Mermaid

by Margaret Millar

  “Does ‘practically nothing’ mean a little something?”

  She hesitated before replying. “At the last staff meeting Cleo’s name came up. One of the counselors reported that she seemed to be gaining self-confidence, was even getting a little feisty. He felt it was a step forward and the others agreed.”

  “By others, are you referring to teachers or counselors?”

  “Here they’re the same thing. We avoid the word teacher because it sometimes has a negative connotation these days.”

  “What counselor made the observation about Cleo at the staff meeting?”

  “Roger Lennard.”

  “Did he have a special interest in Cleo?”

  “Not in the way you might mean,” she said dryly. “We hire as counselors for the girls men who are not—ah, inter­ested in women. And vice versa for the boys. It minimizes staff-student romances, which can be a problem even in a place like this. Some of the parents refuse to admit that these young people have the same sexual drives as other young people. We deal with them as best we can.”

  “There’s no chance that Cleo was romantically involved with Mr. Lennard?”

  “None.”

  “None?”

  “He’s gay as a goose.”

  She walked to the other end of the room, pausing to straighten one of the class pictures hanging on the wall. She had a small, neat figure and her yellow linen suit looked expensive. She wore no jewelry except a wedding band.

  “Exactly what’s the matter with Cleo, Mrs. Holbrook?”

  “Most likely a combination of things. It’s hard to sepa­rate mental retardation from emotional retardation. Cleo’s a dependent, passive little creature. She’s never made a decision in her life, never been expected to, wouldn’t be al­lowed to, probably. So we can’t tell for sure how she’d act on her own. I myself suspect that among other factors she has a mild form of epilepsy. But our attempts to get an electroencephalogram were unsuccessful. As soon as she saw the needles she became hysterical and the Jaspers took her home. For accurate results, the patient’s cooperation in an EEG is necessary, so no further attempts were made. What a pity. Because if epilepsy should turn out to be part of her problem, it can be treated. Another method of treat­ment, of course, would be complete separation from her brother and his wife . . . Here I go again, speaking out of turn, diagnosing, practicing medicine without a license. But when you’ve been in a place like this for over thirty years you see so much repetition it tends to make you oversimplify. Cleo is, like all of us, complex. As we say, exceptional.”

  She glanced at the door. It was as definite a dismissal as if she had pointed at it and ordered him to leave.

  Aragon said, “Let’s review briefly, Mrs. Holbrook. In your opinion, it was unusual for Cleo to take a direct ac­tion like running away, and even more unusual for her to stay away this long.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yet there is some evidence, according to counselor Roger Lennard, that she was becoming more self-suffi­cient.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Are you quite sure that Mr. Lennard and Cleo—”

  “Quite, quite sure. Roger was the one who brought her name up at the staff meeting. If there was any relationship between them, he certainly wouldn’t have advertised it.”

  “How do you feel about Cleo, Mrs. Holbrook?”

  “I can’t afford to get personally involved with any one student. It diminishes my ability to deal with the others.” The telephone on her desk rang and she went to answer it. “Yes? . . . Lund and Johnston, that’s a first, isn’t it? . . . Are the horses all right? . . . Send the boys in. After they’ve showered.” She hung up and turned back to Aragon. “I hope Cleo’s little caper hasn’t started a trend.”

  “I thought the students hadn’t found out about it.”

  “They found out,” she said with a sigh. “Somehow they always do. One way or another, they always do.”

  Under the oak tree where Aragon had left his car a young man was sitting eating out of a giant bag of corn chips. He was about eighteen, very fat and red-faced, and there was an asthmatic wheeze in his voice when he spoke:

  “Hey, man.”

  “Yes?”

  “Want a chip?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Hear anything from Cleo?”

  “Cleo who?”

  “Cleo who, that’s a hot one. Who you trying to kid? Cleo who. That chicken pox story is a riot. They must think we’re a bunch of kooks. Want to hear my opinion?”

  “I do, yes.”

  “She’s been kidnapped. The reason the kidnappers haven’t asked for ransom yet is they’re giving old man Jasper time to get all shook up. The more shook up he gets the more he’ll be ready to kick in with a bunch of bucks to get her back. Think about it.”

  Aragon thought. “Is your name Donny Whitfield?”

  “Yeah. How’d you know?”

  “Cleo mentioned you.”

  “Yeah? What’d she say? She kinda likes me, wants to share my space?”

  “We didn’t discuss that. She talked about the school cruise to Catalina on your father’s yacht.”

  “Oh, that. Big deal. The old boy likes to dress up and play captain.” The corn chips were all gone. Donny began on a package of M&M’s. “What a clown.”

  “Were you on that cruise, Donny?”

  “Sure. Me and the first mate, we used to do business to­gether.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “What makes you think I’d tell you? You’re probably a narc.”

  “No.”

  “I’m not telling anyway. It might spoil future deals.”

  “Where did you go on that Easter cruise, Donny?”

  “Just Catalina. Dragon Lady Holbrook didn’t trust us any further. In fact, she wouldn’t have trusted us that far except my old man told her we couldn’t get into any trouble because there was no trouble to get into. Not that Cleo would anyway. She’s more goody-goody than the rest of us. Most of us aren’t. What a square. She’s afraid to breathe unless her old man tells her to. Pitiful.”

  “He’s not her old man, Donny. He’s her brother.”

  “Same diff. He’s the boss, he calls the shots.” The boy coughed, aiming some chocolate spit at the oak tree. It dribbled down the bark like tobacco juice. “You headed for town?” he said, wiping his mouth with his forearm.

  “Yes.”

  “I know where they sell some pretty good grass. You buying?”

  “No.”

  “Aw come on, man. Let’s go. I can ride in the trunk as far as the gate, then I’ll sit up front with you.”

  “I don’t think so,” Aragon said. “The trunk’s locked and I lost the key.”

  “Man oh man, that’s another chicken pox story. What do you think I am, some nut like the rest of them? You just don’t want to give me a ride, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Screw you.” The boy stared morosely into the now empty bag of M&M’s. “I bet if I was kidnapped my old man wouldn’t pay a dime to get me back.”

  “I bet he would.”

  “Naw. He keeps me shut up in this dump so I won’t in­terfere with his chicks. Got any gum?”

  “Sorry, no.”

  “Screw you.”

  5

  Aragon spent the rest of the day at the public library and in the microfilm department of the local newspaper. Hilton Wilmington Jasper was listed as an oil executive and a bank director, born in Los Angeles to Elliot and Lavinia Jasper, a graduate of Cal Tech in Pasadena, mar­ried to Frieda Grant, one son, Edward.

  The same reference volume listed Peter Norman Whitfield, philanthropist, graduate of Princeton, married five times, one son, Donald Norman Whitfield, and a daughter, deceased.

  Ted Jasper was found among the seniors of an old San
ta Felicia high school yearbook. The picture showed a smil­ing blond youth whose sports were listed as tennis and soc­cer, hobby as girls, and ambition, to attend Cal Poly and become a veterinarian. A current Cal Poly student direc­tory gave his address as 207 Almond Street. When Aragon called the number listed he was told Ted had gone home on the semester break.

  An educational journal rated Holbrook Hall as a supe­rior facility for exceptional students. Both boarding and day arrangements. Fees high. Well endowed, established 1951.

  No information was available on Roger Lennard.

  After a T. V. dinner and a bottle of beer Aragon phoned his wife. She was a doctor specializing in pediatrics and completing her residency requirements at a hospital in San Francisco. It wasn’t an ideal arrangement for a marriage, but it was working and it wouldn’t last forever. They planned on living together in Santa Felicia within a year.

  Laurie sounded tired but cheerful. “I’m so glad you called, Tom. I get sick of kids. I want to talk to a nice sensible adult.”

  “What’s this, my dedicated wife sick of kids?”

  “I’m entitled to a moment of undedication now and then. How about you?”

  “Smedler is working in mysterious ways again. I’m ex­pected to track down a runaway retarded girl who maybe isn’t so retarded and maybe didn’t run away. I have a hunch she might have been coaxed, possibly promised something. She’s not a girl, either. She’s twenty-two.”

  “That’s a bit old for a runaway.”

  “She doesn’t look her age.”

  “You know her?”

  “I met her once.”

  “Pretty?”

  “Very.”

  “That complicates matters.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “A lot of runaways are picked up while trying to hitch­hike. We get quite a few in here. They don’t always come out. How are her parents taking it?”

  “Coolly. They’re both dead. She was raised by a brother at least twenty years older. He’s the one who commissioned me to look for her.”

  “Commissioned? That sounds lucrative.”

  “Two weeks’ pay in advance. More later, perhaps. Very perhaps.”

  “You don’t have a contract?”

  “No.”

  “Really, Tom, who’s the lawyer in this family? You should have a contract.”

  “I don’t think Mr. Jasper expects much from me. And he’s not the type to pay for what he doesn’t get. No little sister, no big bucks.”

  “How come you bought a deal like that?”

  “I didn’t buy it. I was sold . . . Laurie, why do we have to spend all our time talking about other people when we have so much to say about just the two of us?”

  “You started it.”

  “I had all these great things I was going to say to you—”

  “Well, it’s too late now. Someone wants me in the oper­ating room.”

  “I want you in the operating room,” Aragon said. “Or any other room.”

  “I love you, too. Bye.”

  “Laurie—”

  But she’d hung up, and he swallowed all the great things he had to say to her with the aid of another bottle of beer. Then he called Charity Nelson at her apartment on the West Side. When she answered the phone there were loud staccato noises in the background.

  “Hello. I’m too busy to talk. Call back.”

  “What’s all the hubbub?”

  “I’m watching an educational program.”

  “It sounds more like a shoot-em-up western.”

  “All right.” She turned down the sound. “What do you want?”

  “Is there any connection between Smedler and Mr. Jasper?”

  “How would I know?”

  “I have a notion you might have looked it up.”

  “Of course I looked it up. They’re not friends really but they both belong to the Forum Club and serve on a couple of the same boards of directors, the Music Academy and Holbrook Hall. And they have this bond between them that rich men develop—you put your money in my bank and I’ll buy stock in your copper mine. It’s a great system if you own a bank or a copper mine. The best way to get rich is to start rich.”

  “Don’t let it depress you,” Aragon said. “Go back to your shoot-em-up.”

  “If I had a million dollars—”

  “You’d blow it.”

  “By God, I believe you’re right,” she said thoughtfully. “But what a blow, junior, what a blow.”

  “Am I invited?”

  “I’ll consider it. First, I’d buy me a racehorse. Not one of your ordinary nags but a real thoroughbred with class and guts and stamina. Boy, he’d leap out of that starting gate like a bullet.”

  “There goes your million.”

  “You’re a wet blanket, junior, a killjoy, a—”

  “Okay, okay, with my million I’ll buy a house in the country where you can keep the horse between races.”

  “Do you know anything about feeding horses?”

  “I thought they fed themselves.”

  “You’re not taking me seriously, junior. Go to bed and have a nightmare.”

  He went to bed. If he had a nightmare he couldn’t re­member it when he woke the next morning to the ringing of the phone. A woman identifying herself as Frieda Jasper spoke in a sharp, brittle voice. Making no apology for the earliness of the hour and giving no reason, she asked him to come immediately to 1200 Via Vista.

  6

  The house, built on a hill overlooking the Pacific, was a two-story adobe with a red tile roof and iron grilling across the lower-floor windows. It looked as though it had been there for a hundred years through a succession of earth­quakes, fires and floods. It was a California house, with ice plant covering the ground instead of grass, and landscaped with drought-resistant native plants like ceanothus and sugar-bush.

  The woman who crossed the patio to meet him was tall and sturdily built, with a mass of curly red hair just begin­ning to turn grey. She held a newspaper in one hand, clutching it as though she intended using it to swat a fly or discipline a dog. There were no flies or dogs in sight.

  “Mr. Aragon? Please sit down. I thought we’d talk out here on the patio. It’s such a pleasant morning.”

  It was lightly foggy and the wind blowing in from the sea was cold. He buttoned his coat.

  “Unless, of course, you would prefer to go inside?”

  “Oh, no.” The way she was holding the newspaper made him think she would have used it on him if he’d disagreed.

  They sat on cushioned redwood chairs with a small red­wood table between them.

  “My husband was called to Sacramento by the governor for an emergency meeting on offshore oil leases. Only such an important matter would have taken him away from the house at a time like this. He left me with instructions on what to do if anything new developed. The first was to call you immediately. He’s taken a liking to you. Hilton does things like that—perhaps every good executive has to.” One corner of her mouth curled up in a small, unamused smile. “I know what every executive’s wife has to do, and that is obey orders. So here we are, you and I.” She made it sound like the opposite of a fun date.

  “Has anything new happened, Mrs. Jasper?”

  “I think it’s going to. Have you seen the morning paper?”

  “Not yet.”

  “It contains the advertisement about the dog. I didn’t even have a chance to check it out before the phone began to ring. A man who said he was on welfare described a dog he’d found on his front porch. It was obviously a beagle, not a basset, and I advised him to ask the Animal Shelter to pick it up. The second call was more interesting. A woman with an accent, perhaps Irish, told me that one of her ten­ants had brought home a dog. She manages an apartment house where dogs are not allowed and she’s bringin
g the dog here in about an hour. It’s undoubtedly Zia. She spoke of a small shaved area on the dog’s chest where he’d been treated for a hot spot. I’d like you to stay and meet her, Mr. Aragon.”

  “Did she give a name?”

  “Griswold. Mrs. Griswold.”

  “And address?”

  “I forgot to ask. I was terribly rattled. I even had the wild idea that it might be Cleo herself playing a trick on us. She likes to play tricks, but of course anything that elaborate is way beyond her ability.”

  “Did Mrs. Griswold seem eager to collect the reward?”

  “She never mentioned it.”

  “Not a word?”

  “No. I’m prepared to hand it over to her, of course. Hil­ton left me five one-hundred-dollar bills in case something like this happened. I don’t think he expected it though.” She glanced at her wristwatch. It was large and serviceable-looking, like Frieda Jasper herself. “We have at least forty-five minutes to wait, assuming Mrs. Griswold arrives on time. I have some coffee made. Would you like some?”

  “I would, yes.”

  The fog was lifting. Steam rose from the swimming pool and the heavy shake roof of the house next door. The sea shone like a bright new revelation. In the distance Mexi­can palm trees, skinny and shaggy-topped, stood like a row of upside-down dust mops.

  She returned carrying a tray with a glass pot of coffee and two ceramic mugs.

  “Cream? Sugar?”

  “Black.”

  “Troc’s working in the citrus grove out back. I haven’t told him yet about the dog. He’s old and very emotional and I would be afraid of the consequences if the woman doesn’t show up.” She sat down again. “We have well over half an hour to wait. I suppose you’ll want to ask questions about Cleo.”

  “Yes.”

  “The second of the instructions Hilton left me was to be discreet. I’m not sure I can talk about Cleo and be discreet at the same time. I’ll try.”

  She didn’t try very hard. After a swallow of coffee and a couple of deep breaths of air she was off:

  “I didn’t want to take the girl in. She was eight, a year older than my son, Ted, already fixed in her ways and spoiled by a half-crazy grandmother. But there was no one else willing and able to do it, so she came here. At first Hil­ton couldn’t stand the sight of her because he’d always blamed her for his mother’s death. When he came to real­ize her innocence and her vulnerability, he felt terribly guilty, to blame a child for being born. He gave her every­thing, everything he had, and unfortunately everything I had, too. Ted was sent away to school so I could spend more time educating her.”