to her.”

  “Why?”

  “This is where it gets good. Guernsey had talked to Pearl on the phone earlier in the day—around four in the afternoon—and he made an appointment to come by the apartment to see her at eight. But when he got there, she didn’t answer the door.”

  “Maybe she forgot.”

  “He thought so, too, for a while. But he didn’t think Pearl sounded like she had any sort of memory problem on the phone.”

  “I never saw any sign of it.”

  “And he also knew this appointment was one she’d definitely want to keep. So he lay awake half the night worrying that Pearl was sick or hurt or something and finally called the cops to have them check it out. To give himself peace of mind, if nothing else.”

  “Which is where I came in.”

  “Right. I talked to an officer …”

  “Hollingsworth.”

  “Right. Hollingsworth about the situation. He said he got the call a little after three. He and his partner responded right away, found a key under the mat, let themselves in, and found Pearl collapsed on the floor in the middle of the living room. No vital signs; no sign of violence or forced entry. He’s pretty sure it was her heart or a stroke. And so is Guernsey.”

  “What does Guernsey know about it? Is he some kind of doctor?”

  Jill paused. “Guernsey didn’t tell Pearl precisely why he called, but he could tell she was getting excited so he figured she’d guessed right away. He also figures the excitement is probably what killed her. He feels pretty bad about it, apparently.”

  “I still don’t get it. What excitement is he talking about?”

  “Guernsey works for an outfit called the Manumission Corporation,” Jill went on, her voice taking on the fullness of parody.

  “Never heard of them.”

  “Neither had I. And for good reason. They publish a magazine called Balls.”