Tourist Trap (Rebecca Schwartz #3) (A Rebecca Schwartz Mystery) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series)

by Julie Smith

  I half expected to hear her intone, “Fear stalked Full Fathom Five!”

  But she said, “It was real quiet. Then this young man on the other side said something about poison in a loud voice and it seemed as if everyone started talking at once. It got loud as anything.” She paused, looking very white. “I was really scared—and feeling terribly sick. I tried to get up, but I couldn’t. Bob helped me lie down on the floor, and after that, people started running around like crazy. People in white jackets—from the kitchen, I guess—were trying to help the sick people. A man who said he was a doctor came and started to take my pulse, but then he heard someone sort of trying to catch their breath—I mean, we both heard it—and he left me. After that, Bob held my hand and kept saying to take it easy, that they’d called some ambulances. And I just kind of closed my eyes. I didn’t want to see any more.”

  “What happened after that?”

  “The next thing I remember, they put me on a stretcher and took me to the hospital.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Jones.”

  It was Dad’s turn. He said, “Not a very good way to spend your honeymoon.” He smiled at Alice and she smiled back. “No,” she said. The color started coming back to her face. “I think you’re a very brave woman.”

  “You wouldn’t if you’d been there that night.” Dad had her chatting like an old friend.

  “Did you have difficulty breathing?”

  “No. I was lucky, I guess.”

  “Did you ever throw up?”

  “No—I just felt as if I were going to.”

  “It must seem kind of like a bad dream in retrospect.”

  She looked at Dad as if he were the only person in the world who really understood her. “Sometimes I can hardly believe it really happened.”

  “Tell me, Mrs. Jones—have you ever had the flu?”

  “Oh, sure. It gets me about two or three times a year.”

  “Would you describe the way you felt at the restaurant as something like having the flu?”

  “Oh, not at all. Like I said, I was lucky—it only lasted a little while, and sometimes I can’t even remember it too well. But of course if I’d eaten more mussels—”

  “Are you absolutely sure you had paralytic shellfish poisoning?”

  “Well, sure—everybody else did.”

  “Did they do any tests at the hospital?”

  “Oh, no. They were real busy with everybody else; I was the lightest case, so they hardly bothered with me at all.”

  “They didn’t do tests to make sure you had it?”

  “I don’t think they really needed to.”

  “You’re from Oklahoma, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you were willing to come all this way to testify?”

  “Bob and I thought it was important.”

  “Do you by any chance have a lawsuit pending against the restaurant?”

  “I don’t see—Why do you want to know?”

  She looked at Liz, then at the judge, who said, “Answer the question, please.”

  “Yes,” said Alice, now slightly less the helpless victim.

  “No further questions,” said Dad. He hadn’t demolished her, but he’d taken some of the shine off.

  Next up was Hallie Baskett, wife of Brewster Baskett, the man who died at Full Fathom Five. She gave her age as seventy-two, but she looked ten years younger, with excellent color and a good, stout, small-town woman’s figure. She looked so strong I figured she could probably have ordered mussels that night with impunity—but she’d had prawns.

  “Was this your first visit to San Francisco?” asked Liz. “Last spring?”

  “Yes. Our son and his family moved here six months before, so we decided to visit. It was like a dream come true.”

  “How’s that?”

  “We’d always wanted to come here.” A brief sadness crossed her face, but she didn’t cry; instead, she set her lips in a hard, unattractive line, not nearly as good for Liz’s purposes as tears would have been.

  “Had your husband been ill for a few days before you went to the restaurant?”

  “Yes. He caught the flu—from the fog, I guess. But he said he wasn’t going to leave without eating at a fish restaurant.”

  “I know this is hard for you, Mrs. Baskett, but can you tell me what happened the night you went to Full Fathom Five?”

  “Well, Brewster had to have mussels. Never had had them and said he was damned if he was going to go to his grave without trying them.” Her voice was getting a little unreliable. “Said he’d have ordered cockles, too, if they’d been on the menu.” She reached in her purse for a handkerchief, dabbed at her eyes, then looked bravely back at Liz. “Well, he thought they were the greatest thing since sliced bread. Tried to get me to try one, and our son and daughter-in-law, too. But we wouldn’t do it. I said, ‘Everybody to their own taste, said the old lady as she kissed the cow.’ Ugly things.” She made a face. “Brewster always was a fast eater. He ate all of ’em before I’d hardly started my prawns.”

  “Did he complain of tingling or numbness in his mouth or his fingers?”

  “Nope. Just sat there looking like the cat that swallowed the canary. He liked doing adventuresome things, you know—things people his age don’t usually do. I could tell he was real proud of himself. Then I noticed his breathin’ started sounding funny—real gaspy. I said, ‘Brewster, what is it? That flu’s got you again?’ But he didn’t answer; just sort of toppled over on the floor.” Her words had come out in a great burst, and now her sobs did. Liz asked if she wanted a recess, but she shook her head.

  In a moment, she said, “I’m a lifelong Presbyterian and I know what happened was God’s will. I don’t want you to think I’m a crybaby.”

  “Can you tell the jury what happened to your husband after he fell on the floor?”

  “He couldn’t catch his breath. Just struggled and struggled to breathe. And I couldn’t do nothin’ to help him. Then the ambulance came, but he was quietened down by then; I don’t know but that he was already dead. ” Her voice was firm again, the voice of a woman doing what she knew she had to do.

  Taking a leaf from Dad’s book, Liz said, “I think you’re very brave, Mrs. Baskett. I have no more questions.”

  But Dad wasn’t about to be outdone. He said, “I think you’re very brave, too. You must miss your husband a lot.”

  “It’s the Lord’s will,” she said. She looked straight at Lou. “I don’t bear no one any ill feeling.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Baskett,” said Dad, having, through some magic he did with those blue eyes of his, evoked what amounted to a plea of leniency from the state’s star witness.

  But leniency would be poor comfort to an innocent man. Even Dad’s good work with Hallie Baskett and Alice Jones wouldn’t offset the horror of their testimony. We were still getting killed.

  Liz rose and said, “The prosecution rests.”

  The ball was in our court.

  19

  I couldn’t bring myself to go home. My apartment is uncluttered because I relax better when my surroundings are simple. My office is exactly the opposite: It’s busy, and I catch its mood. So I went there and sat staring out the window, trying to think of something—anything, no matter how outlandish—that would help me salvage the case.

  About nine o’clock, Chris came in. I heard her go into her office and rummage in her desk. Then she came into mine with a bottle of bourbon in one hand and two coffee mugs in the other. She knows I don’t drink bourbon, but she poured two stiff ones, straight up, into the mugs and thrust one at me.

  I started to shake my head, but she took my hand and curled the fingers around the mug handle. “Auntie says drink.”

  I lifted the mug and sipped. For once, the bourbon didn’t taste too bad.

  “Old Weller,” said Chris. “I do my best thinking on it, which doesn’t happen often because it costs too much, but this is a clear emergency.”

  I took another sip. “M
akes you want to holler ‘hidey-ho.’ ”

  “Sip slowly, now. The point is not to drown sorrows, but to plot strategy.”

  “Does that mean you’ve got an idea?”

  “Not yet. But I feel one coming on. We’re desperate, right?”

  “What do you mean, ‘we’?”

  “We’re partners, aren’t we?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I mean we. Now. Are we desperate?”

  “Unquestionably.”

  Chris touched a long elegant finger to her long, aristocratic schnoz. Which meant she was feeling creative. I felt better already.

  She said, “So desperate measures are called for.”

  “If I could think of any, I’d have already taken them. The only possible way out is to find Les. Or at least Miranda. And we’ve already tried everything.”

  “Everything normal people would try. But don’t forget—we are two desperate women, solely responsible for saving an innocent man from a cruelly unjust fate.”

  “I think you’ve had enough Old Weller.”

  She took a mammoth gulp. “Nonsense. We’ve got to loosen up our minds and make them do somersaults. We can’t think like lawyers. We’ve got to have innocence. We’ve got to be two kids who haven’t yet learned the word ‘impossible.’”

  I sighed and sipped. “Okay. Let’s go over what we’ve already done. First Rob, a trained reporter, went to the Tenderloin to find Miranda. He got mugged. Next we hired a pro to find her. He struck out. So what’s left?”

  Chris’s nostrils quivered, as they did when she was upset. She was silent and so was I, which made the sudden ringing of the telephone all the more strident. Chris looked at her watch. “Nearly ten o’clock—who’d call this late?”

  “Probably a wrong number.”

  “Maybe it’s your dad—he might have had an idea.” Sighing, I picked up the phone. Rob said, “Rebecca. Thank God.”

  “Rob! You’re alive.”

  “For heaven’s sake. You sound like your mother. Listen, I’ve found Miranda.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “You know what I did? I got this idea—I got mugged the first time I went to the Tenderloin, and our private eye couldn’t get anywhere, so I decided to make a last-ditch effort. I mean things were going so badly and I felt so helpless. I decided to dress like a bum and kind of move into the Tenderloin, live there for a few days. I checked into a flophouse and started hanging out in bars. I wasn’t picking up anything, so I just started exploring—you know, dirty book shops and whatever there was. Anyway, I finally found Miranda working in this place where you can talk to a naked woman for a buck. I followed her to her hotel—I’m calling from there now—but this guy went in there with her and I had to wait for him to leave. Which took five hours.”

  “What did you get out of her?”

  “Nothing yet. She’s dead drunk—passed out and I can’t wake her up. I need your help.”

  “Where are you?”

  He didn’t answer at first. Then he said, “Omigod. Oh, Jesus—” The phone went dead.

  Chris shoved some more Old Weller at me, which I drank while I stammered out what Rob had told me.

  She said, “The guy must have come back.”

  I nodded. “He could be slashing Rob’s throat right now—Jesus! Maybe it’s Les.”

  “I think we have to call the cops. This is pretty bad, Rebecca.” Her voice was frighteningly serious.

  “What’s the point? If we can’t tell them where to go, they can’t go.”

  “Wait a minute. I’ve got the glimmerings of an idea. Let’s do what Rob did—go to the Tenderloin.”

  “Like this?” I gestured at our business suits. “We’d get killed.”

  “I mean let’s do it like Rob did—we can dress like bag ladies.”

  “There’s no time. Les could be killing him now.”

  “Well, what do you suggest, then? Finish off the bottle and let him tackle Les alone?”

  That did it. Chris doesn’t often speak sharply; the fact that she did then woke me up. She was right; if Rob was alive, it was up to us to find him—the cops wouldn’t have a chance even if they were willing to try. “Not bag ladies,” I said. “Too hard to pull off.”

  “Whores?”

  “Just burnouts. We can pose as friends of Miranda’s.” But I looked at Chris’s fancy haircut and felt my nerve slipping.

  She caught me at it: “Don’t worry about the hair. I’ve got some platinum spray I used last Halloween. Not only transforms the hair into instant shredded wheat, also turns the complexion a splendid chartreuse.”

  We went first to Merrill’s to buy some cheap cosmetics, made a stop for some Thunderbird, got some burgers and fries, picked up some clothes at my house, then headed for Chris’s, home of the platinum spray.

  We wet our hair to destroy all semblance of style, put a little cold cream on it to make it look dirty, and then turned Chris blonde. The platinum, as she’d promised, brought out yellow tones in her pink and white skin you couldn’t have imagined. By the time we applied some truly revolting foundation, the combination of her natural skinniness and artificial jaundice made her look as if she’d be dead of cirrhosis within a month. A little black eyebrow pencil on her light brown brows and fuchsia lipstick completed the picture.

  I looked more or less a fright in red lipstick and dead-white foundation, but still rather like a nice Jewish girl with awful taste. Chris held up the spray can, but I stopped her: “I have to be in court tomorrow.”

  “It washes out—see?” She pointed to instructions on the can.

  “Okay. Leave lots of dark roots.” She sprayed and in minutes my mother wouldn’t have known me. Would have disowned me at any rate.

  Our clothes were easy—beat-up jeans and T-shirts; America is still in some ways a Democratic country.

  Since we might need money and—God forbid—I.D.s, Chris put hers in my old black Sportsac, the more disreputable of our two bags; we could trade off carrying it.

  The final touch was the Thunderbird, which we put in Chris’s plant mister and sprayed all over each other—hair, neck, arms, T-shirts, everywhere—as if it were the latest designer delight, guaranteed to liquefy strong men. When I thought about it, the Thunderbird would do that, too—but women and children weren’t safe, either.

  Finally, we each helped ourselves to a stick of chewing gum. Then, at 11:30, we hit the streets. Once on them, though, a logical question occurred. “Where,” I asked the author of the outing, “do we start?”

  “Believe it or not, I’ve got an idea. What’s the one thing we know about whizbang’s habits?”

  “Miranda’s? That she drinks too much.”

  “Right. Probably Thunderbird—or beer. Actually, we know she drinks beer—that’s what she had when Sanchez was killed. She has to get it from some place, doesn’t she?”

  “Liquor stores! And corner markets.”

  “Right again.”

  “Let’s start near the Bonaventure Arms.”

  There was a market right across the street. We decided I’d go in and do the talking, with Chris outside as backup, in case I needed rescuing. An old black woman who looked as if she could hold her own with the neighborhood thugs sat behind the counter on a high wooden stool. I said: “You seen Miranda around?”

  “Don’t know no Miranda.”

  “She used to live across the street. Medium height. Skinny. Brown hair.”

  “Could be anybody. You want anything?”

  “Oh. Yeah.” I found a Diet Coke and paid for it. Then I cracked it open and began to sip.

  “That’s all you want?”

  “Miranda’s my best friend.” I reached in the Sportsac for a five-dollar bill. “She hasn’t been around lately. I’m a little worried about her.” I handed over the five.

  She took it, folded it, and placed it safely in her pocket. “Honey, you wasting your money. I wouldn’t remember no white girl. All look alike to me.”

  “All lo
ok alike? You think I look like, say, Dolly Parton?”

  “Dolly Parton?” She laughed. “Dolly Parton? You ain’t even in the same class.”

  “So we don’t all look alike.”

  “Sure you do. Just some’s ugly and some’s halfway fit to look at.”

  “Wait a minute. I didn’t pay five dollars to be insulted.” She laughed again, evilly. “Sure you did, honey. You’re a loser, just like everybody else comes in here.”

  I left, internally questioning the wisdom of our brilliant disguises. “Any luck?” asked Chris.

  “She didn’t like my demographics. On the other hand, she was a greedy old trout—if she’d had any information, I think she’d have sold it. Here’s the thing—assuming Miranda’s alive and trying to stay out of the line of fire, she wouldn’t go to her old haunts.”

  “True. Let’s branch out.”

  Chris did the talking next time. While I was standing outside, a kid who looked about twelve sauntered by, casually grabbed the Sportsac, and tugged. With his free hand he hit me in the stomach. I shoved him in the chest, learning in the process he was a she and well over twelve. The effect of the blow was to dislodge the bag, still firmly in the girl’s hand, and give her a slight advantage. She tugged again, pulling me over on top of her. We were rolling on the sidewalk before Chris could catch on and race out the door. A crowd started to gather. Chris shouted at the kid: “Jackie, you let go of that lady’s bag right now. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times—” As she spoke she picked the kid up by the arm and began to shake her loose. “Now get on home!” The kid took off as if pursued by a SWAT team; I had a feeling Chris had unwittingly done a fair imitation of the girl’s mother. Amid good-natured chuckles, the crowd dispersed. “Nice neighborhood,” I said.

  “I’m starting to like it.” Chris was so pleased with herself she was practically ready to move in.

  As for me, I wasn’t sure I could take the excitement. And I was nearly crazy with worry. But we were left almost completely alone for the next hour or so—unless you count the man who propositioned Chris with a handful of hundred-dollar bills. Or the store owner who mistook me for a customer who owed him sixty dollars. That was no fun; after about fifteen minutes of shouting—fifteen minutes we couldn’t afford—Chris finally sighed and said, “Tell him the truth.”