by T. W. Emory
Britt stood by with a box of Kleenex, and I noticed Pearson aping her, as he fumbled with his breast pocket in search of his handkerchief. Meredith didn’t look like she was going to cry to me. She seemed more uneasy than sorrowful.
“How can I help?” Meredith said.
“Anyone you know who might want to harm Christine?”
She looked at Britt and Pearson. “No …. Christine was a sweet kid. I … I don’t know why anyone would want to hurt her.”
Britt’s concern for Meredith was palpable, her eyes portals of empathy and compassion. Pearson’s sympathies jumped out at you too. He held his handkerchief at the ready with one hand while the fingertips of his other lightly touched Britt’s shoulder in solidarity. If he’d stood any closer to her they’d have been Siamese twins.
Meredith plucked a couple of Kleenexes from the box Britt offered, but I still didn’t see any tears. I turned to Britt and Pearson. “Do you mind if I talk with Meredith alone? I think she’ll be all right.”
Britt nodded and smiled, giving Meredith a squeeze of the shoulder as she passed. Pearson seemed relieved at a chance to go, and looked libidinously eager to follow his factotum into a hurricane’s eye if necessary.
I figured Meredith might find it easier to say some things about Christine to a stranger. Easier still, if Britt and Pearson weren’t around.
I leaned against Britt’s desk and said, “This is quite an establishment. A regular smorgasbord, especially for the affluent gift hunter. How do you like working here?”
That gave her renewed focus. She started talking about scents. Those she liked, loved and hated, and how she preferred selling perfume over cosmetics. Next the shifts. Then the work and the time spent on her feet.
Meredith opened her purse and took out a pack of Pall Malls. “Britt won’t mind. Do you?” she asked.
I told her I didn’t mind.
“Join me?”
I shook my head as I lit her cigarette for her. A glass ashtray sat on Britt’s desk. I handed it to her.
After drawing deeply, she turned her head aside and exhaled a gray column.
I asked about Britt and Pearson.
She characterized Pearson as a phantom. The girls saw little of him. She made a joke about Britt being the power behind Pearson’s throne, but gave no indication that anything romantic was going on between them. It was plain Meredith respected Britt Anderson. As she told it, Britt was fair to all the girls and acted as sort of a big sister to some of them.
“But she ain’t … isn’t nosy.”
According to Meredith, Britt saw to their clothes and she even had them regularly groomed by a drama coach—an older woman who lived over in Laurelhurst.
“Mrs. Arnot helps us with things like grammar and poise. Britt wants us to come across polished for the customers,” she explained.
When she seemed more comfortable talking with me, I asked, “Do you think Dirk Engstrom killed Christine?”
She hesitated. “Do the police think he did it?”
“They’re questioning him. Do you think he killed your friend?”
“He … he might have. He’s a jealous one, that’s for sure. Christine complained about it all the time. A real jerk in my opinion. But I don’t know … Dirk had it for Christine in a bad way. It’s hard to see him as her killer.”
“Jealousy and homicide are frequent bedfellows.”
“Sure. I know. Like I said, he might have done it.”
“But you have another theory,” I said.
My suggestion surprised her.
“Do you think it was a customer?” I asked.
She gave the closed door a quick glance before slowly dipping her chin once.
“This customer got a name?” I asked.
“No. I mean I wouldn’t know who it might be. It could be any number of the repeat customers.”
“You monitor them?”
“Uh-huh. It was Britt’s idea. You know, a list of who referred who, and who waits on them. That kind of thing. A way to keep track.”
“Track of the repeat customers.”
“Uh-huh. Men customers. You know how it is. They flirt with you or you flirt a bit with them to make a sale. The next thing you know, some of them come in the store just to see you, but then feel a need to buy something.” She laughed nervously. “Before you know it some of them think they own you.”
She stopped suddenly, hearing herself talk too much.
“Own you?”
“Well, not really, I guess.”
She took a last drag on her cigarette, held her breath and then exhaled a mouthful of smoke and then inhaled it through her nose. Teenagers called it the French-inhale. Only they would believe it was chic.
“So you think Christine may have gotten a little too involved with a particular customer—one who thought he owned her? Is that it?”
“Something like that. Listen, I’m not accusing anyone of anything. All I’m saying is that it wouldn’t hurt to check in that direction.”
“Meredith, why do I think you’re working with more than just a feeling?”
She looked down and away from me and then stole a quick glance at the door. “At the end of the day yesterday,” she said, “Christine made a phone call. I overheard her say something about meeting later in Ballard.”
“Over where she was killed.”
“Yes.” She was looking at me again.
“Did she say whom she was speaking to? Or where they were to meet?”
She shook her head. “But I’m pretty sure it wasn’t Dirk.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ve overheard her talking to Dirk plenty of times to know. She didn’t sound yesterday like she does with him.”
“How did she sound?”
She thought for a moment. “She was a little bit nervous. Maybe scared. But the funny thing was, she was also angry. Like she’d been cheated or something.”
Meredith said she couldn’t make out what the conversation was about. We talked a little more about Christine and their friendship. I could see she’d told me all she was going to, but I got the impression that she had more to say.
I thanked her and gave her my card. She tore off a page from one of Britt’s notepads and wrote something on it. As she opened the door to leave she handed the note to me.
“That’s my address and telephone number,” she said. “I’d appreciate knowing anything you might learn.”
Outside the door I could hear Meredith and Britt whispering, but their words were an unintelligible buzz. When it ended Britt came back in. Her glasses were hanging around her neck again.
“Where’s the boss man?” I’d almost said your devoted follower.
“Len received a long distance telephone call. It sounded urgent.”
“It must have pained him to tear himself away from you.”
She loyally ignored my sarcasm, but didn’t offer excuses for her boss like an unquestioning employee might. She merely smiled. I didn’t see Pearson as her type—in this venue or in any other. He was just a hopeful base-stealer a long, long way from home plate.
“May I offer you some refreshments? Some coffee or tea, perhaps?”
I told her coffee black would be great. I watched her at her task.
Walter Pangborn owned a book on medieval architecture. One phrase had gotten forever burned into my brain: Seldom has splendor of form been so well harmonized with subtlety of detail. Britt Anderson was a Gothic edifice in the Nordic style. She was well conceived and skillfully made—every element a slice of pure perfection. She looked over at me through lovely ornate windows as she poured our coffee. Britt definitely had unity of design and harmony of substance and line. I found her well-proportioned buttresses breathtaking. I was extremely moved by her elegant curving vault, and I shamelessly surveyed her jutting pinnacles of natural grandeur.
She brought me my cup. I plopped in the chair Meredith had warmed. Britt leaned against a corner of her desk, one ankle crossed over the other.
She made a casual pose look like enticing pageantry.
I almost told her that I envied the coffee cup she held to her lips. But I let it go. She’d probably heard all the lines in triplicate. And that one stunk. For the moment I stuck with chasing facts instead of skirts.
Britt had known Christine for about two years, but had never witnessed anything unusual about her. She told me that when she hired girls her initial screening process was fairly stringent. Christine was capable and wanted to juggle part-time employment with the classes she was taking at the U. Eventually she stopped juggling and began to work full-time. Britt didn’t know much about Dirk Engstrom.
“I’m friendly with the girls, but I have to draw a line somewhere.”
“And what keeps the power behind Pearson’s throne from moving on to bigger and better?” I asked.
She smirked. “Did Meredith call me that?”
“Pearson himself said as much. So what keeps you here?”
She sighed. “It’s changing, but it’s still a man’s world,” she said, setting her cup on the desk. “I’ll admit that I’ve thought about finding a throne of my own a few times, to use your phrase.”
“I’m sure you’d make a great king.”
She laughed. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
I made a courtly bow from my seated position.
“Like I said, it’s still a man’s world. I was going to move to New York City to follow through on my plans, but I’ve been kind of tethered to Seattle.”
“Tethered? How’s that?”
“When my mother died, I moved here to live with her youngest sister. I was a teenager at the time. My aunt was only in her mid-twenties then, but of course she seemed so much older and sophisticated to a girl who’d lived her whole life on an apple farm in Wenatchee. I idolized her. She started out taking care of me. I ended up taking care of her.”
She saw my puzzled expression.
“My aunt was highly sensitive. She had a romance go bad and I’m afraid it shattered her. She never recovered. I saw to her needs. I tried my best to take care of her for several years. But she got progressively worse. Three years ago I finally had to commit her. She died after a year in Steilacoom. The ravages of alcoholic dementia, they said. But I say it was a broken heart.”
“I’m sorry.” Putting a loved one in a mental hospital had to be rough. Having them die there had to be a nightmare.
“Thank you. It’s probably for the best. She’s no longer suffering. Some people don’t snap back.”
I said I understood. I knew a few guys who came back from the war but never really returned. Not everyone has the resilience of a Walter Pangborn.
We talked a little longer, and then I stood up and handed her my cup. Our fingers bumped. Gunnar the Smitten. Had she purposely touched me?
Gunnar the Gonadal, more like it.
“I may be back to talk with one or two of the other girls. I understand you keep a list of regular customers—males anyway.”
She smiled. “I see Meredith told you of our little attempt at psychological merchandising.”
“Whatever works, I say. Would you mind putting together a list of Christine’s regulars?”
“Not at all. Does this mean I’ll see you again?”
“You sound as if you like the idea.”
“Maybe I do.”
Chapter 6
Kirsti looked speculatively at me and said, “That Britt Anderson had the hots for you.”
“Well, you know, Blue Eyes, I wasn’t always a wizened wheelchair jockey.”
With a teasing smile and a knowing look, she said, “Yeah, you were probably a real hottie. And it’s pretty obvious that that boutique was the rooster paradise you’d referred to.”
“Yes, but it wasn’t me who coined that term for it.”
“Who did, then?”
“All in good time, young lady. I’ll not be rushed. Besides, you’re supposed to save up your questions, remember?”
“Sorry,” she said. But she wasn’t in the least.
It was probably Rikard Lundeen’s retainer along with Britt Anderson’s bantam hint of interest that made me feel like splurging. I put two dollars worth of regular in the Chevy before I headed back downtown.
Everyday speech can be contradictory. Have you ever noticed how “fat chance” and “slim chance” mean the same thing? The word “choice” gets similar treatment. I’d rented my choice out for the day. I rarely entered a police station by choice. I chose to do so now because I had no choice.
Detective Sergeant Frank Milland’s working milieu was a chaotic medley of desks, filing cabinets, ancient typewriters and overflowing ashtrays. The real human touches were the smell of perspiration and the mishmash of forsaken food scraps that looked to have been grown in petri dishes—and would surely have led to fantastic discoveries if analyzed under a microscope. But it wasn’t my mission to bemoan this tragic loss to science. I was looking for my friend.
I took in scenes that reminded me that a cop’s job deals largely with policies, procedures, complaints, and irksome details. Only a tiny fraction of their work is connected to bloodshed and murder.
The squad room was buzzing with cops and Seattle citizenry. I worked my way to the back, where Milland’s partner, Bernie Hanson, sat at his hardwood desk beating out a concerto on his typewriter. To my right was a plump, middle-aged woman who wore a summer dress that had already seen way too many seasons. She sobbed and beseeched two cops who had mouths that looked sutured shut and who were about as open and friendly as that allows. To my left was an old colored man in a drab suit who earnestly told his story to another officer. The cop nodded as he hunted and pecked at his typewriter.
An old Scandinavian fellow in alpaca trousers, a flannel shirt, and a string tie remonstrated with the desk sergeant.
“Ja, but how can you go back before you been forth?” he argued. The desk sergeant shook his head and tried again. But it’s hard arguing with that kind of logic. I know. My grandpa Sven was doggedly puzzled at how people got “in” an automobile but got “on” a train.
Milland stood talking with Lieutenant Archibald Lister. I slipped a clove under my tongue and walked over to them. Lister was about forty-five, sleepy-eyed, and balding. His deceased parents had named him Archibald, but apparently they were the only humans who called him that. He refused to be called Archie. And no one in his right mind called him Baldy. Not to his face anyway. So it was either “Lieutenant” or “Lister.” I can only imagine what his wife and kids did when they wanted his attention.
Lieutenant Lister favored funereal suits of gray blue or inky black that helped to define him. Since he wore a perpetual sneer, you looked for other clues as to his emotional state. At that moment his face was the color of a toreador’s cape, which went well with his words and gestures.
“I don’t go for this special consideration bullshit,” he said as he thrust his face within a few inches of mine. His lip quivered and I could count his nose hairs. He looked back at Milland and said, “Give him ten minutes. Tops. Then you kick his privileged candy ass out of here.”
The sobbing woman broke off her story to gawk at us. In fact, everyone looked our way. Everyone, that is, but the old Swede. He knew where the universe centered and nothing was about to disturb the confidence he felt about it.
After Lieutenant Lister stomped off, I said to Milland, “What’s his beef? Is his wife dosing his coffee with saltpeter again?”
“Ah, cut the guy some slack, Gunnar. It’s been a pressure-cooker week. You getting your well-heeled client to start pulling strings hasn’t helped. You know the lieutenant doesn’t like citizen interference. I figured you for smarter than that.”
“I didn’t ask for strings to be pulled, Frank.”
“Well, strings have been downright jerked in your favor. How is it you happen to know Rikard Lundeen, anyway?”
“I worked for him once. Is it my fault he likes me?”
Milland scowled. “You want to talk to
the Engstrom kid?”
“Yeah. Lundeen was afraid he’d talk himself into the role of prime suspect.”
“He did more than talk himself there.”
“Does he look that good?”
Milland picked up on the surprise in my voice. “Damn good,” he said smiling. “Double damn good.”
He explained that quite a few people witnessed the scene and overheard the noise the day before when Dirk Engstrom stormed in on Christine Johanson while she was working. However, only three people were close enough to the fracas to see that Dirk was enraged, and one of these three said he heard Dirk threaten to kill Christine.
“It doesn’t sound good,” I said.
“No, it gets better than that. We found drops of blood on a pair of shoes in Engstrom’s apartment. We’re checking on a match.”
“It sounds real bad.”
“It gets even worse. We found a gun in the kid’s apartment that had been recently fired. His prints were lifted from it and the ballistics boys are checking to see if it’s the gun that killed the Johanson dame.”
“Double damn good is right.” So ended forty-five dollars a day.
Milland nodded. “The Engstrom kid is on the brink of being charged, booked, sealed, and delivered. So get your chat in while you can, Gunnar. Lundeen’s pull has got us taking things nice and slow for now. And we’re also keeping the kid from the press as long as possible. Lundeen must have leverage with both the Times and P.I., because I’ve seen no crime reporters sniffing around. But I’m not rooting for you on this one, Gunnar. Not if you aim to prove the kid innocent.”
“Look, Frank, the Engstrom kid is Lundeen’s godson. I’m rented for the day to nose into things. That’s it. I’m not on some bleeding-heart mission, and I’m not out to undo your hard work. Besides, it sounds to me like the kid deserves to trade pinstripes for prison stripes.”
“We like to think so.”
I took out a pad and pencil from my coat pocket. “Let me at least earn my salt. It wouldn’t hurt if I talked to the three bystanders of that fight.” My plan, if you could call it that, was to talk to them and get some kind of reading off what they saw and heard. I needed at least something to put in a final report to Rikard Lundeen. “How about giving me the names?”
