There's Something in a Sunday

by Marcia Muller

  Finally I called Daphne and Charlie’s. She answered, sounding exhausted. The kids were still there, bedded down on the couch. There had been no word from Gerry. There was a message from All Souls for me, however.

  She went away from the phone. When she returned, I could hear her yawning. “Ted called,” she told me. “He said Bob called. At eleven forty-five. That’s an hour ago.”

  I looked at my watch, feeling surprise at how late it was and guilt at disrupting my friends’ lives this way.

  “Bob says he’ll talk to you,” Daphne went on. “For fifty dollars. Not twenty-fifty. If that’s okay, you’re to meet Red-Are you following this?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Meet Red at the McDonald’s on Haight at one o’clock. That’s fifteen minutes from now.”

  “Thanks. I owe you guys a big one.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said dryly. “We’ll be sure to collect.”

  I hung up the receiver. Irene was watching me. “You’d best take Susan to a hotel,” I told her. “It’s not all that safe to stay here.”

  “All right. Are you going to wait for that cop to call?”

  I thought of Gallagher; there was no telling how long it would take to reach him. Then I thought of the meeting with Red; he wouldn’t be likely to wait. “No, I’ve got to go. When you’re settled in somewhere, leave a message on my answering machine so I can reach you.”

  “Wait-where are you going?”

  “There’s somebody I have to meet.”

  I didn’t know if I could get across town to Mac’s Steak House-as Hank calls it-on time, but I’d try. There was one thing Gerry had told me earlier that I needed to confirm with Choteau. If I was now interpreting it correctly, it could present a whole new solution to the case.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Even the hard white neon of the McDonald’s restaurant across from the park was softened by the fog. I left my car in the mostly deserted parking lot and hurried inside. It was one twenty-five.

  Three customers hunched in widely separated booths in the dining area. They were all shabbily dressed men, but none was Red.

  I turned toward the serving counter, where a plump young woman stood staring vacantly at a spill on the fake terra-cotta floor. The trays under the warming lights were almost empty; from the area behind them came the sound of desultory conversation. The soft drink machines hummed, and hidden mechanisms clicked and whirred.

  When I asked for a cup of coffee, the woman barely shook off her lethargy. She fetched it at a plodding pace; when she rang up the price on the computerized keyboard, I noticed dark smudges under her eyes. I paid her and asked, “Have you seen a skinny man with longish red hair hanging around in the last half hour?”

  A silent shake of her head was all the reply she could muster.

  I took the coffee to a window booth from where I could see the corner of Haight and Stanyan. Traffic was light, foot traffic even lighter. Beyond the intersection, the park lay in impenetrable fog-filtered darkness. I thought about Red and Bob, and the secret lives they lived there. I tried to picture how the park-so familiar by day-looked when rendered alien by nightfall.

  When I next checked my watch it was one forty-seven. No one had come into the restaurant after I had; those there before me had scarcely moved. I felt as if I were caught in some frozen bubble in time-one that was harshly lit, exposing me for the rest of a hostile world to view.

  One fifty-three. I finished my coffee. Briefly I considered another cup, decided against it.

  Come on, Red, I thought. Now!

  As if in response to my summons, a figure emerged from the park and started across the intersection. It was a man with longish red hair held off his forehead by a blue bandanna. He wore a light-colored down jacket that fluffed out around him as he walked. He looked to be the same man I’d glimpsed twice near the windmill.

  The man came to the street side door of the restaurant and looked around furtively before entering. When he stepped inside, the woman at the counter became more alert. He scanned the room, saw me, and started toward my booth.

  The counter clerk opened her mouth to call after him, but I held up a staying hand. Red glanced at her, then grinned nastily, showing crooked yellow teeth. “Fuckin’ people,” he said. “Aways tryin’ to run you off if you look like you don’t have the price of a fuckin’ hamburger.” He sat, eyes narrowing slyly. “Buy me a burger, lady? And some fries?”

  “Quarter Pounder or Big Mac?”

  “Quarter, with cheese. Coke. Large fries.”

  I went up to the counter and placed the order, throwing in a hot apple pie for good measure. The woman looked curiously at me but boxed it up silently. The food had probably been standing in the warming trays for some time, but I didn’t suppose Red would mind.

  When I got back to the booth, he was licking sugar out of a packet some previous customer had left on the table. He nodded brusque thanks and started eating rapidly, as if he were afraid the meal might be taken away from him.

  I said, “Where’s Bob?”

  He gulped Coke. “I’ll take you there-after you hand over the cash.”

  I shook my head. “You’ll bring Bob to me-after you get half the money.”

  “He don’t want to leave the park.”

  And I didn’t want to go there-not with Red, at night. “I won’t make him go far. You know the lane that runs alongside Kezar Stadium?”

  He nodded.

  “It’s dark there and not patrolled much. Neighborhood people cut through there and use it to park their cars; if anyone notices us, that’s what they’ll think we’re doing. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes, in a red MG parked next to the chain-link fence.”

  Red hesitated, chewing thoughtfully. “Okay. Here’s how it is: I want twenty-five for me, fifty for Bob.”

  “What I heard was a straight fifty.”

  “Lady, I’m taking a risk bringing him there. He’s wanted; they could get me as an accessory.”

  I sighed. These days, everybody’s a lawyer. “All right. I don’t have time to haggle. I’ll give you thirty-five now, the rest after he and I have talked. Are you ready?”

  He balled up the wrappings from the fast food, stuck the apple pie in his jacket pocket, and held out his hand.

  I counted out thirty-five dollars and passed it over to him. “Remember-fifteen minutes. Don’t be late.”

  The lane next to the old and largely unused stadium was deserted. I pulled up next to the fence and killed the MG’s engine. It was silent there, save for the regular bellow of the fog horns out at the Golden Gate and the occasional swish of tires on the streets to either end. A security light shone down through the branches of the overhanging cypress trees, casting a web of shadows on the hood of my car.

  I was edgy and keyed up, sure my investigation was approaching its climax. My nervousness may have been heightened somewhat by the place I’d chosen for the meeting: years before, one of the principals in another case had been murdered only yards from here. Now the scene returned vividly to my consciousness. I shook off the memory, took the .38 from my bag, and set it on my lap.

  Ahead of me was the intersection where King Drive winds off into the park, between the heavily vegetated area known as Whiskey Hill and the children’s carousel and playground. There was a traffic light there, but it was set to cycle only when cars approached from the park, or at a pedestrian signal. I watched the occasional car pass through it. A police cruiser went by. A few minutes later I saw another. The patrols seemed unusually heavy for this hour; I began to wonder if the search for Bob had been stepped up. If so, I might have unwittingly led him into danger.

  Fourteen minutes went by. Sixteen.

  I thought of Gallagher. By now the inspector who had caught my call would have contacted him. Gallagher would have called Rudy Goldring’s flat and gotten no answer. He’d be furious with me, justifiably so. I’d better have something to deliver.

  Nineteen minutes. Twenty.

  And then I spotte
d Red’s down jacket, fluffing out peculiarly as he walked. Bob was next to him; they were approaching the traffic signal, looking around cautiously, waiting for a van to go by. They started across-

  A siren whooped. Red and blue flashes stained the pavement. The men froze in the headlights of a black-and-white that had suddenly appeared. It skidded to a stop across the mouth of King Drive and its doors flew open.

  Red started running back toward the park. Bob just stood there. One of the cops was on the cruiser’s microphone now, yelling for them to freeze.

  Red dove into the shrubbery at the periphery of Whiskey Hill. A warning shot boomed out. Bob raised his hands above his head.

  “Goddammit,” I said as I watched the cops approach him. “There goes my thirty-five bucks.”

  It was gross self-interest, but I felt far worse about the loss of the money and my inability to question Bob than I did about him being arrested. At the jail he would be fed, clothed, given a warm place to sleep and medical attention, should he need it. By the time they apprehended Hal Johnstone and released Bob he would be in much better shape for a winter on the streets. And given that Rudy Goldring had left him five thousand dollars, he might not have to spend another night out in the cold for a long time-if ever. I’d make sure to seek him out and convince him I hadn’t deliberately led him into a police trap. Perhaps I could find him some sort of job similar to his post as “doorman” that would supplement his small inheritance and provide beer money.

  I didn’t want to attract attention to myself, so I huddled in the MG, waiting for the police to leave and figuring out how to proceed. I would have liked to have been able to confirm with Bob that I was putting the correct interpretation on what Gerry had told me, but in lieu of that, I’d just have to act on the assumption I was right. Besides, I didn’t think there was any immediate danger to anyone involved in the case….

  Or was there? I thought back to my conversations with Irene and Gerry, then further back to my talk with Lindy and Betsy. And I saw the imminent potential for violence.

  The police had gone. Quickly I replaced the gun in my bag and turned the key in the ignition.

  In the flatlands the fog had been stationary and heavy; on Ashbury Heights the wind gusted strongly and erratically, swirling the mist. My little car shuddered in the up- and downdrafts. When I put on the windshield wipers, they made a smear, and I had to slow until it cleared.

  I turned into the Cushmans’ cul-de-sac and parked near the corner. I’d approach The Castles on foot and, if everything seemed all right there, return to the car and keep watch. Possibly nothing would happen here tonight, but I needed to make sure. I felt a somewhat irrational culpability in Frank Wilkonson’s death, and I wanted to see that no harm came to anyone else.

  As soon as I stepped out of the car, the wind chilled me. Fog-more like tiny droplets of rain-clung to my face and eyelashes. I turned up the collar of my jacket and started down the cul-de-sac.

  It was very dark there. Few lights showed in the houses on either side, and those that did were faint, obscured by the trees’ swaying branches. Ahead I could see the turrets of The Castles, illuminated by pinkish security spots. The leaves of the row of poplars shivered and snapped like tiny flags; some flew loose, and one clung wetly to my sleeve. I caught the acidic smell of eucalyptus, heightened by the damp.

  A few cars were parked on either side of the pavement: a sleek sports car, two sedans, and next to the wall of The Castles, a shabby Japanese-make station wagon. I started over to inspect it, paused when I heard a buzzing noise.

  The noise stopped. I waited, listening. It came again: the entry signal on The Castles’ front gate. I peered over there but couldn’t make out who was being admitted. All I could see was the steeply canted slate roofs of the turrets, bathed in the pinkish glow. The automobile gate was closed.

  I moved over by the ivy-shrouded wall, the heels of my boots sinking into the damp earth. The eucalyptus smell was strong now and vaguely unpleasant; all around me trees soughed and creaked. My hair trailed limp against my back; my hands were cold and clammy. I flexed my fingers as I walked toward the gate.

  Halfway there I heard a banging sound. I tensed, then relaxed some when I realized it was only the gate, being thrown back on its hinges by the wind. I crept over to it and peered inside the compound.

  The mist swirl was so thick that I could barely see the curve of the path. Dead leaves scudded along the ground. There was no one in sight.

  I stepped inside the gate, my hand in my bag, closing around the butt of my gun. The slate path was slippery. I skidded on it, regained my balance, and stepped off onto the packed earth.

  Visibility here in the compound was better than in the street, but the eddying of the fog played tricks on my eyes. For a moment I thought someone was standing on the path a few yards away from me; then I saw that the path curved the other way, and what I was looking at was a shrub. I mistook a wind-blown tangle of vegetation for a cat, thought I heard footsteps but couldn’t identify their source. Then I got turned around and blundered into the eucalyptus grove, losing sight of the turrets. I stumbled over exposed roots, whacked my head on a low-hanging branch. Finally light appeared ahead of me.

  It was the main castle-fully lit, but with the blinds pulled across the windows. All the other buildings were in darkness. A figure stood between me and the front door: tall and dressed in a loose-fitting jacket that billowed out in the wind.

  Gerry had returned. He’d probably spent the evening wandering or drinking in a bar, then returned and found he’d forgotten his keys. Vicky had buzzed him in; she’d complained on the phone that she’d have to wait up for him.

  But now that Gerry was home, he seemed to have doubts about staying. He stood only yards from his front door, facing the oddly proportioned building as if he were studying it.

  Perhaps he was, I thought. Perhaps he was wondering why he’d come back here. Was wondering if returning to this place he’d planned to flee, to Vicky and her insurmountable problems, was really worth it.

  I opened my mouth to call to him, but a sound came from the trees behind me. I looked back, saw a great curl of bark peel loose from a nearby eucalyptus and rattle to the ground. When I looked at Gerry again, he was walking slowly toward the castle door.

  And then the shots came.

  There were three, close together. Firecracker reports from a small-caliber handgun. From someplace between the main castle and the one that housed the bedroom.

  Gerry crumpled to the ground.

  Another shot.

  I went to the ground, too.

  I yanked the .38 from my bag and inched forward. There was a metallic taste in my mouth and my whole body tingled. My eyes probed the swirling mist for the sniper.

  No one.

  I came out of the trees, crawled toward the path, stones cutting into my knees. My fingers were icy, welded to the butt of the gun. Near the door at the end of the path, Gerry lay unmoving.

  I kept crawling forward. Flattened as another figure came running from my left-a figure in white that emerged from the mist like a strange ectoplasmic being and went lightly, soundlessly, to where Gerry lay.

  I jumped up, grasped the gun in both hands, and said, “Stop right there, Vicky!”

  She froze, then whirled toward me. Something flew from her right hand and landed on the lawn with a faint thud. Her long loose nightgown shivered around her. White nightgown, except for the spatter of red stains that were probably from the wine she’d thrown at the fireplace Saturday night-stains that now looked like blood.

  Behind her, Gerry hadn’t moved.

  “Sharon,” she said, “I heard shots.” Her eyes moved to the gun in my hands. “You were shooting-”

  “No,” I said. “No, Vicky, you were.”

  She spread her hands wide. The nightgown caught in a gust of wind and flared out, making her look like a demented angel. “How could I? She said. “I don’t have a gun.”

  But I’d seen her throw it a
way. I motioned at her. “Move over by the door.”

  She stayed where she was. I stepped closer. Now I could see her expression, the little furrow between her brows that made her look like she was trying ever so hard to understand.

  Again I motioned with the gun. She looked at it for a moment, then shrugged and went over by the door. She had to walk around Gerry to get there, but she didn’t so much as glance at him.

  I went over and located the gun on the lawn where she’d thrown it. It was the .22 she’d mentioned she and Gerry kept in their bedroom. I picked it up by the tip of the barrel so I wouldn’t destroy her fingerprints and placed it in the outer compartment of my bag. Then I went to Gerry and knelt, still training the .38 on Vicky.

  At some time during that evening, I thought, he must have exchanged his fashionable sport coat for a heavy nylon jacket. The dark stain near one shoulder was spreading. I heard a low moan. Grabbed his other shoulder, moved him slightly to see if he could speak.

  And realized with a start that I had been right after all.

  Vicky moved then. I jerked the gun up, but she was merely reaching inside the door of the castle and flicking a switch. Light spilled down from a flood set high on the wall. It bathed the grass, the path-and the pain-contorted features of Jane Wilkonson.

  Vicky tiptoed forward. Looked down. And started to scream.

  “I thought it was Gerry,” she kept saying. “I thought I was killing Gerry!”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  In the confusion that followed I almost didn’t find out all the things I needed to know.

  After realizing she’d shot a total stranger instead of her husband, Vicky went inside the main castle and threw a fit of crippling hysterics. I checked to see how badly Jane Wilkonson had been hurt; the wound was high on her shoulder and she was in no immediate danger. I covered her with a couple of heavy coats I found in a closet off the entryway, then went inside looking for a phone.