Too Sweet to Die

by Ron Goulart

  “Is that why you didn’t talk about it?”

  “Only partly,” said the girl. “See, when Jill came back that morning she was very strange.” Mitzi laughed a thin humorless laugh. “I guess you would feel strange after a gang bang, if you’ll pardon the expression. No, but what I mean is … she was very up, manic. I figured she must have taken something, some kind of upper. But it wasn’t exactly like a drug high, I mean … the shock of Poncho and all that, on top of what she’d taken … it must have made her remember. It was remembering that made her high. If you follow me.”

  “What,” asked Easy, “did Jill remember?”

  “It’s pretty crazy sounding.”

  “You believed it.”

  “Yes,” said Mitzi. “Jill’s mother didn’t commit suicide. You don’t know Jill, but that whole lousy business, the suicide and after, she hardly ever talked about. Sunday, though … Jesus, she was filled with it.”

  “If it wasn’t suicide, what did happen to Jill’s mother back there five years ago?”

  “Jill had seen what happened, seen the last part of it anyway.” Mitzi bit her lip, frowning. “Her father … well, he killed her mother. Strangled her.” Mitzi inhaled, blinking. “It wasn’t in Carmel even. It was up in Sonoma County somewhere. Senator Nordlin had a hideaway sort of house up there. Well, not exactly a hideaway, since Jill and her mother both knew about it. Anyway, he liked to meet some of his … you know, he was playing around. Jill’s mother knew and finally got angry enough to drive up to the place. Nordlin didn’t have a woman with him at the time, but there was a showdown anyway. A big fight and he killed her.” She paused for a second. “I know how that can be. My own folks used to have some pretty good ones themselves.”

  “Jill saw all this?”

  “She walked in on the senator right after,” said Mitzi. “Jill had been having trouble with some guy and she decided to go to the hideaway and be by herself a little. She didn’t know anyone would be there that particular day.”

  “And old Nordlin was able to cover everything up?”

  “Yes. He got Jill to calm down and then he had his pet faggot, Montez, come up and take change. They rushed the body down to Carmel, where it was easier for Jill’s father to pull strings. He persuaded the coroner and the cops to buy the suicide story. Jill’s mother really had tried to kill herself before.”

  “What about Jill? What did they do with her?”

  “The senator dragged her back to Carmel with him,” said Mitzi. “First he tried to get her to promise not to talk, but she wouldn’t.” The girl bent down to retrieve the blue pen. “So he got some outside help.”

  “From Dr. James Duncan Ingraham,” suggested Easy.

  “Right,” replied the chubby girl. “The good doctor kept Jill doped up until the fake suicide had been bought and her mother put safely underground. Then … well, then he went to work on Jill.”

  “Went to work how?”

  “I guess,” said Mitzi, “I guess it must have been something like brain-washing. Jill didn’t tell me all the details. Well, maybe I didn’t want to hear. Drugs, electric shock …He made her forget about the murder and the house in Sonoma. For a good long while is seemed to have worked. Jill even gave up her apartment and went home to live with her dad. Except it didn’t stick. She finally broke with him. She went south and turned herself into Jill Jeffers. It looked like maybe she was going to be fine and happy. But back inside her head someplace there was what she really knew … I guess lately that’s been trying to get out. With a little help from Poncho it has now.”

  “Where is Jill?”

  “I’m not really sure,” said Mitzi. “When she told me about Poncho I wanted her to see a doctor. I have an intern friend who could have helped and then kept quiet.” Mitzi shook her head. “Jill wouldn’t agree to seeing him. I did get her to rest for a few hours. By Sunday afternoon, though, I couldn’t keep her down. She insisted on leaving.”

  “To go and confront her father?”

  Mitzi gave a long sigh. “Yes, she wanted to talk to him before she gave her story out. Even after everything she’s still sentimental about the old bastard. Well, I know how that is. My father used to hit me with a chair leg when he was high and I still send him a ten-dollar box of cigars every Christmas.”

  “Jill drove her car down to Carmel?”

  “Far as I know,” said Mitzi. “I told her she shouldn’t but she took off anyhow. See, I wasn’t really lying when I told you about her the first time. I thought maybe you’d check with Carmel and find her. All along, really, Mr. Easy, I’ve been giving you pieces of what’s true. Hoping, I guess, you’d be able to do the dirty part of putting it together.”

  “You never heard from Jill after Sunday afternoon?”

  “No,” said Mitzi. “I was going to phone her father’s place, but I was afraid. He’s still powerful enough to make me trouble.”

  Easy put his hands in his trouser pockets, walked nearer the desk. “Did Jill talk about anything else in connection with the Sonoma place. About some money?”

  Mitzi looked up at him. “Yes, I forgot. It seems trivial after the rest. Jill mentioned that up at this hideaway her father has several hundred thousand dollars in cash hidden away. Some kind of payoff money he gathered in during the years he was serving our great state. Jill hadn’t remembered about the money until now either.”

  “Do you know where exactly the hideaway is?”

  “No, Jill only told me it was in the wine country,” said Mitzi. “You don’t think she’s there, do you?”

  “I think she’s someplace in Carmel.” Easy gestured at the phone on the desk. “I think I’d better have another talk with the Nordlin house. If they still won’t cooperate, we’d better bring the police in.”

  “Be my guest,” said Mitzi, sliding the phone toward him. “Charge it to the Cinema Azul. Is it okay if I go back to work?”

  “Yeah, sure.” Easy dialed the Carmel number as the chubby girl left the little office.

  The same woman servant with the soft Mexican voice answered. “Yes?”

  “I’d like to speak to Cullen Montez.”

  “Mr. Montez he is not here now, sir.”

  “Okay, then let me talk to Mr. Nordlin.”

  There was a pause. “I’m sorry, sir … Mr. Nordlin died early this evening.”

  CHAPTER 15

  EASY WATCHED A WALL of old inscribed photos as he made his next call. Fifty browning smiles beamed down on him. The one break in the pictures was a small grilled window. A light rain was falling against it.

  The phone only rang once at the other end. “Ingraham Sanitarium. Good evening.”

  “Hello, Marlys?” said Easy. “I want to ask …”

  “John?” said Dr. Marlys Newborn in Carmel. “I’ve been trying to contact you for the last two hours or more. You told me I could reach you through the Kearny agency in San Francisco and I’ve called there twice. I even phoned your LA office. A man named Hagopian was very kind but he didn’t know where you were. Where are you?”

  “Still in San Francisco. What’s Hagopian doing in my office?”

  “He said a girl was using his place for a séance so …”

  “Okay, why did you want me?”

  “John,” said Marlys. “I’ve been lying to you. Some.”

  “There’s a lot of that going around.”

  “I did know where Jill Jeffers was. Still I felt I owed it to Dr. Ingraham to maintain the security of …”

  “Ingraham had her there at the sanitarium,” said Easy. “I was starting to wonder about that, which is why I called you.”

  “Yes. Jill had supposedly …”

  “Nordlin tried to work the same dodge twice. When Jill showed up in Carmel to confront him with what she finally remembered, he turned her over to Ingraham again.”

  “She supposedly suffered a nervous collapse, John. That’s the story I was given,” said Marlys. “Now I’m not to certain what …”

  “You said Jill was t
here. Did Cullen Montez come and get her?”

  “No, John. Dr. Ingraham has … he’s gone off somewhere with Jillian.”

  “Ingraham?”

  “Yes. About four hours ago there was a call for Dr. Ingraham from the Nordlin estate, from Cullen Montez,” continued Marlys. “You know Senator Nordlin has died?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Apparently the upset and excitement of all this furor over Jillian was too much for his heart …”

  “Sooner or later,” cut in Easy, “all you people are going to have to stop blaming Jill for what you do to each other. Now, where in the hell did Ingraham take her and why?”

  “You’re not including me in with people like Montez, John? I …”

  “You only work there. I know. Where’s your ugly little boss taken the girl, Marlys?”

  Marlys said, “You’re right, John. We can thrash out our personal difficulties later, at our leisure. The important thing right now is Jillian, of course. John, I happened to overhear some of what the doctor said to her just prior to his practically dragging her out of here. He was telling her she’d have to show him where the house up in San Montroni was. There was some talk about money, hidden money.”

  “Good Christ, is Ingraham going after the dough Nordlin has stashed up in Sonoma County?”

  “I think that must be what he has in mind,” said Marlys. “Dr. Ingraham, despite the really fantastic success of his book and of the entire Howl Therapy program, has been having some desperate financial problems lately. There’s an ex-wife, some failed franchise speculations … Apparently all the financial pressures coupled with the heavy responsibilities of the sanitarium have pushed Dr. Ingraham into acting in this highly uncharacteristic way.”

  “Uh huh, highly uncharacteristic,” said Easy. “When did the two of them leave there?”

  “Over three hours ago, John. I debated awhile with myself before I first tried to contact you. I finally decided I had better.”

  “He’s got a four- or five-hour drive to do,” said Easy. “So he and Jill probably aren’t there yet. Do you know exactly where this hideaway is?

  “No, beyond the fact it’s in the vicinity of the town of San Montroni. There are a couple of big wineries there, aren’t there? I went to a wine tasting in San Montroni once as I recall.”

  Easy said, “Thanks for telling me all this, Marlys.”

  “Will you stop by here on your way back home to Los Angeles, John? I’d like to see you.”

  “Maybe.” Easy hung up. The rain was coming heavier outside. The pictures kept on smiling. He dialed the Kearny agency.

  “Kearny Detective Agency. Cruz here.”

  “Joe, this is John Easy.”

  “You’re supposed to call Dr. Marlys Newborn in Carmel,” said Cruz.

  “Just did,” replied Easy. “Do you have anything more about the location of the Nordlin hideaway?”

  “Some,” said Cruz. “Your lady doctor friend told me some of what she wanted to pass on to you and I’ve been digging a little more. The place is in San Montroni. Right now I’m trying to track down the real estate man who sold Senator Nordlin, the late senator, the place back in 1950. My contact in the county court house in Sonoma is out with the flu and so I couldn’t get the location that way.”

  “I’ve got to get to the place tonight. Dr. Ingraham is taking Jill Jeffers there.”

  “Your Dr. Newborn told me,” said Cruz. “We could notify the Highway Patrol. They might be able to stop him enroute.”

  “I don’t know what shape Ingraham is in,” said Easy. “Or what he’ll do if somebody tries to slow him down.”

  “You want to go up there yourself?”

  “Yes,” said Easy.

  “Then try the Cuidera family. They’ve got a winery right on the main drag in San Montroni, with a family mansion attached. They’re close friends of the Nordlins I hear. They must know where the hideaway is,” said Cruz. “In case they won’t cooperate, call me again when you hit there. I may have the location by then. If I can’t get hold of this real estate guy I’ll give the phone company up there another try. For some reason, afraid of Nordlin probably, I haven’t been able to get the address out of them.”

  “Okay, keep on it.” Easy left Mitzi Levin’s office, walked across the small lobby and out to the street.

  Mitzi tapped a finger on the ticket booth glass. “Do you know where Jill is?” she called.

  “Almost,” answered Easy as he began to run through the rain to his car.

  CHAPTER 16

  SONOMA COUNTY PARALLELS THE Pacific and lies north of San Francisco. By eleven thirty that night Easy had passed through Santa Rosa and was driving his Volkswagen farther inland toward San Montroni. The rain was falling heavy now, a strong wind slapping it against the windshield. Easy hunched slightly, rubbing moisture off the inside of the window with the heel of his hand.

  He’d tried the car radio the first few miles of the drive. After a half-dozen newscaster eulogies of Senator Nordlin he clicked it off.

  He swung out and passed a giant grunting diesel truck and had the late night highway to himself for a while. The first time Easy saw the Dodge Colt he gave it only peripheral attention. The two-door compact was a silver-grey color and blended quickly with the rainy night as it passed Easy doing seventy-five.

  Easy’s VW jogged on at a steady sixty, quivering slightly, swaying now and then in a gust of wet wind. He wiped the windshield again, spotted the junction road which led to San Montroni and turned off the highway. A black and white sign told him he still had fifteen miles to go.

  The ground on all sides of him was level, dark field after dark field. A tan jackrabbit popped up suddenly, frightened, in the bright thrust of his headlights. Easy’s foot touched the brake and he guided the car to the left. The jackrabbit hopped away into the darkness.

  This was Easy’s last encounter with anything until he reached the silver bridge. The bridge was only a few hundred feet long, humped fifty feet above a small dirty river.

  When he hit the bridge his tires made a ratcheting sound on the fretted metal. Easy didn’t hear the first rifle shot at all and he more felt than heard his left front tire explode. He was midway across the span.

  The car began trying to take itself away from him. The rear end fought to swing around to the front.

  Easy kept his foot off the brake, trying to gently steer the wildly gliding car off the bridge. He couldn’t do it at first.

  The VW turned around, its rear slamming into the far side of the metal bridge. Then it half-spun, seeming to skid sideways.

  Finally Easy felt the car back under his control and he guided it the rest of the way across the bridge.

  He would have made it safely off the bridge and back on the road if another rifle shot hadn’t come. This one smacked the windshield, turning it to rock candy.

  Inadvertently Easy flinched, allowing the VW to get away from him for a few seconds.

  His small black car slammed against the bridge again, scraped harshly alongside a concrete piling and then jumped from the bridge to the roadside. The VW swayed over the road, then skittered off to the left.

  It skidded through weedy grass, tore through a barbed-wire fence and smashed, with a crumpling splash, into a narrow irrigation ditch.

  Easy unbuckled his seatbelt, hit the door and rolled free of his VW nosed down into the muddy water. He worked himself quickly away from the car, moving back toward the silver bridge.

  Easy was twenty feet along the ditch when the car exploded with a great whomping sound. It began to crackle and burn, sizzling in the hard rain.

  “That ought to distract him,” thought Easy. For an instant, as he’d spun off the road, he’d seen the man with the rifle. A big man crouched in the scrub brush on the other side of the road, illuminated for a second by the splash of light from Easy’s car.

  The heavy-falling rain washed the ditch mud off Easy as he approached the bridge. Crouched low, he edged under the silver span into the shadows
along the riverbank. Among the rocks and gritty brown earth were scattered aluminum Lucky Lager beer cans, lost hub caps, and a ruined baby carriage lying on its back with its wheels in the air.

  Easy saw the Dodge Colt again. It was parked off the road, at the other side of the bridge, near the brush where the big man with the rifle knelt. The car was empty, meaning the guy with the rifle was probably alone.

  The man was cautiously rising up, watching Easy’s VW burning orange in the night across the road from him.

  Easy recognized the man. It was one of Cullen Montez’s big sidekicks, the polite one named Neil. They must all be heading for the Nordlin hideaway, too. With Neil, maybe, bringing up the rear. Neil had identified Easy’s unkempt Volkswagen when he passed him back on the highway. He’d decided apparently to wait on the San Montroni road to devote some further time to taking Easy off the case.

  Easy, bent low, made his way up beyond the silver bridge and the silver-grey car. He stalked along behind roadside scrub, slipping his .38 revolver from his shoulder holster.

  Neil was standing full up now, his rifle tipped down, his left hand shielding his eyes. The hard rain had taken the curl out of his hair and peaked it down over his broad forehead.

  “Drop the rifle, Neil,” shouted Easy. He was ten feet from Montez’s man, standing upright himself, his .38 pointed.

  Pausing barely a second, Neil turned and fired the rifle straight at Easy.

  Easy was not there. He threw himself flat out on the ground. He got off two shots.

  “Shit,” said the polite Neil. A spot of red blossomed on his right sleeve, was washed away by rain, formed again. He’d dropped the rifle when Easy’s shot hit him. He took off on the run, away from the road and Easy, cutting across the recently harvested field.