Bitter Finish - Linda Barnes

by Linda Barnes

  He swallowed hard; even his saliva tasted bitter. He'd had his chance, and he'd blown it, taken nothing but a goddamn tooth glass and a cursory glance, when there must have been something to find, something vital. If it hadn't been for Bradley's call . . .

  He rephrased it: If it hadn't been for his own stupidity. Why leave so quickly, just to view another dead body? Even if finding that corpse meant all his theories were worthless?

  He checked the rear-view mirror. No followers tonight. But anyone could have trailed him that morning; he hadn't even bothered to look. He'd behaved like some moronic movie actor who'd already read the script.

  Carol Lawton sat on a flowered chintz sofa in the superintendent's living room, trying to make a go of drinking a cup of tea. Her face was composed, but her hands betrayed her. When she picked up saucer and cup together, they jiggled and clinked against each other. When she tried the cup alone, finger crooked through the dainty handle, the hot liquid made dark stains on her khaki shirt. The superintendent, a bossy buxom woman, greeted Spraggue with such relief that he hurried Carol out the door.

  The woman probably resented missing a favorite TV show for an unwelcome dollop of real life.

  They walked around the block again. Spraggue longed to return to their earlier circuit, yell "Cut! Take four, scene eight!" and play the hours since all over again.

  The air was dead calm; the fire trucks gone. Wet patches of sidewalk glistened. The fourth-floor windows were shattered, and shreds of blackened curtains hung limply. They circled the block again. Carol began to talk, hesitantly at first. Then, low and fast, she poured out the story, her voice carefully expressionless. Her short walk to the grocery store. Her decision to ignore Spraggue, to buy Mark Jason's favorite foods. Her deliberation over packages. Controlling her tears in the check-out line. Walking home fast, building up a fantasy: the light will be on in the window. When I turn the corner, the light will be on and then I'll know that the man was mistaken, that Mark is not dead. He's home and alive. Every word came with a step, and the story turned to a ritual, like not stepping on cracks as a child. Over and over, to herself: The light will be on in the window, the light will be on. . . .

  Instead, when she turned the final corner, the ghostly flames stopped her speechless, unable even to scream. Her two grocery bags smashed to the sidewalk. She stood rooted for a moment that seemed forever, and then her feet came unstuck and she ran screaming to the superintendents door.

  "Everyone got out all right," she said flatly. "No one was in there. Mark . . ."

  "He didn't come back," Spraggue finished.

  "No."

  "Have you seen the damage?"

  "I looked in the door. There's just nothing left. Nothing .... "

  "You talked to the firemen?"

  She shrugged. "They said it probably started in Mark's study. He had an old lamp. I don't think it was on. I don't know. They're going to send the arson squad around tomorrow. Look-" She stopped walking, touched his arm. "Do you think this has anything to do with . . . with what you told me?"

  "I do," Spraggue said gently. "I asked before, and you agreed to show me the apartment. I was interrupted. Can I see it now?"

  "There's nothing but ashes. And the firemen—"

  "I know."

  "They sealed the door. The fire marshal said—"

  "Is there another door? A back way? A fire escape?"

  "One of those metal ladder-type things. I'll show you, but I won't come in with you."

  Spraggue nodded. "I'll find you a hotel room. You can wait there. Damn. You haven't had any dinner either, have you? That woman just gave you tea."

  "I couldn't eat anything, really. Just go ahead with what you have to do. It's nice out. I'll sit here on the grass and wait."

  "I won't be long."

  She gave him a weak grin. "I'll holler if the police come."

  "Thanks."

  Halfway up, Spraggue thought it likely that the police would be there waiting long before he arrived. Four flights up a rickety metal fire escape, in the dark, shoeless to cut down on the racket. The project, eminently plausible on level ground, seemed stupider the higher he got. Breathing heavily on the fourth-floor landing, gazing in at the ruins of Jason's apartment, it appeared practical again.

  The afternoon's barren tidiness seemed mocked by the shambles. Spraggue's flashlight, the tiny one he always kept on his key ring, picked up sodden footprints in the formerly shaggy rug. The prints gave him confidence; if a fireman had stood there, the floor was structurally sound. Carefully, he lowered himself through the window. His socks were instantly soaked. The tenants on the floor below must have been damn near flooded out.

  In Mark and Carol's apartment it was a toss-up as to which had caused more damage: fire, water, or the final smashing ax searching for the last flaming hideout.

  Spraggue dampened his handkerchief on the soaking rug, wrapped it around the lower half of his face, coughed. The acrid smell invaded his nostrils, seeped into his hair, his clothes. .

  The fire had started in the study. That afternoon, he'd sat in the living room. The archway, he'd remembered, led to bedroom and bath. That other door, to the kitchen. There: that small half-room, door crazily askew, that must be, must have been, Mark Jason's study.

  The lump of charred wood in front of the small window could have been a desk. Spraggue played the pencil-flash over it, found the brass hardware on the unopenable drawers. He poked at fragments of waterlogged paper with a tentative finger. Whatever Jason had kept in his desk was a secret now and forever.

  The two-drawer metal file cabinet in the comer should have suffered less damage. Had firemen opened the drawers, soaked the already burning papers? Or had the file been opened before the fire, the papers strewn on the floor, lit with matches? Maybe the arson squad could find the answer, the futile answer. The papers were destroyed.

  Spraggue searched the apartment with quiet irrational thoroughness, marveling at the destruction, unable to concede defeat. He found the odd item almost untouched, by fortuitous placement or pure chance. A jewelry box was singed, soggy, but otherwise whole. Spraggue placed it carefully on the sodden bed. A stuffed unicorn was gray rather than white, even its golden horn smudged with soot, but he added it to the pile. He thought about clothes, a toothbrush for Carol, decided against them. They could be bought; no sentimental value to a toothbrush.

  At the very back of the bedroom closet, an attaché case stood out in the flash beam. Spraggue dragged it out onto the bed. The locks held, but the fabric gave way easily, and it opened in a way never intended by the manufacturer, yielded to reveal soggy, wrinkled papers—unburned, water-stained, possibly legible.

  Spraggue replaced the empty case in the closet, added the papers to the pile of salvage on the bed. He stuffed his meager acquisitions into a damp pillowcase, checked to see that he'd left the flat in its own disorder, and climbed cautiously out into the night. `

  Carol was cheered by the sight of the jewelry box, saddened by the unicorn. But she took them both with a simple "thank you" and held her emotions in check.

  "Someplace to eat and a quiet hotel," Spraggue said firmly, taking her arm and helping her to her feet.

  "I could . . . I don't know . . . maybe stay with a friend. Or even call my folks."

  "Do they live nearby?"

  "Not really. Down near San Diego. And I guess I'd rather stick around. In case—in case Mark comes back." She bit her lip. "I know you don't think he will."

  "But I do think it would be a good idea for you to stay in Davis. It might help the investigation. The Napa County Sheriff' s Office would foot your hotel bills," he said. He'd pay the bills. In case they needed her to identify the headless corpse.

  "Food and drink," he said. "Where?"

  She gave him halfhearted directions to a storefront restaurant on a dimly lit side street. Most of the tables were bare formica slabs; a few boasted faded red-and-white-checked cloths. An aging flustered waiter doled out cracked leather menus.
Italian food, Italian wine. Spraggue ordered a bottle and waited until Carol downed a glass like medicine before he started to talk.

  "I didn't find much up there," he said.

  "I'm surprised you found this." She indicated the jewel case. "There's nothing valuable inside, but I'm glad to have it, as a keepsake .... " She folded her arms on the table, rested her head on them, closed her eyes. "I think I'm in shock or something. I just can't believe it, that I don't have any of my things anymore, my books, my clothes. And Mark . . ."

  "Carol, I need help. I know you're tired, and if you can't handle it now, I could wait until tomorrow."

  "What?"

  "I want to ask you some questions about Mark. What he was like. What he was working on."

  "We didn't talk about his work. I'm not into winemaking."

  "Whatever you remember will be more than I've got now. You willing to try?"

  They spent some time over menus. "The lasagna's good," Carol said, "and the baked eggplant. But—"

  "Not hungry?"

  "I'm not sure."

  "Order something. If looking at it makes you sick, we'll hide it under the table."

  She ordered eggplant; Spraggue ordered lasagna. The waiter smiled and went away. Spraggue wondered if Carol had dined here with Mark Jason.

  "Okay, when was the last time you saw Mark?"

  She gulped and turned pale.

  "I'm sorry. We can do this some other time—"

  "No . . . No . . . I'll try. I'm sorry. It was a Thursday morning, I think. Yes. The eleventh."

  'What time?"

  "Early. Eight o'clock."

  "How do you know?"

  "The alarm rang"

  "Usual time?"

  "No. Early. So Mark could leave."

  "How was he that morning? Nervous?"

  "Excited more than anything. Singing in the shower."

  "Did he give you any phone number where you could reach him?"

  "No. He said he'd be traveling around, that he'd try to keep in touch. He hates it when I get possessive."

  "Did he mention any winery he was going to?"

  She shook her head.

  "Any person, any name?"

  "He might have. I don't remember."

  "A woman's name?"

  She almost smiled. "I don't think so. I would have remembered that."

  "Close your eyes."

  "Why?"

  "Helps you concentrate. I'm going to say some names. If any one of them seems familiar, stop me."

  "Okay. But I really don't think I can--"

  Obediently, she closed her eyes.

  "George Martinson." Spraggue said. "Howard Ruberman. Philip Leider." What was the guy from United Circle's name? "Baxter." No reaction. "Lenny Brent."

  Her eyes flew open.

  "Yes?"

  "The last one. Say it again."

  "Lenny. Leonard Brent." Spraggue fished in his pocket, drew a dog-eared photo of Lenny from his wallet, passed it across the table.

  "Him."

  Spraggue relaxed suddenly, deep inside. A connection after all.

  "Yes?"

  "Mark didn't say anything about him that morning, but that's the guy who had dinner with Mark a few weeks ago. I had a late class—summer-school finals—and I practically ran into him when I was going out the door. I was glad Mark wouldn't be eating alone."

  "Mark introduced you?"

  "He must have. I think he said something about Lenny working at the lab. Look, does that help? Do you think this Lenny killed Mark?"

  "Lenny's dead."

  "Oh."

  Spraggue felt suddenly drained. He needed more answers, more information, more time. The waiter brought cracked china plates, each with a tomato-sauce-covered mound in the center and a pile of salad trailing off to one side. He ate while Carol pushed food aimlessly around her dish, half-asleep, one hand stroking the soggy unicorn.

  He got her registered at a hotel she knew of near campus, took a separate room for himself, ignoring the leering grin of a seedy bellhop at their lack of luggage.

  Not until one in the morning did he remember the soaked papers from Jason's attaché case. He handled them carefully. Undecipherable. Except for one news clipping, a wine review. By-line: George Martinson.

  20

  Dr. Eustace peered inquiringly over the top of his glasses. His wrinkled forehead smoothed suddenly.

  "Ah, yes. Holloway Hills! Did you find that boy you were after?"

  Spraggue shook the proffered hand, smiled. Dr. Eustace didn't offer, but Spraggue sat in the straight-backed chair across from his desk. The professor gave an almost inaudible sigh and abandoned a stack of computer printout.

  "Can I help you?" he said reluctantly.

  "Mark Jason—" Spraggue began.

  "Now wait a minute." Eustace stuck his tongue out between his lips, drummed a finger on the nosepiece of his glasses. "You're the man I got that call about yesterday. From some Sheriff Somebody-or-other. Maybe it was wrong of me to put my records at your disposal."

  "Not at all." Spraggue used his most reassuring tones. "I assure you, I'm cooperating fully with the Napa County Sheriffs Office. If you'd care to call Lieutenant Bradley—"

  "Bradley!" Eustace's forefinger stabbed the air.

  "That's the name."

  "He was very grateful for your help in locating me," Spraggue lied. "He thought you might be of further assistance in pinning down some details of Jason's career."

  Eustace nodded sagely. "Mark Jason."

  "For example, we'd like to know what his area of expertise is."

  "Area of expertise?" Dr. Eustace said blankly, settling himself back in his worn leather armchair and steepling his hands on his chest. "He's a student, Mr. Spraggue, aiming for that master's degree. Now I can tell you that Jason is interested in wine-making rather than vine-growing, but I don't see what business that would be of the Napa County sheriff."

  "What really excites Mark Jason? What facet of his studies does he like best?"

  "I'm afraid these days that what the students enjoy has precious little to do with academic endeavor."

  "There must be something."

  "Mark Jason," Dr. Eustace muttered. "Mark Jason . . ." Spraggue sat up straighter. The old man had dredged up some half-forgotten item.

  "Let me check this out," Eustace said mysteriously. "I might have some material for you."

  Spraggue waited motionless while Eustace pawed through drawers in an adjoining file room. Maybe, he thought, he could find another professor, a friend, one Jason had confided in. But Carol had named Eustace as the best bet.

  The professor reentered the room cradling a stack of pink mimeograph paper. "I've got it," he said proudly. "It was the Jason boy who doled out these bits of propaganda. Idiocy. I mean, how choosy can a young winemaker get? You rule out working for the big guns, it just lowers your chances for employment. Take any job you can and work your way up—that's what I tell the kids."

  Spraggue hardly listened. He'd grabbed one of the pink sheets off the stack.

  BOYCOTT THE CORPORATE GIANTS, read the boldface headline.

  All over California, small wineries are being bought up by huge conglomerates, merged into larger wineries, combined into corporate megaliths!!!

  SMALL WINERIES STRIVE FOR EXCELENCE!

  CORPORATIONS STRIVE FOR PROFITS

  The headline was repeated and underlined at the bottom of the page: BOYCOTT THE CORPORATE GIANTS!!!!!!

  "Jason handed these out," Spraggue muttered.

  "That's right," Eustace said. "Mark hasn't gone and gotten into trouble with these little pink sheets of his, has he? I mean, with the sheriff' s office involved. He isn't out trying to organize the pickers or anything?"

  Spraggue reread the handout. Lenny, the great individualist, was absolutely opposed to corporate takeovers. And Leider, he'd done a nonstop monologue on corporate evil during that wild BMW ride. And Kate had refused to sell to United Circle, to that insistent man named Baxter. Maybe
both Lenny and Mark had been part of some organization, some opposition to the corporations.

  Spraggue stopped, shook his head. He couldn't see United Circle, Coca-Cola, General Foods sending out hit teams of paid assassins to bump off independent winemakers. Still, he wondered if Aunt Mary had turned up anything shady on that Baxter guy.

  Now that his interest was piqued, Eustace stared with distaste at his pile of printout. "I don't suppose I could keep you for an early lunch?" he asked.

  "Some other time," Spraggue said. "You've been a big help."

  "Have I?"

  Spraggue managed to extricate himself. He found a drugstore, bought a candy bar when they wouldn't give him change for the phone, stuck a dime in the slot and called collect.

  Pierce answered with the usual runaround dodge about Mrs. Hillman's not taking any calls until evening.

  "You don't recognize my voice?"

  "Oh. Excuse me, sir—Mr. Michael. I'll advise Mrs. Hillman immediately. She may be angry. She's on to the exchange. I don't suppose you—"

  "I can't call back later. Interrupt her. If she yells, yell back. It's good for her."

  "Just a moment, then," Pierce said doubtfully.

  Spraggue heard his footsteps retreat down the hall.

  Mr. Michael! Pierce hadn't called him that since he was ten years old.

  Mary's quavery voice filled his ear. "How do you expect me to keep in touch when no one ever answers at Holloway Hills?"

  "Kate's probably got the phone off the hook. Reporters."

  "She's free? Marvelous! You can go right on to L.A. for that film. Your assistant director's making quite a pest of himself, always calling—"

  "I still need information. What have you got?"

  Papers rustled. The click of the ticker-tape machine rat-tatted over the line. "More activity than I'd expected in the market, Michael. The rumor mills are working overtime."

  "Fill me in."

  "A major takeover by either Commercial Dynamics or United Circle. Smart money's on United Circle."

  "The winery?"

  "Hang on. I hope I have the names right.

  Landover Valley. Leider Vineyards. And you'll love this one—Holloway Hills. I may have heated up speculation by my inquiries; our connection is not exactly unknown."