by Keith Miles
‘What?’
‘Our guy could be just off the plane from Sicily.’
‘Sicily?’
‘That stiletto,’ he said with casual interest. ‘Used to be a favourite murder weapon of the Mafia.’
The implications were all too much for me. I sat there for some minutes in a state of fear and bewilderment. All I had done was to come to California to play four rounds of golf and I was now caught up in a murder inquiry.
As a possible victim who got away. This time.
Patch Nelms broke the silence with a partisan comment.
‘Bet you wish you never went to Yankee Stadium now.’
***
Another hour or more passed before the house began to empty. The doctor went first and gave the still shaken Mardie Cutler a lift back to her apartment. Howie vanished with the lawyer, still haggling together over fine details. The Catholic priest slipped away unnoticed.
Having completed their initial enquiries, Salgado and Nelms took their men away but left one uniformed officer on guard outside the house. Helen went straight to bed and so did Dominga. It was time for me to bring a horrendous night to its close as well. I got to my room and locked the door behind me.
Sleep refused to come. I was aching with fatigue as I lay in the darkness but I was kept awake by the same recurring questions. At length, I gave up. Putting the light back on, I got out of bed and went to draw myself a bath in the hope that it might relax me. The hot, soapy water brought relief but no escape.
The questions continued to torment me afresh.
Who murdered Zuke Everett? Had the killer been after me?
I tried hard to believe that I was not in danger. To gain a kind of perverse comfort, I did my best to persuade myself that Zuke had in fact been the intended target. Though he was renowned for his friendliness, he did have enemies as well. When I searched for people who might hate him enough to want him killed, I came up with two names.
Gamil Amir and Tom Bellinghaus.
The golfer had actually threatened Zuke in my hearing and even mentioned death by stabbing. Though the course architect had made no verbal attack, his expression had said everything. He wanted revenge.
The more I thought about it, the more certain I became that the murder was connected with the tournament. It was no coincidence that Zuke had been cut down in his finest hour. His double eagle had been a gesture of defiance at Gamil Amir and a gross insult to Tom Bellinghaus. It had put him back into the reckoning and somebody was determined that he would not win.
My mind went back to the locker room. What was it about Amir that had prompted Zuke to behave so violently? There was a personal enmity there that went much deeper than professional rivalry. How had it arisen and what part did Helen play in it?
No answers offered themselves.
I was working on gut reactions and not on facts.
The water eventually began to soothe my mind as well as my body. Fears subsided. Anguish slowly diminished. Exhaustion soon washed all over me. Without trying to resist, I fell gratefully asleep.
I was awake again within minutes.
There was a knock on the bedroom door and the handle was tried. Lifting myself quickly out of the bath, I grabbed the white robe from its hook and pulled it on. I felt that I was in mortal danger. It never occurred to me that a potential killer was unlikely to announce himself by tapping on my door.
There was a second, louder knock.
‘Alan?’ It was Helen Everett. ‘Are you there?’
‘One moment,’ I called, tying up my belt as I crossed to the door. ‘What do you want?’
‘Let me in!’
The plea in her voice made me unlock the door at once and pull it open. Helen Everett was framed there for a moment. She was wearing a silk nightgown and looked as striking as ever. The mourning she had kept at bay had now claimed her. Circles under her eyes showed that she had been crying and her mouth was trembling.
She stepped into the bedroom and shut the door behind her.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘Trouble sleeping?’
‘My husband is dead,’ she whispered, as if realising it for the first time. ‘Zuke is gone.’
Tears came again and she flung herself into my arms. I patted her gently and eased her down so that we were sitting on the edge of the bed. Mardie Cutler had been inconsolable when she saw the dead body. It was now Helen’s turn to weep and moan and blame herself. I pulled some tissues from the box on my bedside table and gave them to her to dab at her eyes.
When she had sobbed her fill, she sat up and made an effort to pull herself together. Helen was no longer the poised actress with confident charm. She was a frightened, vulnerable young woman who had been thrown into a state of total confusion. Even her voice had changed. It had lost both its heavy accent and its Latin brio.
‘Zuke was the only one who cared,’ she murmured.
‘Was he?’
‘The others were all the same. Pigs. Slobs. But not Zuke. He was the first man who was really kind to me.’ Her eyes moistened again. ‘I wish I’d been kinder to him now.’
‘How did you meet him?’ I wondered.
‘On a film set. I was working as an extra.’ She gave a bitter laugh. ‘This guy I was dating, some hot-shot studio executive, he promised to get me into the big time. Ha! Shall I tell you what his idea of the big time was? Two tiny scenes in a crap movie that never went out on release.’
‘Why was Zuke involved?’
‘There was a golf sequence. He was supposed to advise on how the shots were played but the leading man didn’t know one end of a club from the other. So Zuke ended up hitting the shots for him. Best part of the movie.’ A reflective smile lit her face. ‘We got talking one day. That was all it needed. Zuke was just so easy to be with. Happy, full of life. I’d never met anyone like him. What’s more, he didn’t try to take advantage.’ The smile gave way to a sad frown. ‘I’m a wetback, Alan. Do you know what that means?’
‘An illegal immigrant.’
‘It means you’re cut off from your own country and hunted down in somebody else’s. You never stand still, never take it easy. All the time, you have to look over your shoulder.’
‘How long have you been here?’ I asked.
‘I was thirteen when we came,’ she recalled. ‘We were like lots of other Mexican families. Very poor, very ignorant. We believed that life in America would be wonderful.’ Her lip curled sardonically. ‘If only we had known the truth!’
‘How did you cross the border?’
‘One night, we got through a gap in the fence near Tijuana. About forty or fifty of us. I was with my mother and my little brother. Our father had died. It was a terrible night.’ Her face went taut as she remembered it all. ‘They were waiting for us in a ravine. Bandits. Mexicans from our own patria! They were animals. They took everything we had. Then one of them, the leader, he said, “Find the pretty ones!” They grabbed about half a dozen of us. I was the youngest. When my brother tried to stop them, they knocked him to the ground. I begged them not to kill him. The leader said he would make up his mind afterwards. Then he dragged me off into the bushes.’ She stared down at the floor. ‘That was my welcome to America.’
I waited patiently until she was ready to go on. As she talked, she began to play with her wedding ring. Her voice was subdued.
‘We were wetbacks,’ she said simply. ‘We had no rights. If we’d reported it to the police, they’d have told us it was our own fault. It happens all the time. We’d have been sent back across the border and we had nothing to go back to by then.’
‘What did you do?’
‘We went on. My uncle lived near San Diego. He took us in for a while. We got jobs. When we lost those, we moved on.’ She looked up at me. ‘That’s how it was, Alan. J
ob after job. And men.’
‘When did you take up acting?’ I said.
‘That came much later. After I’d split up with my family.’
‘Split up?’
‘My mother didn’t like some of the things I did.’ She gave a little shrug. ‘I didn’t like them either but I had no choice. There was always someone. My mother called me bad names and we had these terrible rows all the time. In the end, I couldn’t take any more of it so I walked out. She never forgave me. When I sent money, she sent it back.’ Helen winced. ‘She even refused to come to the wedding.’
‘And the acting?’ I reminded.
‘One thing led to another. I met this man who said he could turn me into a top model if I lived in LA. I stuck it for six months and saved up enough to take voice lessons. Then there was this other friend. He was nice at first. He made TV commercials.’ Sarcasm took over. ‘That’s how it all started. My brilliant career as Helen Ramirez!’
‘What was your real name?’
She was so taken aback by the question that it produced another bout of tears and she buried her head in my shoulder. I brought my arms around her again for comfort.
‘Zuke took me away from all that,’ she whispered. ‘Ever since I’ve been in this country, I’ve been afraid that someone would come and get me. Until Zuke. He made me his wife. He gave me a right to be here. I was safe. I was someone at last.’
‘You’ve always been someone,’ I reassured.
‘And now he’s dead. Because of me.’
‘Now, that’s silly. It was nothing to do with you.’
‘But it was,’ she insisted between sobs. ‘If he hadn’t married me, Zuke would be alive now. It’s all my fault.’
‘Of course it isn’t,’ I soothed.
I tightened my grip on her as the weeping intensified.
The embrace seemed to last interminably. Her silk nightgown was smooth beneath my fingers. Her body was warm. I could feel the beat of her heart. My cheek was against the delicate softness of her hair. The subtle fragrance of her perfume invaded me.
Her tears died away and she began to sway gently to and fro as if trying to lull herself to sleep. I found that I was moving with her in a steady, unforced rhythm. She looked up at me through moist, doleful eyes. Her voice was a murmured plea.
‘You won’t come and get me, will you?’
I shook my head and kissed her on the temple.
The effect was startling.
Helen reached up to fling her arms around my neck and her lips fastened on mine. In that first, long, luscious moment, my resistance was swept aside. I made a token attempt to ease her away but it only served to intensify her need. We fell back on the bed together. My fatigue was forgotten now as I matched her frenzy and joined with her in trying to blot out the horror of what had happened.
In the shadow of death, we were attesting life.
We were soon naked and the wetness of my body lent an added excitement. When I slid into her, she gave a cry of pleasure that aroused me even more. I arched and plunged with gathering momentum until she suddenly quivered violently all over, let out a deep, searching moan and dug her fingernails into my flesh. The racking urgency of her orgasm brought me with it and our voices mingled in celebration.
Eyes closed, we lay there entwined and gasped for breath. For a time, at least, we had shed the burden of grief. It soon returned.
‘Oh, Zuke’ she whispered. ‘That was wonderful.’
Not daring to speak, I squeezed her by way of reply.
‘I need you, Zuke. I need you so much.’
I went cold. In her desperation, Helen was willing me to be her husband. I was being taken for Zuke Everett yet again.
She leaned over to kiss me and her eyelids lifted. When she realised who I was and what we had just done, she was seized by panic. Fear and revulsion distorted her features.
‘You’re not Zuke!’ she accused.
‘Helen—’
‘Get off me!’
She shoved me away and leapt up from the bed. Without pausing to collect her nightgown, she opened the door and fled down the corridor. I threw on the bathrobe and went after her to calm her down. She was halfway up the stairs by the time I reached the hall.
‘Wait!’ I called.
‘Go away!’ she screamed.
‘Helen!’
I heard the door of the bedroom slam behind her. When I got to it, I spoke through the timber but she would not reply. I tried the handle but the door was locked and bolted.
‘We’ll talk about this in the morning,’ I promised.
There was silence inside the bedroom but a noise came from directly behind me. I turned round to see that another door had opened. The small, anxious face of Dominga appeared. She’d heard the raised voices and saw me standing there half-naked. No words were needed.
The picture carried its own translation.
She closed her door again and locked it behind her.
Circumstantial evidence against me was damning. I felt quite mortified. Guilt competed with self-disgust. What had I done?
Within hours of Zuke’s death, I’d made love to his widow.
I pulled the bathrobe around me and went slowly downstairs.
It had been an extraordinary night but there was still one more surprise in store. As I made my way to my room, I came to Zuke’s den, the only part of the house in which he seemed to belong. I opened the door and switched on the light. This was how I wanted to remember him. The place was quintessential Zuke Everett. His personality was stamped all over it and I was filled again with a sense of acute loss.
Then I saw that there had been an important change.
Photographs of Valmai were everywhere. Those featuring Helen had vanished altogether. The den was now virtually a carbon copy of the one in the Malibu home.
In his private sanctum, Zuke had reinstated his first wife.
***
A couple of hours of shallow sleep left me feeling weary and nauseated. I had a cold shower to freshen myself up and took some aspirins to clear my head. Breakfast was waiting for me but there was no sign of Dominga. Along with Helen, she was keeping out of my way.
I was saved the trouble of calling a taxi to take me to the course for the final day’s play. Clive Phelps rang to say that he was picking me up in person in his hire car. Having seen the news of the murder on breakfast television, he was eager to corner me and get the inside story. I was grateful for his company as we drove along the freeway. After an abrasive session with the police and hostility from the two women, it was good to be with a friend again.
Clive’s attitude was highly reassuring.
‘I don’t think the killer was after you,’ he declared.
‘Hope you’re right.’
‘Certain of it. Who’d want to bump off Alan Saxon?’
‘My bank manager, for a start.’
‘No,’ he corrected. ‘Bank managers don’t stab their customers. They prefer to roast you slowly over a hot overdraft. It’s more fun.’
‘That’s true,’ I conceded.
‘Zuke Everett simply had to be the target.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he was the man in form. Not you, old son. There’s no money riding on Alan Saxon in this tournament.’
‘Not even yours?’ I complained.
‘Especially not mine.’
‘Thanks for your loyalty and moral support!’
‘All part of the service,’ he said with a broad grin. ‘Anyway, there’s your number one suspect.’
‘Who?’
‘The bloke who accepted that $10,000 bet on Zuke yesterday. At that point, Zuke didn’t seem to have a hope in hell of finishing at the top of the leader board.’
‘What were th
e odds?’
‘Something like twenty-five to one,’ he replied. ‘Now, what would you do in that bloke’s position? Shell out a quarter of a million dollars when Zuke won? Or buy yourself a stiletto?’
‘You may have something there, Clive,’ I agreed. ‘Listen, I want you to do me a favour. Find out who placed that bet and where.’
‘How am I supposed to do that?’
‘You’re the newshound. Sniff out the information. Oh, and while you’re at it, there are two other things I need to know.’
‘Do your own detective work,’ he bleated.
‘First—what is Helen Everett’s real name?’
‘You’re staying with the woman. Why not ask her?’
‘I tried,’ I admitted, ‘but she clammed up on me.’
I said nothing about the circumstances in which I’d put the question to her. Though I’d given him a reasonably full account of the killing itself, I suppressed all mention of my intimate moments with Helen. I knew that Clive would never understand.
I wasn’t even sure that I understood it myself.
‘What’s the last thing?’ he asked sourly.
‘Get me Valmai’s address and telephone number.’
‘Are you organising a wives’ reunion or something?’
‘Just see what you can do, please.’
‘I make no promises,’ he stipulated. ‘Surprising as it may seem, I actually have a job to do here. I didn’t come to LA for the sole purpose of acting as your information centre. Chances are I won’t be able to come up with any of the answers.’
‘You won’t let me down,’ I assured him.
Further conversation was curtailed when a truck pulled out directly in our path. Clive braked, pressed his horn viciously, flashed his headlights and issued a stream of expletives at the driver.
We left the freeway at the next exit.
Murder was good for business. In being forced out of the tournament, Zuke Everett had maximised public interest in it. The crowds swelled and the police presence was correspondingly larger. In addition to the golfing press, the news media had now descended on Golden Haze in force. As soon as we reached the car park, we were surrounded by reporters and cameramen. I got out to face a barrage of questions.
