Crazybone

by Bill Pronzini

  “I think so. I think that was the name.”

  “Did she mention a last name?”

  Ms. Kiley cudgeled her memory; the effort made her frown and chew on her lip again. “No, I don’t think so. Anyway, I can’t remember if she did.”

  “Did she happen to say where Karen lives?”

  “Up the coast. That’s right, she said ‘Karen has a studio up the coast.’ ”

  “Is that all? No town or specific area?”

  “No. She stopped right after she said that.”

  “How do you mean, stopped?”

  “All of a sudden. You know, the way you do when somebody interrupts you.”

  Or the way you do when you’re sorry you let something slip. “Did she say anything else about Karen? That she was related to her, for instance?”

  “Related? No, I’d remember that.”

  “Did your aunt seem interested in seeing some of Karen’s stained glass?”

  “Yes, she did. Mrs. Hunter said Karen was very busy and had outlets for all her work, but she’d tell her and maybe she’d send some things down for Aunt Anita to look at.”

  “Did Karen ever follow through?”

  “Send anything, you mean? I guess not, because we don’t have any stained glass, at least I haven’t seen any. You’ll have to ask my aunt.”

  “I’ll do that,” I said. “When will she be back?”

  “On Sunday.” Ms. Kiley’s sunny smile reappeared. “Is there anything I can show you before you leave? We have some really nice pieces of Mrs. Hunter’s if you’re into pottery.”

  “No, thanks. I couldn’t afford it.”

  “Well,” she said, “do you want me to tell Aunt Anita you stopped by?”

  “Not necessary. I’ll surprise her.”

  Ms. Kiley nodded, smiling. She was still standing there, still smiling, when I went out.

  The Emerald Hills Country Club was just what you’d expect to find in an affluent enclave like Greenwood. Walled, pillared, gated, manicured, tree-shaded, and overlain with a mossy patina of rustic charm, snooty exclusivity, and very old money. A long drive flanked by poplars led in from a road that ran along the base of the hills. None of the cars in the two-tiered parking area where the drive ended was older than five years or cost much less than I made in a year. Mercedes and BMWs predominated; I spotted a Ferrari, an Aston-Martin, even a Rolls. The scattering of Detroit products seemed almost out of place. Nobody around here paid much attention to the Buy American slogans, it seemed.

  The main building was of native stone; I judged its age to be close to the century mark. It had an English manor house look, though some turrets and ramparts and maybe a tower or two were all it would’ve needed for a castle effect. Behind it to the right I could see outbuildings and some of the greens and fairways, ponds and sandtraps, of the golf course. The grass out there was of such a dazzlingly bright and healthy hue, the grounds keepers might have been giving it daily injections of chlorophyll.

  I found a place to park in the designated visitors area on the lower tier. From force of habit I locked the car when I got out, and then smiled wryly to myself when I realized it. Nobody here was going to steal anything out of an old bolt-bucket like mine. If any of the staff or patrons even looked at it twice, it would be to wonder what Emerald Hills was coming to, letting such shoddy merchandise clutter up the grounds.

  Well-worn stone steps led up to a wraparound veranda and a double-door entrance. Inside was a security desk with a discreet placard on it requesting that all members and visitors sign in. A beefy guy in a white polo shirt with Emerald Hills stitched over the pocket looked me over and asked with perfect grammar and diction whom I was there to see. He knew I wasn’t a member and didn’t belong in such a rarified atmosphere, and it showed in his face; employees in places like this can be even bigger elitists than the patrons. Snobs by association. But I was respectable enough in my suit and tie not to be either an anarchist or a tree-hugging rabble-rouser, so when I gave him Trevor Smith’s name he nodded and said, “Would you please sign the visitor’s book, sir,” with the faintest emphasis on the last word. I was tempted to put down somebody else’s name — Harry Bridges, for instance, a true rabble-rouser in his day — but I resisted the impulse. It would’ve been a feeble and petty joke, and he wouldn’t have gotten it anyway. Bridges was long dead and so were his longshoremen who’d taken part in the Bloody Thursday labor-management riots in ’34, and people nowadays have no sense of history. Except for musty relics like me a stone’s throw from being history ourselves.

  I walked through the lobby, past entrances to bar and restaurant, a sign that said Ballroom, people in golf outfits and expensive casual wear, older couples in dresses and suits. All the faces were WASP; the only ethnics you were likely to find at Emerald Hills were behind-the-scenes staff members. It was like walking through a small, fancy resort hotel fifty years ago. And I felt as out of place there as a puckered old hound in a kennel full of groomed and pampered show dogs.

  Another arrow sign pointed the way to the pro shop. It led me outside to the rear, past a crowded terrace overlooking the links and a bank of tennis courts. Nobody was on the courts and not many were driving or putting or riding around in awninged carts: it was the early cocktail hour, the one time of day that was likely to be more important to the country club set than their sport. The pro shop was part of a smaller stone building nearby, in the center of a pair of wings that would house the men’s and women’s locker rooms.

  Inside I found careful displays of clubs and bags and balls, clothing and other items — and a thin middle-aged woman in golf togs who was studying a packaged wristband with a puzzled expression, as if the writing on the package was runic symbols instead of English. Another There-challenged individual, maybe. I waited quietly for a couple of minutes. Nobody else put in an appearance, so I asked the woman if Trevor Smith was around. She barely glanced at me as she said, “He’ll be back soon, I’m sure.” The wristband package was clearly an object of much greater interest to her than a craggy stranger in an off-the-rack suit.

  I wandered over and looked at a rack of expensive irons and woods. Golf is one of those games that inspire grand passion or grand indifference, and I was firmly in the latter group. I could understand its appeal on an intellectual level, but I never could connect with it emotionally — maybe because I’m not coordinated enough to be any good at the game. The one time I’d let somebody talk me into trying to learn it, it had taken me a week to get over the damage to my ego.

  Another couple of minutes, and the little tinkly bell over the door sounded again. But it wasn’t Trevor Smith; it was a second middle-aged woman, obviously a friend of die wristband lady because she said, “There you are, Patty.” She likewise paid no attention to me, beyond the same kind of cursory glance I’d gotten from the other one.

  “I can’t decide if I should buy this band or not,” Patty said. “It’s supposed to be the best, but it gave Ellen Conway a rash. What do you think, Joan?”

  “Why don’t you ask Trevor?”

  “I intend to, if he ever gets back.”

  “I thought you’d gone up to the Greens Room. You did say you were thirsty.”

  “I am, God knows. Are the others still there?”

  “Waiting for us. Guess who else is still there, staked out at the bar.”

  “Who? Oh, you mean Dale.”

  “Drowning herself in gin, as usual. She hasn’t drawn a sober breath since the accident. You’d think she’d have come to terms with it by now.”

  “You’d think so.”

  “I mean, it was terrible what happened to poor Jack Hunter, but their little affair hadn’t been going on very long, and anyway it didn’t seem that serious. Did you think it was that serious?”

  They might have forgotten about me, if my presence had ever really registered on either of them, or maybe they were the kind of catty gossips who didn’t care who happened to overhear them. In any event, they had my full attention now.
r />   “No,” Patty said. “Just another of her flings, that’s what everyone thought.”

  “My God, do you suppose she was in love with him?”

  “If she was, it was strictly one-sided. Jack would never have left Sheila, no matter how much she played around.”

  “I don’t see Dale leaving Frank, either, do you? As much as money and position mean to her.”

  “No, but if she knows what’s good for her, she’ll stop all this public lushing and get a grip. Frank’s no fool. Word will get back to him, if it hasn’t already, and he can add two and two as easily as anyone else. You know him — he won’t put up with any sort of obvious nonsense.”

  “Do you think we should talk to her? Would it do any good?”

  “The only person Dale Cooney listens to is herself. If you ask me, the thing to do...”

  I didn’t hear what Patty thought was the thing to do. I didn’t much care, for one thing, and for another I was on my way out the door. Trevor Smith could wait. Right now Dale Cooney seemed a potentially better bet.

  6

  The Greens Room was dominated by a massive native stone fireplace and a wall of sectioned windows that provided a sweeping view of the terrace and tennis courts and golf course. A gas-log fire threw pulsing light over a collection of tables and dark leather booths, about three-quarters of them filled even though it was still a few minutes shy of five o’clock. Most of the ladder-backed stools at the bar were occupied as well. The drinkers there, with one exception, were all men or couples in animated conversation. You didn’t need to be much of a detective to figure out that the woman sitting rigidly on the stool near the entrance was in her cups and would answer to the name of Dale Cooney.

  I sidled over that way to get a better look at her. Mid-to-late thirties, with the kind of dark, burnished red hair that gleams as black as blood in shadowy bar light. Big-boned body in a cream-colored pants suit. Nice profile, or it would have been if she were sober; at the moment her face and neck had a saggy appearance. Her attention was on the empty martini glass in front of her. Red-nailed fingers tapped a toothpicked olive against the rim, as if she were keeping time to music only she could hear.

  A barman in a red jacket came down her way. She raised her head and said, “Charles,” not too loudly. “Charles, I believe I’ll have one for the road.” There was no slur to the words; if anything, her diction was too precise.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Mrs. Cooney.”

  “You don’t? Really?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “And why not?”

  “Six Bombay martinis,” he said gently.

  “Oh, and such lovely martinis they were. I am a connoisseur of martinis, Charles, did you know that? Well, I am, and yours are the best of all. Almost perfect.”

  “Yes, ma’am, thank you. But if you don’t mind my saying so, I think six is your limit.”

  “I don’t mind at all. Perhaps you’re right. Mustn’t make a spectacle of myself, must I?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Well, then. If you’ll bring the check, please.”

  He went away and came back with it. She studied the strip of paper with a myopic squint, then signed her name at the bottom. Slowly and carefully, the way a child does.

  Charles said, “Would you like me to call a taxi for you?”

  “I don’t believe that will be necessary.”

  “Are you sure you’re able to drive?”

  “Quite sure. I haven’t exceeded my limit, thanks to your perspicacity. You know what that word means, Charles? Perspicacity?”

  “Yes, ma’am. But you don’t want to have any trouble getting home.”

  “I won’t have any trouble,” she said. “It’s only a mile, you know. Exactly one mile from Emerald Hills Country Club to my lovely home. Isn’t that interesting?”

  “Yes, ma’am. About that taxi...”

  “Your concern is touching, Charles, it truly is.” She maneuvered herself off the stool and onto her feet. No stagger, no unsteadiness — showing the barman that she really was quite all right. She wished him a good evening, turned for the lobby before he could say anything else.

  I followed her. She walked as slowly and carefully as she seemed to do everything else, looking straight ahead, her back rigor-mortis stiff. On her dignity, the way some polite, well-bred boozers get when they reach a certain stage of drunkenness. Mustn’t make a spectacle of herself.

  Outside, the fresh cooling air wobbled her a little, so that she had to steady herself against one of the stone pillars. Down the steps then, using the hand railing, and across the upper level of the parking lot to where a caramel-colored Mercedes 360SL, its top down, was slotted. She was at the driver’s door, rummaging in her purse for her keys, when I came up next to her.

  “The barman was right, Mrs. Cooney. You’d better not drive.”

  She blinked, turning her head, and gave me a squinty look. “I don’t know you,” she said. “Who are you?”

  “Somebody who doesn’t want to see you hurt or arrested.”

  “I’m already hurt and I have no intention of being arrested.” She squinted again, caught herself doing it this time, and tipped her head back to look at me open-eyed. “You’re not a policeman or something, are you?”

  “Or something,” I said.

  “Yes? Well, I’d like to see your badge.”

  “I don’t have a badge.”

  “Then please go away and leave me alone.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Why can’t you? Are you trying to pick me up?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Good, because I have a husband and you’re as old as he is. I have to drive home to my husband.”

  “You don’t want to do that, Mrs. Cooney.”

  “No, I don’t. But I have to.”

  “Not after what happened to Jack Hunter, you don’t.”

  Her mouth and her eyes both widened. She made a little murmur in her throat.

  “He died because a drunk thought he was sober enough to drive home,” I said. “The same thing could happen to you. Lose control of your car, cause the death of an innocent person. Then you’d really have something on your conscience.”

  She slumped against the Mercedes, gripping the door edge and staring up at me. In a thicker voice she said, “Who are you? Did you know Jack?”

  “Not personally, no.”

  “My God,” she said with sudden understanding. “My God, you’re one of those... you’re a private detective.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Frank hired you.” Getting that part of it wrong in a frightened whisper. Her hand was white-knuckled where it clutched the door.

  “I’m not working for your husband. I was hired by Jack Hunter’s insurance company.”

  “Insurance?”

  “On behalf of his widow—”

  “That bitch.”

  “—and his daughter. Why is Mrs. Hunter a bitch?”

  “She made his life miserable.”

  “How did she do that?”

  “Every way. Every damn way.”

  “Is that what he told you?”

  “He didn’t have to tell me. I have eyes. Cold-hearted bitch — someday I’ll tell her what I think of her. In no uncertain terms.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what you think of her?”

  “I just did,” she said. “Besides, I have to go home now.”

  “You’re going to have to talk to me, Mrs. Cooney. Not now, but when your head is clear.”

  “I am not drunk.”

  I produced one of my business cards, tucked it into her purse. “Will you remember where you got this?”

  “Of course I’ll remember. I told you, I’m not drunk.”

  “Then call me. As soon as possible.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “I’ll call you. Or slop by and see you.”

  “Frank,” she said. “You wouldn’t tell my husband about Jack?”


  “I’m not out to do you any harm. All I want are the answers to a few questions about Jack Hunter and his wife. After that, you’ll never hear from me again.”

  “I don’t seem to have a choice, do I? All right. But now I have to go home.”

  “Not just yet. Let me have your keys.”

  “Oh, no. You can’t drive me home, not in my car.”

  “That isn’t my intention. I’ll give the keys to the man at the security desk and he can call a taxi for you.”

  “Oh, no,” she said again. A crafty look came into the bleary gray eyes. “Do you want me to scream? I will if you don’t go away and let me drive home.”

  “I don’t think you will. You wouldn’t want to make a spectacle of yourself.”

  We locked gazes, but it was not much of a stalemate. The liquor was catching up to her now, making her even more fuzzy-headed and a little shaky on her pins, and she had enough sense to realize it. Her eyes slid away from mine; she fumbled in her purse again, came out with a set of keys, and laid them in my outstretched palm almost gently. On her dignity again.

  I said, “Do you want to wait inside?”

  “No, thank you. I’ll sit here in the car.”

  She opened the door, put herself under the wheel with great care, and sat looking straight ahead, hands clasped in her lap, spine rigid.

  “Tell them to hurry,” she said. “I really need to get home before Frank does.”

  That was part of the reason, I thought as I left her, but not all of it. The sooner she got home, the sooner she could have another drink.

  Joan and Patty were gone when I returned to the pro shop. The lone occupant now, separating the day’s receipts into piles of cash and chits, was a muscular, sun-browned guy dressed in tan chamois slacks and an Emerald Hills polo shirt. He was about forty, with one of those handsome chiseled profiles that were assurances of box-office success among male film stars a generation ago. A thick mat of curly hair the color of pale ale topped him off to masculine perfection. Women like Joan and Patty would want to take lessons from him, all right, off the golf course as well as on it. He was the type of physical speciman who could have a different bed partner every night of the year if he wanted it that way. The question was whether or not he was that type.