“I dream about it all the time,” I said. “That’s very nice footwork, Mr. Crenshaw. And now that Katharine is dead, what happens to all that money, under the terms of the trust?”
“It reverts to me. Under the terms of the trust, I was the principal heir. Except for a modest income left to her mother, I was to get the money from the trust.”
“So you’re home free,” I said. “What’s the problem?”
“The problem,” said Crenshaw meaningfully, “is that as part of our agreement, the money in trust became part of Katharine’s estate. And at the same time, she made a new will leaving everything to Hugo Fischer for the benefit of The Institute. I made Katharine promise not to tell anyone of our arrangement or the new will, but less than a month later she was dead.”
“You think she told someone.”
“I know that someone at The Institute killed Katharine for the money,” Crenshaw said positively.
“That is yet to be proved,” I said. “However, it would seem that, under her will, Katie’s money is now Fischer’s money.”
“Technically, that would be true,” Crenshaw said, “if Katharine’s new will should come to light.”
“But it hasn’t yet?”
“No,” Crenshaw said. “It hasn’t. And it won’t—if I can prevent it—until you find out who killed my granddaughter.”
“I suppose you know,” I said, “what you’re fooling with. To a jury, it could look an awful lot like fraud, deception, malfeasance as executor of Katie’s trust fund, and a lot of other nasty things that could add up to a long stretch in jail.”
“I’m fully aware of that, Mr. Goodey,” he said. “And the longer I have to keep the will a secret, the greater the danger becomes. So far, Fischer has been cunning enough not to press too hard, but my position could become untenable within a very short time. That is why you must do the job I hired you to do. Once Katharine’s killer is discovered, I can use that information to delay things further. You are aware that under law the perpetrator of a crime cannot be allowed to profit from that crime?”
“I’ve heard something to that effect.”
“That is what I am counting on. Once Katharine’s murderer is discovered, the will shall be made public, and I’ll be quite content to take my chances in the courts of law. With the responsibility for Katharine’s death laid at Fischer’s door, her new will has to be ruled invalid. The money from the trust will revert to me and be put to its proper use.”
This was a lot for me to take in, so I just sat there and enjoyed his profile for a while. Crenshaw didn’t seem to mind. “Mr. Crenshaw,” I said at last, “I can’t help thinking that you are taking some terrific risks with your personal liberty. To me, three million dollars is a lot of money, and I can understand your reluctance to see it go to Fischer, but wouldn’t it be simpler just to let Fischer have the money as Katie intended him to?”
Crenshaw didn’t answer for a few seconds, but something seemed to be happening behind his cool facade. For the first time, he looked weary. “Yes, it would, Mr. Goodey,” he said. “But the money isn’t available right at this moment to give to Fischer.”
That stopped me. “And just where is Katie’s three million dollars, Mr. Crenshaw?” I asked when I recovered the power of speech.
“Safely invested,” Crenshaw said a bit sharply, apparently not crazy about my tone of voice. “Don’t think me a thief, Mr. Goodey. As trustee, I have every right to invest Katharine’s trust in any manner I choose.”
“But…” He was leaving something unsaid.
“I have used Katharine’s inheritance to protect some of my own investments,” he said. “Not bad investments, but situations which will require a bit of time to come to fruition. At this time…”
“What would happen at this time if Fischer demanded Katharine’s money? Could it be realized?”
“Yes,” said Crenshaw bleakly, “every cent. But to pull that three million dollars out at this time would ruin me completely. My investments would be worthless, and I would be all but a pauper.”
“How long do you need to hold on to Katharine’s money?”
“At least another three months. By then the business situation will have improved enough so that I could withdraw the money from the trust.”
“You hope.”
“It must!” Some of the snap came back into Crenshaw’s delivery. “Have you ever been poor, Mr. Goodey?”
“I’ve never been anything else.”
“Well, I have,” he said firmly, “and I’m never going to be poor again. I’d rather be dead. I will be before too much longer, anyway, but I must have my own fortune and Katherine’s to…”
“To what, Mr. Crenshaw?” I said. “Don’t be shy. I already know enough to deliver you to both the police and the bankruptcy court. What have you got to lose?”
“Nothing,” he said, “but it’s none of your business.”
“That’s what you told me about what you’ve just told me,” I said. “Go the whole route, Mr. Crenshaw. Enlighten me. I won’t laugh.”
I could see from his expression that the possibility had never occurred to him. “You’re right, Mr. Goodey,” he said. “I may as well tell you the whole story. It doesn’t matter what you think.”
I nodded encouragingly.
He began: “Mr. Goodey, I wasn’t being dramatic when I said that I will not live long. My doctors are not encouraging, to put it mildly. And when I die it will mean the end of my family. I won’t pretend to you that it has been an exalted family thus far. My father was a bartender. But I had hoped that Bud—my son—with the advantages that I was able to give him and his mother’s inheritance, would go on to do some really good things with his life. But Bud didn’t come back from Korea.
“Then, to be frank, I’d hoped that his child would be a boy—Frederick Melhuish Crenshaw III.” He smiled ruefully. “But that didn’t work out as I’d planned, either. I ended up pinning all my hopes on Katharine, even if she didn’t bear the family name. And you know, Mr. Goodey, what that has come to.”
Crenshaw plunged: “It may seem pointless vanity to you, but I want my name to live on after I am dead. It must. That is why I must continue to use Katharine’s money to safeguard my own. I then intend to use every cent at my command to endow a foundation—the Frederick Melhuish Crenshaw Jr. Foundation—to ensure that poor but promising boys, as I once was, Mr. Goodey, will have a chance at a good education whether or not they are athletes, as I had the good fortune to be.
“Even if my name survives only in this way, it will survive. I will not stand by and see myself ruined and my son’s inheritance go to a fraud like Hugo Fischer, simply for him to use for further self-aggrandizement.”
I could have said that it was probably a photo finish between him and Fischer in the self-aggrandizement stakes, but I didn’t. I just stood up and said: “Thank you for being so honest with me, Mr. Crenshaw.” And I went home.
Back in my apartment, I stacked the two reports under half a bottle of villainous Sonoma Valley Grenache rosé, turned off the lights and retreated to my long, narrow bedroom with the spectacular view. I got into bed and lay there watching cars cross the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge, thinking about Crenshaw’s dilemma. In the alley below a convention of Chinatown’s cat population was in good voice. The last thing I heard was either a strangled cry for help or the beginning of a lasting friendship.
5
I woke up the next morning, which, in my business, is about as much as you can expect. For a moment I just lay there wondering how to best kill the day and avoid my creditors. Or vice versa. Then I remembered that I’d promised to do a little job for Fred Crenshaw. And that I had some of his money left in my pocket. There’s nothing like money up front to inspire my sense of responsibility, so I got out of bed. After a ritual cup of coffee and a peek out of the window—weather fair but with a slight overcast that would burn off—I threw some clothes in my old suitcase. I hadn’t thought to ask Rachel what they wore at The Ins
titute. If it turned out to be flowing djellabahs and toe-thong sandals, I was going to stick out like a nun in Las Vegas. I didn’t pack my tux.
There are three ways to drive to Monterey from San Francisco. My favorite is little Highway 1 hugging the coastline with its dumpy beach towns, smog-belching power plants and second-rate redwood forests. I didn’t try to break any speed records. The Morris had developed something in the sweetbreads which sounded pretty terminal, and I dared not push it too hard.
I got to Monterey just before noon and had to look for the sheriff’s new office. The old one had been razed, and just about where the desk sergeant used to lean, a teenager was selling chilidogs to the unwary. A leathery old Mexican confused me with elaborate directions, but eventually I stowed the Morris in a parking slot for “Monterey County Sheriff’s Office Personnel only” and walked into the modernistic building, which only slightly resembled a pop-up toaster.
Just for the fun of it, I told the young deputy behind the desk that I wanted to see Sheriff Dominguez. Assuming that I was drunk, he signaled for a couple of weightlifters to help me out to the sidewalk. He called them off when I flashed my private operative’s license. I don’t think he was all that impressed; maybe he just didn’t want them to get their hands dirty.
“I wouldn’t want to pry into your business, Mr. Goodey,” the deputy said, “but you couldn’t see Sheriff Dominguez even if you had a note from God. I’ve been on this force three and a half years, and I’ve seen him only twice—once by accident.”
“It’s not really a state secret,” I said. “I’m looking into the death of the Pierce girl down at Las Palomas last December.”
“Another one,” he said, his face going a bit slack.
“Yep,” I said, trying not to sound too cheerful. “But…”
“Not another word.” He raised an ink-stained hand. “My contract says I don’t have to talk about Katie Pierce or The Institute. On Saturday I don’t have to talk at all. You just wait one minute, and I’ll get you someone who loves to talk about The Institute.” He picked up the receiver on the desk and dialed two digits. “Lieutenant?” he said, “I’ve got another one out here asking about Katie Pierce. No, not Brazewell’s bunch. Not the old man, either. It’s a private cop from San Francisco name of—” He took another look at my credentials. “—Goodey. Jonah W. Goodey. Okay. Sure.”
“You’re in luck,” the deputy said after he hung up. “Our expert on The Institute has a few minutes to spare.” He gestured toward an opaque door marked Investigations. “Just wander through there and ask for Lieutenant Grenby.”
It wasn’t too hard to find a door that had “Lt. Michael Grenby, Assistant Director of Investigations,” on it. It didn’t say knock, so I didn’t.
The face that looked up at me over a crowded desk was young, nearly as young as that of the deputy outside, but a lot more intelligent. It was the face of a star on the D.A.’s staff or a first-term congressman. It was the kind of face that makes you wonder how it ever got on a cop. His hair was dark and curly and just slightly longer than was absolutely necessary. Behind aviator-style spectacles, his eyes were friendly without being effusive.
“Mr. Goodey,” he said. “Won’t you have a chair?”
I did, and we sat facing each other in perfect silence for a few seconds. It was very restful.
“Would I be wrong in assuming that Mr. Crenshaw sent you down here?” he asked.
“Sent is a bit strong,” I said. “Crenshaw hired me to find out how his granddaughter died, and I’m on my way down to Las Palomas to do that.”
“Just like that?”
“Well, maybe not just like that, Lieutenant,” I said. “But can you think of a better place than Las Palomas to find out just how Katie Pierce came to die last December?”
“I know how Katie Pierce died,” he said, with slight impatience and more than slight weariness. “I spent weeks of my life on that job. The county paid me to do it. What do you think you can do down at Las Palomas except waste more of Crenshaw’s money?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted, “but I’m not going to sting him for nearly as much as Brazewell did. I might just find something out. Are you one-hundred percent positive that it was an accident or suicide?”
It was his turn to make an admission. “No, I’m not that sure of anything. But I wasn’t able to turn up anything that indicated that it wasn’t, either. You’ve seen my report?”
I hesitated, not wanting to give anything away. But he added quickly: “Don’t worry, Mr. Goodey. I know you’ve got it, and I know who gave it to you. The man lost his only grandchild, and I’m not the stuffy sort who objects to a little bribery and violation of confidential documents if it will finally convince Crenshaw that nobody’s hiding anything about Katie’s death. God knows I’m not.”
Grenby continued: “Aside from anything else, I don’t like open coroner’s reports. They’re untidy and they make me nervous. If you can settle the matter to Crenshaw’s satisfaction, I’m on your side all the way. I don’t dare to have a nightmare these days for fear of finding Crenshaw in it.”
“He seems a bit persistent,” I agreed.
“And Bluebeard was a bit of a ladies’ man,” Grenby said. “Does Hugo—does Fischer know you’re coming down to The Institute?”
“Yes. He kindly allowed one of his minions, Dr. James Carey, to invite me last night.” I paused and then added: “So you won’t have to tell him.”
He didn’t like that. He was still deciding just how much he didn’t like it when I stood up and politely thanked him for his time.
Grenby ignored my gratitude. When he spoke he was trying to keep his tone professional and detached. “I think you’re wasting your time, Mr. Goodey, but there’s no way that I can stop you from going down to The Institute. Nor would I want to. But I would suggest that you watch your step while you’re in Monterey County. This is not San Francisco.”
I thanked Grenby for the advice, not to mention the geography lesson, and carried on down the coast toward Las Palomas. Just below Carmel, my stomach began threatening industrial action, so I pulled off the highway into the parking lot of Nepenthe, a redwood and plate-glass fantasy hanging over the sea. The day had grown even finer, so I sat outside with the big, open-pit fireplace at my back, alternately admiring the incredible sea views and the waitress’s bobbling breasts.
Crenshaw was paying, so I went the whole hog and ordered the ambrosia burger, a basket of French fries and a pitcher of beer. The change left out of ten bucks wasn’t worth worrying about, so I gave it to the waitress. She wasn’t overwhelmed.
“Have you heard of a place called The Institute?” I asked her as she cleared the table.
“It’s that bunch of nuts down in Las Palomas, isn’t it?” she said, not too diplomatically. “Some of them come here once in a while. They don’t seem to be short of money.” I said I thought we were talking about the same place and asked if she’d ever been there.
“No,” she said. “There are enough freaks and weirdos in Big Sur without going to look for more. You going down there?”
“Yes,” I said. “I understand they’ve got some kind of a new lifestyle. I want to find out what it’s all about.”
“You a journalist?” she demanded, but another customer caught her eye with an urgent semaphore before I could answer.
Once I was on the highway again, the sunshine, the blue sky and the broad vista of surf crashing against the rocky shore exercised a hypnotic effect, and I was nearly into Lucia before I realized that I’d passed right by The Institute. Turning around, I was a bit more alert and eventually spotted a discreet wooden sign reading “The Institute” resting in some shrubbery beside an inconspicuous dirt road on the seaward side of the highway. An equally circumspect notice said: “Private Property—Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted.”
Making a mental note of that fact, I turned the Morris down the dirt road, which quickly became a green tunnel of foliage with only glancing penetration of sunlight
. It seemed like clear sailing until I’d turned the second curve and found a railroad-type barrier across the road. It was manned by two young blacks wearing gray coveralls of the sort mechanics wear. I stopped the car, and one of them walked over with an official look on his face.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said. “May I ask your business at The Institute?”
I told him I was an invited guest and gave him my name. He consulted his clipboard until he recognized one of the names on it. “Welcome to The Institute, Mr. Goodey,” he said. “May I see your identification?”
Not sure whether I wanted to alert the lower orders, I showed him my California driver’s license. The picture on it isn’t a very good likeness; I’m really handsomer and have much more hair. But he nodded, said “Thank you,” and gestured to his associate to lift the barrier.
I drove on. I couldn’t help admiring The Institute’s security arrangements, but then I’ve always been a sucker for good security. The road ahead continued to twist gently downhill, passing through stands of silver pine and eucalyptus until, quite suddenly, it opened onto a broad vista of unnaturally green grass—acres of it—running down to a mansion like a baroque wedding cake. I couldn’t place the period, but it was someplace between mock-Byzantine and Gay Nineties Gothic. I didn’t have much time to study the architecture before my attention was grabbed by the spectacle in front of the mansion.
There on the grass was something resembling a production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream as done by a tank-building collective in Omsk. Almost everyone was wearing coveralls, but the colors ranged from palest pastel shades to dark greens, blues and browns, plus a heavy sprinkling of drab gray.
These pixies seemed to be performing some sort of ritual involving a lot of flowers and heavy breathing. At first I couldn’t figure it out, but then I remembered that Rachel had said something about a wedding. Then I spotted the bride and groom in identical pink coveralls, leis of white flowers around their necks and wreaths on their heads, which were at that moment bowed in front of a bearded gentleman all decked out like the high priest of camp. I parked the car and joined the fringe of the throng.
The Triple Shot Box (Goodey's Last Stand, Not Sleeping Just Dead & Fighting Back): Three Gritty Crime Novels Page 24
