Samson's Deal: A Laid-Back Bay Area Mystery (The Jake Samson & Rosie Vicente Detective Series)

by Shelley Singer

  The fortune said, “Someone in authority is watching you with an eye to promotion.” Yeah, I thought. His.

  Loose ends were plaguing me. A dead artist. Radical students. Lunatic fringe groups. A will split four ways. A political science professor. A lot of real estate people.

  Real estate.

  Houses for sale could mean people coming and going. Maybe someone had seen something on Virgo Street the day Bursky was killed. A far-out chance and a tedious job, but I was getting desperate.

  Not a bad afternoon for a drive in the hills. The sun had already dried the previous day’s mud, and the air was cleaner than it had been before the rain. Nothing’s more depressing than a good view of bad air.

  There were two houses for sale on and around Virgo and a couple more not far away. Two of them had SOLD notices plastered across the FOR SALE signs. I wrote down the names and phone numbers of all the realtors. If the agencies themselves came up with nothing, I’d take the next step and talk to the householders.

  The next stop was home. Rosie was off working somewhere, so I wrote a note, folded it over, and push-pinned it to her door. It said, “Rosie: Get out of C immediately. Will explain when I see you. Jake.” I was afraid we’d miss each other that night.

  The cats were dozing in the sun and didn’t bother to greet me. There were some messages on my answering machine. One from Harley and one from Rebecca. Harley wanted me to call him back. I did. He was terse. He was in his office and wanted to see me right away.

  Rebecca had left her office number. I guessed that meant she was anxious to talk to me, and she was. She wanted to see me that evening. I told her I was busy. I had a date with Iris.

  “Why do you want to see me?” I asked her.

  “Can’t we just have a friendly meal together, for God’s sake?” she replied indignantly. Lunch the next day was out for her, she said. Could I come to her house the next night, she wanted to know. I had a date with Faye that night, but I told Rebecca I’d stop by for a drink about five-thirty, if that was okay. It would have to do, she sniffed. I was beginning to feel like a substitute boyfriend.

  When I got to Harley’s office he didn’t waste any time or cordiality on me.

  “You’re off the case, Samson. There’s no case to be on. I’m paying you off today.” He pushed an envelope across the desk. It contained the second five thousand dollars, plus expenses. Payment in full. I didn’t ask any questions, just thanked him and left quickly. What the hell. I was beginning to think the investigation would drag on for weeks anyway, and I might as well get paid up front.

  Harley was anxious to get rid of me, so anxious he was willing to pay me off. That was no big surprise. He believed the killer was in jail, and he wanted me out of his life. I was happy to be rid of him, too. At least now I could move ahead on the case without having to deal with him. That is, I could move ahead on it if I could be sure where I was going. I was beginning to get a few good ideas, but an idea isn’t proof, and it wouldn’t be easy to push the matter to a clear climax.

  On my way back to my car I passed a group of CORPS people carrying their signs and heading in the direction of the political science department. Their silliness was unending. Didn’t they know that the social sciences had no effect on anything, anymore? Didn’t I know it? Did I?

  Time to go home, shower, shave, clear my mind and make myself irresistible. I was picking Iris up at six-thirty. Ten minutes to get to her house from mine, twenty to get home from campus. That left only a couple of hours to get ready.

  The note I’d left on Rosie’s door was gone, and she wasn’t home. Just like I thought. We would have missed each other. She’d come dashing home, pulled the note off her door, cleaned herself up, changed, and gone dashing out again. But she’d gotten my warning. Everything would be okay.

  Still, I wished I’d had a chance to talk to her just to make sure.

  Tigris and Euphrates greeted me effusively, standing on my feet and directing me to their empty dishes. I started the water running in the tub, fed the cats, selected my wardrobe for the evening, stripped, set a clock on the windowsill, and settled in. Even though I was about to go out with a woman I’d been thinking about for days, it was the death of Margaret Bursky that kept worming through my thoughts. A picture of how she’d died. The movements and events preceding and following that death. Blank spots, scenes in the film fading to black.

  I checked the cottage on my way out. No Rosie. Come to think of it, why, I wondered, hadn’t she fed the cats if she was going out? She was probably planning to be back in an hour or so, I told myself. Nothing to worry about.

  Five minutes late, as required by social law, I arrived at Iris’s house in South Berkeley in one of those neighborhoods-united-against-crime where everybody posts notices in their windows saying they’re keeping an eye on each other’s homes. Good investments, those neighborhoods. Usually.

  The house was a small Victorian, frame, with a little gingerbread around the eaves. It was painted cream with royal blue trim. Six rooms, tops. I wondered if she owned it but decided not to ask.

  She was ready and waiting for me. She looked luscious.

  Our reservations were for seven-thirty at a place called Sheldon’s. It had one of the better bars along the Berkeley-Oakland line, and when the food was good, it was very good indeed. Continental. Served with style and grace. After dinner we were going into San Francisco to a club that showcased talent already well known locally and on its way to greater fame. Like L.A. The night approach to San Francisco across the Bay Bridge is a romantic sight, and I was looking forward to experiencing it with Iris. I tried to imagine how I’d feel about it with Faye but got confused and gave up.

  The bar at Sheldon’s was crowded, and we couldn’t get a table right away. We drank our first drink standing, which was not conducive to conversation but was conducive to leaning on each other. When a table opened up, we took possession of it. Then I ordered our second drinks and excused myself. I knew I was probably being silly, but I felt nervous about Rosie. Maybe the note had blown off her door. Maybe she was right this minute being rounded up by Hawkins at a CORPS meeting. Maybe she’d need a sitter for Alice. I used the pay phone near the door. She wasn’t home. I let the maître d’ know we were in the bar so that he could let us know when our table was ready in the dining room.

  Then I returned to the bar and told Iris how wonderful she looked. She wasn’t fooled.

  “What’s wrong, Jake?”

  “Nothing’s wrong, Iris. Nothing at all.” I smiled at her.

  She smiled sweetly back at me. “Bullshit.” I flinched. “We’re supposed to be out having a good time. You’re distracted. You’re barely even here. But you don’t want me to worry my pretty little head about it, right?”

  I didn’t tell her everything, simply that I was worried about a friend of mine getting a note that had to do with the case. That it was important. And that she could be in danger. Iris was great. She showed just the merest flicker of “What kind of movie is this anyway?” and then she accepted.

  “Should we go to her house then?” she wanted to know, just as my name was called. Our table was ready.

  “No,” I said decisively. “She’s probably out carousing somewhere, and we’d be ruining our evening for nothing. I’ll try to call again.”

  We were seated at a nice table in a corner. Reasonably private in the dim light. We agreed on oysters on the half shell for starters. I ordered duck à l’orange and she ordered stuffed trout. We toasted our marvelous palates and ate the oysters with sensuality and a minimum of self-consciousness. When the waiter took away the ravaged shells, I excused myself again and went to the telephone.

  Rosie answered on the third ring.

  “Hi,” I said, “I’m glad you’re there. I’ve been worried. You got my note, didn’t you? On your front door?”

  Silence. It dragged on. “Rosie? Didn’t you get my note?”

  Another pause, then she laughed girlishly. “Why, no, Janie,’’ s
he said, “I’m sure I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “I put it on your front door early this afternoon. Later it was gone. You didn’t take it?” I was beginning to sweat.

  She giggled again. “That’s silly, Janie. That’s not like me at all. You must be thinking of someone else.”

  “Who’s there with you?” My voice cracked dryly.

  “Listen, Janie, I can’t stay on the phone gossiping with you. I have company. I just got home, and this charming young man I met the other night was waiting on my doorstep…”

  “Okay, okay,” I said, trying to calm myself down. How the hell did he know where she lived? Had he read the note? “Maybe it’s okay. Maybe he’s just so hot for you—Jesus, what are you wearing?” I got an image of her in work boots and flannel shirt. Or worse yet, the Gertrude Stein T-shirt. But she was still all right. He’d let her answer the phone, after all. “Do you think you’re bluffing him?”

  “Oh, Janie. I really don’t think so.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  I hung up and dashed back to the table.

  “I have to go, Iris.” She jumped up, threw some bills on the table, and grabbed her coat.

  “Let’s go,” she said.

  It isn’t easy to drive down College Avenue fast. It’s not a wide street, and it’s usually jammed with cars. I cut down Alcatraz, over to a side street, angled onto Claremont, and zigzagged home, narrowly missing two collisions. Iris gasped only once, at the first near-miss.

  When I pulled up, I saw a familiar car parked on the other side of the street. Eddie Cutter’s old heap. Nice, I thought. Sharing the resources. But wasn’t that a bit communal? I slammed out of my car and raced up the driveway, stumbling in the ruts. Iris was right behind me. Alice met us a few yards from the cottage. She looked worried but not distraught, so I figured everything was still relatively peaceful. The three of us—dog, woman, and man—crashed in through the cottage door together. Rosie was standing. So were her two companions. I didn’t recognize the one who looked like a weasel, but I knew the other guy. He was Jared’s bodyguard, the one who had escorted him to his meeting with me. I skidded to a stop.

  Rosie spoke first. “Hi, Jake. This gentleman is Walter.” She waved her hand at the muscle. “And this is Arthur.” A for Arthur, I thought. And he was holding the note I’d left on Rosie’s door.

  “The writer, huh?” Walter grunted. “I didn’t know you guys used spies.”

  “Get out of here,” I said. “Now.”

  He laughed at me. I wondered if he had a gun tucked somewhere under his blue down jacket. He walked across to me, cocky as hell, sure of his superiority. Just because he outweighed me by thirty pounds. Meanwhile, Arthur the weasel had grabbed Rosie’s arm and was trying to twist it around behind her back. She was wearing her cowboy boots. She brought a heel down hard on his instep, and I tried to push past musclehead to go help her. But Walter caught me, wrapped his arm around my neck, and began to bend me backward. Jesus, I thought, there goes my deteriorated disk. But someone was hitting him from behind. I also heard a growl coming from somewhere around my hip. Alice sprang past me to help Rosie by shouting, dog-fashion, at the weasel. Rosie’s strong, and I knew that if Arthur didn’t listen to reason, Alice would stop barking and get more physical. So I concentrated on Walter. Besides, I was having trouble seeing.

  The guy had a steel arm. I was elbowing him and struggling to get out of his stranglehold. He was holding me with one hand and beating on me with the other. At the same time I could feel him being battered from behind by Iris. He was sagging, but he wasn’t letting go. I felt my neck crack in the same spot that had cracked when Frank kicked me on the chin, and took a sharp jab in the kidney that nearly put me out. Then Walter gave one last grunt and fell away from me. My vision cleared. Alice was dragging at the weasel’s arm, sixty-five pounds of outraged pacifist, and I could see blood coming through his shirt. He was screaming, still trying to hold on to Rosie. Rosie got him turned around just enough to punch him and he screamed louder. All the noise was making Alice even madder. Before I could cross the room, the two of them had backed him into a corner, and he was crying as if his heart would break. He shoved Rosie out of his way, kicked out at Alice, straight-armed me, and ran sobbing out the door. I turned around to see what was going on with Iris. The muscle was lying on the floor, his arms flung out at his sides, a pile of hard flesh. Iris, her face flushed and a tiny smile on her lips, was standing over him, holding Rosie’s power drill, the cord dangling. She held up the drill and spoke to Rosie.

  “I’m afraid I cracked the casing,” she said. The crack had bloody hairs stuck in it from Walter’s head. Alice had not bothered to pursue the weasel. She was now sniffing importantly at Walter’s body.

  “Oh, that’s okay,” Rosie said, laughing with relief.

  “Iris,” I said, “this is Rosie.” They grinned at each other. We all told Alice what a good dog she was, and I went to the phone, planning to call the police and ask them to pick up the prostrate Walter. There was a scrambling, rushing sound behind me. I whirled. I didn’t know how long Walter had been conscious, playing possum while we were being self-congratulatory, but he was up now. He sent Iris spinning and was out the door and gone before any of us could catch him.

  We didn’t try very hard. My whole body ached, and I thought I might have a pinched nerve in my neck. Rosie could barely move her left arm, the one the weasel had been trying to break off. Alice had a slight limp, probably from being kicked. Iris was unmarked, but she seemed to be having trouble putting down the drill. I pried it out of her hand and noticed that my elbow had somehow gotten wrenched. She sat down on the floor, still grinning.

  Rosie went into the tiny kitchen and came back with a dog biscuit and a bottle of red wine. We joined Iris on the floor and passed the bottle around.

  What had happened was this: The creep Arthur had really liked Rosie. So much so, that he’d followed her home the night of the meeting to see where she lived. Unlike Frank Shane and Eddie Cutter, he hadn’t known my address, so he’d made no immediate connection. But he’d stopped by again that very day, hoping to catch her at home. He hadn’t found her, but he had found the note I’d left. And he had read it. Then he’d called for reinforcements—Walter—and come back and waited for Rosie to show up, pickup truck, cowboy boots, and all. They’d been questioning her when I called. She hadn’t told them anything. I didn’t really think they’d come back and decided to let well enough alone as far as the police were concerned. Rosie was still out of it from their viewpoint, and she might as well stay that way.

  After about half an hour of chat and wine, Iris spoke up. “Jake,” she said, “this has been a very exciting date, and I’m delighted to meet you, Rosie, but tonight I knocked a man out for the first time in my life and I feel a little strange. Not bad, just strange.” I nodded and winced. My neck hurt like hell. “You’re hurt, aren’t you?” she asked gently.

  “No, no, I’m fine. Just a little stiffness.”

  She went to the phone and called a cab, ignoring my protests.

  “Jake,” she said firmly, “I’m going home to bed, and I think you should do the same.” I must have shown how I felt about her decision because she added, “When can I see you again so we can finish the date?”

  Then I remembered that she’d paid for the dinner we’d never eaten. When I mentioned it, she laughed at me. “You can get the next one. But I haven’t gotten an answer yet.”

  “Friday,” I said.

  When her cab came, I walked her out to the street. She took my head in her hands and gave me a long sweet kiss that damned near finished me off.

  – 33 –

  The first item on the next day’s agenda was nonphysical: calling the real estate agents who had houses for sale in Harley’s neighborhood. I used the same line with all of them. I was interested in the house; could I talk to the agent who was working on it?

  The first agency I called was Frank Shane’s. I recognized th
e voice of the nice woman who’d been working in the office the day I’d gone there. She said none of the salespeople were in yet, but she’d leave a message if I’d give her my name and number. I said I’d call back.

  Two hours later, when I’d learned everything I could over the telephone, it was time to drag myself out of bed, crawl out of the house and do some legwork. I’d picked up some very interesting information, but it had to be taken a step further.

  I was glad to see that the day was clear and very warm and that winter was holding off for a while. I didn’t feel too great as it was.

  Jake Samson, writer, drove up to Virgo Street and vicinity to talk to the owners of the houses. My approach would have to be oblique. A direct question, even one as basic as “Did you know Margaret Bursky?” could lead to a quick “No” and a quick dead end. I was just looking for background information. We would chat about the violent death of their neighbor and see where that went. What were people in the neighborhood—such a charming neighborhood—thinking about it all? What a beautiful house this is, and are you happy with your agent, because I know someone… have you had many offers? I’m looking for something like this myself. I couldn’t be sure how I was going to work my way around to questions like “Were you showing the house on the day Margaret Bursky died?” and “Did you notice anyone on the street who looked murderous?” But I had a lot of confidence in my ability to get the most out of a conversation.

  Only two of the householders were home, but I was lucky. One of those two gave me a big chunk of information to chew on. I wasn’t sure it would take me where I wanted to go, but it gave me a good line of attack.

  Then I went home and went back to bed until my cocktail hour with Rebecca.

  – 34 –

  This time, when Rebecca buzzed me in, I didn’t take the stairs. My neck still hurt every time I moved my head, the left shoulder was cramped, and my elbow was not working properly. I used the elevator.