Huckleberry Fiend

by Julie Smith

  “All I want is a list of your roommate’s friends.”

  “But I hardly knew her. We had different schedules and didn’t see each other more than a couple of times a week. I only knew her boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend.”

  “Well, that’s a start. What’s his name?”

  “Rick something. Duboce? I’m not sure.”

  There it was— the missing link.

  “Debay, by any chance?”

  “Yes, of course. Rick Debay. Do you know him?”

  “We’ve met once or twice. How well did you know him?”

  “I never saw him more than four or five times. But then he broke up with Beverly a few weeks before she died.”

  “He broke up with her? I mean, it wasn’t the other way around?”

  “No. He dumped her. She was very depressed about it— until a week or so before…” She started to cry. “And then, that last week, she seemed so happy again. I thought she had a new boy friend. Oh, poor Beverly!” She fell sobbing into Kessler’s arms. He smoothed her hair and cooed for about half a century, obviously in an advanced state of rapture. He might be a psych professor, but he seemed to have forgotten about Oedipus.

  Oh, hell, I might as well break it up. “Miss Nakamura,” I said.

  “Can’t you see she’s under stress?” The prof forgot himself and yelled.

  “I can see,” I said, “that she’s very sad because her roommate died. I think it would help her to talk about it.”

  “What are you, a psychologist?”

  “Mr. Kessler, with all due respect to you, I don’t think you have to be one to see that.”

  “As a matter of fact, I happen to be a psychologist and I can assure you she doesn’t need this.”

  “Frankly, I don’t think she needs a daddy, either. She seems a perfectly capable adult to me, and you seem determined to infantilize her for your own gratification. She may be under stress and I can verify that I am, but you seem to be having the time of your life, Jack.”

  “Who do you think you are?” He stood up, not quite putting up his dukes, but flinging his arms about at any rate.

  I lazed back in my chair, nonthreatening as anything. I spoke in the soft, phony manner of a shrink from central casting. “I’m a very nice man and so are you, Jack. Just two nice guys, talking in a sunny living room. Everything’s going to be okay, now… there’s really nothing to…”

  “Don’t you condescend to me, you asshole.” He doubled up a fist. Isami, who hadn’t caught on that I was baiting him, jumped up and started petting him, convinced, I guess, that he was going off the deep end.

  “Papa Bear,” she said, “sit down, okay? Be Isami Wommy’s nice Papa, pretty please?” Naturally, under the circumstances, that sent him out of his tree. Looking as if it took every bit of his self-control not to turn her over his knee, he kicked over a magazine stand and sat down heavily, gradually turning purple.

  I hoped I could finish the interview before he recovered, but he was sulking so energetically it was hard to concentrate.

  “Miss Nakamura, to your knowledge had Beverly ever been involved in anything illegal?”

  “Oh, no. She was from a very good family.”

  “Did she know any of these people, to your knowledge? Russell Kittrell, Herb Wolf, Pamela Temby?”

  “Of course. Everyone knows Pamela Temby.”

  “Did she know her personally?”

  “Not that I know of. But she could have— her family is very influential.”

  “How about Linda McCormick?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “One last thing— have you seen Rick Debay since Beverly died?”

  “Of course not. Oh, wait, yes, I have. At Beverly’s funeral.” The tears were starting to come back.

  “Did you happen to tell him I was here— asking for Beverly?”

  “No, I— but I did! We were talking about the investigation and I mentioned you came while Inspector Blick was here, and I thought…”— she flushed— “it was mysterious. I mean, the inspector thought…”

  “It’s okay. Blick and I just kid. We’re like brothers, really. Nice to have met you, Jack.”

  CHAPTER 20

  I tried to call Booker, but he wasn’t home— or more likely, since he was a night worker, wasn’t answering. The time had come for a pow-wow, so I left a message inviting him to dinner. Cooking, I thought, would stimulate thought. Next I invited Sardis. And, finally, I went shopping— I was going to make a meal that would have knocked Huck and Tom’s socks off.

  Just thinking about all the thinking I was soon going to be doing made me so tired I took a nap. I was awakened by a wildly ringing phone— Debbie Hofer calling to say she’d finally got the story and not only that, she’d seen Tom and he still wanted my sidebar to run. I called the Chronicle and dictated it. After that, I made the first apple pie of my life. Also, the first biscuits, and decidedly the first fried okra. I rounded out the menu with fried chicken and corn on the cob, though these were not the most challenging parts of the meal— the average three-star chef could probably have done as well.

  As it happens, I was not struck by inspiration during my labors. I was quite struck, however, by the unappreciative noises made by my guests. In fact, I nearly struck them.

  “Gosh,” said Sardis, “calorie city.”

  “Arrr!” said Booker. “Okra!”

  “Try it, damn it. It tastes like fried oysters.”

  “Oysters should be eaten raw with a little lemon juice, not fried.”

  Two pathetic victims of the rampant food fad. But good home cooking will out; those California-cuisine snobs ended up pigging out as if they’d never heard of baby vegetables and underdone fish. If Sardis and I had just met, that meal would have won her over for sure, but now she knew me too well.

  We washed it all down with a number of beers and in between compliments on my culinary prowess, I brought them up to date. All roads, I said, led to Rick Debay. I figured it this way: Rebecca Thaxton, sensing a story in the manuscript, had researched it by calling a rare-book dealer listed in the phone book as specializing in Mark Twain. Or maybe she’d already known Rick Debay. At any rate, I was sure the fact that his number was in her Rolodex meant she’d consulted him about it. Seeing a great opportunity, Debay had stolen the manuscript, and Beverly Alexander, whom he’d lately dumped, had gotten over her broken heart when he phoned and offered to cut her in if she’d help him sell it.

  “Wait a minute,” said Sardis. “Why’d he need her? He was already in the best possible position to sell it himself.”

  “Easy. He’s a ‘reliable’ dealer; he didn’t want it to get around he was dealing in stolen property. And there was one other thing. He knew Tom would confront Rebecca about the theft, so he killed her before Tom had a chance. Because if Rebecca found out it was stolen, she’d let the cops know whom she’d told about it and the theft would be easily traced. But even after killing Rebecca, he wasn’t completely safe. There was always the possibility that Tom, putting two and two together, would go to the cops— Rick, of course, couldn’t know Tom had his own murder to cover up. And if the cops started nosing around, they’d probably do what I did. Go to UC, go to Rick, go to the big collectors, and if anyone had a shred of honesty— Temby, Wolf, or Kittrell, say— he or she would tell the cops Rick had offered it and they’d have him cold.”

  “But he didn’t mind sacrificing Beverly,” said Booker.

  “He didn’t mind killing her.”

  “I hate to think,” said Sardis, “what their relationship must have been like.”

  “I figure he killed her after she made the deal with Kittrell. That’s what that charade with the three banks was all about. He wasn’t about to take a chance on Kittrell finding out who he was really dealing with.”

  “Whom,” said Booker. “But wait a minute— aren’t you leaving something out? He didn’t really kill Beverly to keep her quiet, did he? He did it in a rage, when he found out she’d lost the manuscript.”
>
  “I think it’s safe to say he was going to kill her anyway.”

  “Thanks, Paul, but it doesn’t help, you know.” He looked absolutely miserable.

  Quickly, I started talking again. “God knows what possessed him to go to her funeral— guilt, maybe. At any rate, he had a stroke of luck— Isami happened to tell him about my coming to the house. She knew my name and the fact that I lived in Oakland, so she must have told him both those things. He came over to have a look, saw me leaving for Mississippi after carefully putting the key under the mat, came in and helped himself. Then he went through the ersatz sale with Kittrell. But Kittrell stiffed him and he had to get the thing back. He went to Kittrell’s apartment, intending to burglarize it, but we beat him to it, and then all he had to do was take the booty away from us.”

  “What about those two heavies he had with him? And the girl? Last thing you need for a burglary.” Booker’s contempt was so strong it gave me new insight into his profession— he didn’t just like burgling, he liked being a really great burglar. It had reached the point that this was the only identity he had.

  Hoping to soothe him, I said, “Debay was an amateur. Maybe they were hired pros.”

  “Maybe. Anyway, I take it you figure Debay’s got the manuscript now.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Then we’ll have to take it away from him.”

  “It’s not that simple, Booker. The manuscript’s evidence in a murder case. The cops need to find it in Debay’s possession.”

  “Mcdonald, that thing’s got our fingerprints on it.”

  “I’m pretty sure,” I said, “the cops will give you immunity on this one. Your testimony could swing the whole case.”

  “Oh, bullshit. They’ll probably find the gun he used to kill Rebecca. That’s all they need and you know it.”

  “How are they going to know where to look for it?”

  “Didn’t you tell me the whole Tom Sawyer thing’s going to come out in the paper?”

  I looked at my watch. “It’s after nine. The first edition’s probably already on the stands.”

  “They’re going to pull it together from that. Once they know about the manuscript, Rick Debay’s name in Rebecca’s Rolodex is going to seem a lot more important to them. Damn! And they’re probably going to do it tomorrow too. I’ve had four beers, Mcdonald— I can’t work tonight. You did this on purpose, didn’t you? Invited me over here and put me out of commission so you could tie things up your way. You’re going to throw me to the dogs, aren’t you?”

  “Of course not. They’re going to question me, sure, but I’ll do everything I can to keep your name out of it.”

  “What do you mean, everything you can? Are you going to finger me or not?”

  “I’m certainly not going to ‘finger’ you, as you so colorfully put it.” I may have spoken a little testily, but he was overreacting and it was making me mad.

  “Maybe they will give me immunity, but I’m going to be a known felon, do you realize that?”

  “Well, maybe it’s about time you went straight, anyway.”

  He stood up abruptly. “I’ve got to get out of here.”

  I hadn’t expected that. Hurt, I blurted, “You can’t go— I made apple pie.” He slammed the door on “pie.”

  I felt the way I often do in relationships with women— I was in the middle of a fight and I didn’t know why.

  Sardis gave me a wry look. “I guess he feels trapped.”

  “Oh, Jesus, this is murder— doesn’t anyone get it? Debay killed two women. What am I supposed to do— stand by with my trap shut and hope he gets nailed? God, I hope Booker doesn’t do anything stupid tonight.”

  “You mean like hit Rick’s shop? He won’t. He hasn’t cased it and he’s half-drunk. And as he’s fond of mentioning, he’s a pro.”

  “Honest to God, I had no idea he’d get so upset. Do you see anything I could have done differently?”

  She thought about it a minute. “I think you did the right thing. You’ve given him good service on what he asked you to do and both of you have known all along the thing was evidence in a murder case. In fact, if anything, maybe you should have opted out right at the beginning— when it turned out Beverly had been killed.”

  “I couldn’t do that without betraying Booker.”

  “Listen, once Tom Sawyer confessed to killing Lemon, it was out of your hands. You had to turn Tom in, and that set in motion the chain of events that Booker’s upset about. Friendship’s one thing, but as you happened to mention, this is murder we’re dealing with. If Booker suffers, it’s the consequence of his own actions, not anything you’ve done.”

  “I feel really bad about it.”

  “How about I give you a back rub? Then maybe we could try some of that pie.”

  Sardis is really a terrific woman— I had to smile at her good intentions, but a back rub wasn’t what I needed. “Thanks,” I said, “but I think I need to be alone. Would that be okay?”

  She smiled back and rose to go. “Sure.” She hesitated. “Actually—”

  “What?”

  “Well, I don’t know if I should say this, but there’s maybe one other thing—”

  “That I should have done, you mean?”

  “Shouldn’t have.”

  “Oh, never mind. I know what it is. I had a valuable object in my house and I let it get stolen. I should have given you the damn key in the first place.”

  “Oh, Paul, don’t beat yourself up about it. I knew I shouldn’t have—” She was interrupted by the phone ringing. Sure that it was Booker calling to say he was sorry, all was forgiven, I reached for it. Giving a little wave, Sardis let herself out.

  “Paul Mcdonald,” said a female voice, “I am appalled.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “This is Pamela Temby, and I’ve just gotten back from the city, where I happened to pick up tomorrow’s Chronicle— someone interviewed me last week, you see, and while I hate to appear overanxious, I suppose you know how it is. But I certainly got more than I bargained for! I need to see you instantly.”

  “You know something about all this?”

  “That’s far from the point, darling. I have the manuscript.” Her voice was slightly slurred, but I didn’t see how she could have had a drunken delusion about a thing as important as that. If she needed to see me, she was welcome to. I was at Miniseries Manor in ten minutes.

  This time Temby was wearing the caftan I’d missed before— the imaginary one I’d thought appropriate for a romance writer. But I’d had in mind something a little more flowing. Temby’s, in turquoise silk, skimmed lightly over her opulent attributes. She showed me into her library (“So cozy, don’t you think?”) and offered strong drink.

  Accepting a brandy, I settled into a chair as far away from her as I could get. Even so, I couldn’t shut out the fact that she was showing quite a lot of distracting cleavage. She brought out the manuscript. “See? I was telling the truth. When I saw your story, I realized this thing had something to do with that poor girl’s death— that nice Rebecca Thaxton. I quite liked her, didn’t you?” She shuddered. “And suddenly I couldn’t bear to have it in the house any more. I thought perhaps you’d know what to do with it.”

  “First you send those goons to steal it from me, and now you want to give it back?”

  She laughed tipsily. “Goons indeed! What a fine way to describe my daughter and her little friends.”

  “Your daughter!” Oh, shit, the tall skinny one. No wonder they’d worn stocking masks, and no wonder the only one dressed like a woman had seemed to be the leader. She was the only one who could speak— if the others did, the intimidation the whole thing depended on wouldn’t have worked. No wonder they’d seemed to strain a bit when they threw us into the lagoon and no wonder they’d reacted so violently to my sexist remarks— I’d thought they were just big galoots protecting their girlfriend.

  “Rosamund looks quite impressive in her leathers, doesn’t she? I assure you, howev
er, that stealing the manuscript wasn’t my idea. My daughter, you see, has a rather unnatural attachment to me.”

  “It certainly seems to cut two ways.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “On the one hand, she performs criminal acts for you; on the other she rebels to the point of becoming a— ‘diesel dyke,’ I believe, is the phrase she used.”

  Temby laughed again. “Did she? She does try to be shocking, but she just wants to be noticed, poor girl. Her father deserted us when she was quite young, and I was forced to turn to my pen for a living. I’m afraid I didn’t have as much time for her as we both would have wished— and of course her father had none, not being around. I had other husbands, later on, but by that time she was so rebellious none of them ever really took to her. And so attached to me. They were jealous, you see. Actually, I sometimes wonder if she’s really gay at heart— I think perhaps she’s just using that to keep from having to fall in love with a man and leave me.”

  “She could move out by herself— or with another woman.”

  “But she doesn’t, you see— that’s the point. Anyway, none of her girl friends ever seem to last. Remember little Sukie? She left almost as soon as she came. I rather think it had something to do with you.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Rosamund began watching you then— not very efficiently, I think. Just now and then, whenever the urge hit her. She followed you. I don’t think Sukie liked that.”

  “I don’t think I do either. What on earth was she trying to prove?”

  She shrugged her well-padded, subtly seductive shoulders. “I think she had some preposterous idea of being able to get her mother’s dearest wish for her— and in the end she did.”

  “You knew about this?”

  She looked at me sad-eyed, like a naughty child. “Darling, don’t be upset. Would you like another brandy?” She poured one without waiting for an answer. “Of course I didn’t know about it. She only told me when she gave me the manuscript. Oh, Paul, she did it so beautifully!” Her face was aglow with parental pride. “She wrapped it up in several bigger boxes, so I wouldn’t guess, all in wonderful gold paper, and fresh flowers tied to every single one.”