I dreamed that I was sitting in the living room holding a baby that was obviously mine. It screamed constantly despite everything I tried to calm it. Two other children, who looked suspiciously like Annie and Joe, romped through the house knocking over a porcelain figurine I'd had since I was a child. A nameless, faceless man in the picture was stretched out on the sofa, watching a ball game on TV and reaching occasionally for his beer can which left a huge wet ring on the coffee table. I awoke perspiring and breathing hard.
The bedside clock said it was almost six. No point in trying to get back to sleep now. I put on a robe and slippers and went to the kitchen. The winter sky was faintly gray, the air cold. I started the coffee maker and let Rusty out to the back yard. By the time I'd gone to the bathroom and brushed my teeth, Rusty was waiting at the door, nose to the crack, shivering. The coffee was ready, so I poured a mug and curled up on the couch watching the morning news on TV while the hot liquid gradually woke me up.
By eight I had showered, dressed in gray wool slacks and a thick sweater, and was on my way to the office. I had to figure out a way to tell Ron that I'd taken a case in his absence and that I'd actually started to work on it. I didn't have long to plan my speech, either. He was already at his desk when I arrived.
"For who!" His brown eyes were incredulous.
"Whom, Ron."
He shot me a look. "You know what I mean. Why on earth would you want to get mixed up with Stacy North?"
"I didn't really want to," I tried to explain. "Well, she just looked so pitiful when she came in here that day. I thought I'd just be finding a stolen watch, which I did quite well, I believe."
"And now it's a murder case. You know I can't legally step into that," he reminded me.
"And you haven't," I reminded him. "I'm not the investigator here. I'm just an interested party asking a few questions."
"Have you been representing this agency?"
I thought of the few business cards I'd handed out. "I won't do it any more," I assured him.
"Charlie, Charlie." He took on that older-and-wiser older brother look. "I know you can't seem to resist somebody in trouble. You were always the kid who picked up wounded birds, too. But nowadays things are different. You can get yourself hurt, maybe even killed, maybe even get this agency sued." Now that really would be the worst.
"I get the feeling Stacy is afraid of Brad," I told him. "You should have seen her when she thought Brad was going to find out her watch was lost. Can you imagine what he'd do if he found out about this other man? Especially if Stacy is implicated in a murder? Ron, I'm really afraid for her safety."
"What have you done so far?" he sighed.
I filled him in on the interviews with the family and the list of names I'd found and so brilliantly deciphered.
"You're withholding evidence." His voice was flat, like nothing I did anymore would surprise him.
"Wait a minute! The wallet was on the victim when the police found him. The list was in the wallet. If they'd thought it important, they would have taken it."
He pressed his lips together. He didn't agree with my logic, I could tell, but he couldn't find a way to argue with it either.
"I can't authorize you to work on this," he said.
"Will you do it then?"
"Charlie, I have umpteen million things waiting here. The price of being gone a week."
"Then I'm going out to ask a few more unauthorized questions."
"You wouldn't consider letting the police work on their own case, I guess."
"Ron, I'm sure they're working on it, and I'm sure they're doing a fine job." I walked out before he could add anything.
Traffic on the freeway was heavy, moving at a frustrating speed-up, slow-down pace. The sun had topped Sandia Peak already, but thin streaky gray clouds filtered out any warming effect. March is such an ugly month. The charm of winter has long since worn off, and the beauty of spring won't be here for another six weeks or more. Spring winds usually blow for most of March and April, leaving spirits whipped and nerves raw. This is about the only time of year I envy Paul and Lorraine's living in Phoenix.
I took the San Mateo exit toward Academy Road once again. This was beginning to feel like familiar territory. Traffic all seemed to be heading the opposite direction, making me feel like the only person in town who hadn't heard the air raid sirens. Lowering my sun visor against the glare, I continued my easterly course. The same toothless guard from the other day protected the Tanoan gate and he waved me through like an old-timer.
Now that I was here, I couldn't decide whether to continue checking the names on my list or pay another visit to Stacy. The steady stream of outbound traffic warned me that I might not have much luck either way. Before I stirred up any more uninvolved parties it might be better to find out if there had been any new developments over the weekend. I pulled into Stacy's circular drive and rang her multi-chimed doorbell.
A dark shape wavered behind the beveled glass for a moment. The next thing I knew, I stood face-to-face with the man I'd once thought I would marry.
Chapter 8
Brad North had put on a lot of weight. That was my first impression. He'd once been tall and thin. He still had the height, but everything had rounded out, giving him indistinct outlines. The soft jogging suit he wore accentuated the effect. His hair was still wavy brown, his eyes blue. At the moment his mouth hung slack. He was obviously dumbfounded to find me standing here.
"Hello, Brad."
His mouth worked a couple of times, settling finally into a tentative smile. "Charlie! What a surprise."
"Is Stacy home?" My mind groped for a reasonable explanation for my appearance.
Stacy showed up behind Brad's shoulder just then, questioning. When she saw me, her face went white.
"Stacy, now don't tell me you've forgotten that we'd planned to go out for breakfast." I noticed that she was still in her robe. "You did, didn't you?"
Luckily she picked up my cue. "Oh, Charlie, God, yes, I did forget." She glanced nervously at Brad, whose mouth had formed a straight line. "Brad, you remember my telling you that I ran into Charlie recently? I completely forgot that we were going out to breakfast today."
His eyes narrowed, but he didn't say anything.
"Can you give me a minute to get dressed?" she asked me. Turning to Brad again, she hesitantly met his stare. "Is it okay, Brad? I won't be gone long."
There was a moment's pause as Brad apparently wrestled between saying what he really felt and preserving his image before an outsider. "Sure. It's fine." Stacy dashed for the staircase.
I stood awkwardly on the porch, wondering just what was going on here. Did she really need permission to see an old friend?
"Well, come on in, Charlie. We're letting all the cold air in." Brad closed the door behind me. "Let me show you around while Stacy gets dressed."
I had no idea how much Stacy'd told him, but didn't think it would be wise to admit I'd already had the grand tour. His version was a bit different from Stacy's anyway. He took particular pride in pointing out the art objects and paintings. With each came an explanation of where it had come from and either a) how much it cost, or b) how much it was worth, or c) what a fantastic deal he'd negotiated in buying it. I began keeping a surreptitious count on my fingers and was amazed to find by the end of the tour that Brad had supposedly visited forty-three different countries. Either that or he was a tremendous bullshitter.
Stacy found us in the study, where Brad was going into an explanation of each of the famous person photos, making sure I was fully informed about how well he knew each of them. I looked in her direction and faked a tiny yawn. She almost smiled.
"Well, Brad, it's been just fascinating," I interrupted. "We'll be going now. You must be totally exhausted after taking me through all your travels."
He trailed us to the front door, missing my sarcasm as he raved about the wonderful brunch at the club. We really should try it. We couldn't go wrong if we had the Eggs Benedict. I ign
ored this blatant fishing for an invitation and waved an impersonal little salute his direction as Stacy and I got into my Jeep.
Stacy was quiet in the car and I had to restrain myself from asking whether Brad was always such a braggart, or if that little show was entirely for my benefit. After all, look at everything I'd missed out on.
"I'm glad you picked up on my clue about breakfast back there," I commented.
She smiled tightly. "Charlie, this is very risky. Why did you show up unannounced?"
"Because taking people off guard is usually the best way to get straight answers." Geez, what was the big deal? "Okay, sorry. I hope this doesn't cause any trouble at home. I honestly thought Brad would have left for work by now."
"He's going over some papers at home this morning," she said sullenly.
"Obviously. Look, I was just going to ask a quick question or two. I didn't mean to take up much time. The breakfast thing was the only idea I could come up with on such short notice. We can skip it if you want."
"Oh, no. I mean, that would just take more explanations. Let's find someplace to eat. It'll be okay as long as I'm not gone too long."
I wanted to point out to her that she was a grown woman, allowed to eat out with a friend without offering a dissertation on her reasons why. But I let it drop. I pulled into the parking lot of a coffee shop I'd seen on the way up.
"Is this okay?"
She must have caught the edge in my voice because she smiled and relaxed for the first time. "It's fine, Charlie. And thanks." She squeezed my hand. "I did need to get out of the house."
I let that pass, too.
We were seated right away and decided to treat ourselves to huevos rancheros, juice, and coffee, and to top it off with a danish. The important stuff out of the way, I got down to the questions.
"No, I haven't heard a word from the police," she replied. "I'm a nervous wreck every time the doorbell rings. Brad has hung around the house like a watchdog. I can tell he's suspicious".
No wonder. She was as jumpy as an escaped convict.
"There was a small article about Gary in the newspaper, but I never got a chance to read it. I was afraid Brad would catch me and wonder why I was following the case."
"Stacy, he doesn't actually read over your shoulder, does he? How would he know what you're reading?" It was like talking to a five-year-old.
"I know." She sighed and drummed her fingers nervously on the table until our food arrived.
I gave myself over to the pleasure of eating. The combination of flavors—tortilla, eggs, beans, cheese, and green chile—filled me with satisfaction. Stacy picked at hers, taking a tiny forkful at a time. She'd lost weight in the last week.
"Stace, you gotta eat," I reminded her gently. "Worrying about this isn't going to change anything. Look at it this way, if the police haven't made the connection yet, chances are they won't. Gary Detweiller had a lot of people in his life, a lot of them with stronger reasons to hate him than you did."
She perked up. "You have an idea who did it?" she asked eagerly.
"Well, no. But I'll keep working on it. Promise. And you can help me. Just keep trying to think of anything Detweiller might have said to you, even in the most casual way. Anyone who might have been angry with him, anyone he might have shafted."
"I've been trying," she assured me, "but nothing comes to mind. It's just so hard, trying to act normal around Brad, while this thing is weighing on me."
She fidgeted with her food some more. She wouldn't be any help on the case, I could see that now. I'd have to think of some other avenues. When I dropped her off at home a little while later, Brad met her at the door. I waved from the car and drove off. We'd been gone exactly an hour.
Three blocks away, on another of Tanoan's winding little side streets, I found Ben Reed at home. He, too, wore a jogging suit and top-brand running shoes. His once-red hair was interspersed with so much gray that it appeared pale apricot. His face and hands were covered with freckles. He greeted me with an easy smile, but didn't invite me in.
"Gary Detweiller? Name doesn't ring a bell," he said. He took the fuzzy newspaper photo from me and stared at it. "The face I do know." He handed the photo back. "Guy hung around the club, sucking up to the members. I knew from the first time I saw him that he didn't belong. But he managed to get invited somehow. I don't even know who he came with. I saw him around, oh, probably a half-dozen times."
"Did you ever speak to him?"
"Let's say he spoke to me. Tried to hit me up to finance some business deal he was getting into."
"What did you tell him?"
"Not only no, but hell, no," he chuckled.
"Did you know he had your name and phone number on a coded list in his wallet?"
Reed looked puzzled. "Why would he? We never did any business."
"Maybe it was his prospect list."
"That's kind of spooky," he said. "Like he watched us all, and targeted those he thought he could work on."
"What about the women? Did you notice him targeting them?"
He thought about it for a minute. "Now that you mention it, I did. He was a good-looking guy, you know. I don't think he had to try too hard with the women. I noticed some flirting going on at a couple of the Friday night dinner dances."
"Anyone in particular?"
"Nah, he seemed to spread the charm pretty equally everywhere."
I hoped that was the impression everyone else got, too. I thanked Ben Reed for his information and left. It was nearing noon, but I wasn't the least bit hungry after the huge breakfast with Stacy. I headed back to the office.
Sally met me in the kitchen to let me know that Ron would be at the county courthouse all afternoon. She would be leaving at one, and the phones had really been busy all morning with people trying to reach Ron after his week-long absence. Would I be around to take the calls?
I said I would, although I couldn't see that it made much difference whether they left a message with me or on the answering machine. She then proceeded to hand me a list of Ron's replies. Tell this one such and such. Tell that one something else. Apparently he had anticipated the deluge of calls, and planned well for it. Why hadn't he put off his day at the courthouse until tomorrow?
Sally must have heard these thoughts run through my head because she looked at me sympathetically.
"Do you want some lunch before I go?" she asked.
I explained why I didn't and we spent the next thirty minutes going over some pending correspondence. By the time she left, my head was full of other things and it took me awhile to get back on track with the Detweiller case.
My yellow sheet of names and addresses was pretty rumpled by now, but I smoothed it out and looked at it. I'd checked off around half the names without making any serious inroads with anybody. I stared at them, trying to find a common thread, some pattern to the odd mix. I jotted a few notes from each of the conversations, hoping a killer's name would jump out at me. Again, the obvious differences I'd noticed before. The group was pretty evenly divided between the haves and the have-nots. Neither group had been particularly informative. Maybe I'd try backtracking to each group's common ground, their hangouts.
That decided, I spent the rest of the afternoon catching up on my own work. Ron had left a crumpled pile of travel expenses in the middle of my desk. I organized them by category and filed them where I could find them again when the credit card bills arrived. Accounting tends to pile up when I'm not looking. One week everything is done. The next week, a new month has begun and suddenly I'm behind again.
I usually bill clients on the first and fifteenth, so I was already several days behind on that. Fortunately, since Ron was out of town there weren't a lot of new entries in his log book. That part of it only took an hour or so. I posted the billing into the computer, reviewed the past due accounts, and printed statements. Very few of our cases are as clandestine as Stacy's with the client paying in cash. Most of the work is done for law firms or insurance companies. Those peopl
e like everything in writing and neatly organized. Ron isn't the most organized person in the world so that's where I come in.
By four o'clock I had a neat stack of envelopes on my desk ready to drop in the nearest mailbox. Tomorrow I could post the expenses and run some preliminary month-end figures. Then I'd have the tax returns to work on. I'd almost forgotten them. Normally I'd have done them by mid-February, but my computer had been in for repairs for two weeks, which had really thrown a kink in things. Another reason I should have sent Stacy away when she first showed up.
Rusty rode with me this time. First stop, Tanoan Country Club. I hoped to arrive before the dinner crowd, perhaps while the wait staff was setting up. For once, I got my wish. The maitre d' I'd seen in action the other day was bustling around, sans jacket and accent, barking orders at the waiters. I hung to the side, not particularly wanting to attract his attention. He wasn't the sort to talk about the clientele. No, I wanted somebody with either vengeance or gossip on his mind. Within three or four minutes the maitre d' had been called into the kitchen on some emergency, and I spotted my chance. A young waitress (probably called a server here) was laying out place settings on a table for eight near me. She looked about twenty. Her blond hair was pulled into a pony tail at the very top of her head, where it spewed forth like a waterspout. Her head bobbed up and down in time with some internal tune she hummed between chomps on a huge wad of bubblegum.
"Excuse me," I whispered. "Could you come here a minute?"
She glanced around to see who might be watching. The boss safely out of sight, she sidestepped toward me.
"Do you work here on Friday nights?"
She nodded, the gum popping again.
"Could I ask you a few questions, privately?"
She checked out the room again, hesitating. The other waitpersons seemed oblivious, each wrapped up in their own tasks. The boss had not reappeared yet. Still, she seemed nervous. I dug into the side pocket of my purse and came up with a ten dollar bill. At the same time, I indicated a small alcove off the entry. It was out of sight of the dining room.
Deadly Gamble: The First Charlie Parker Mystery Page 6
