P is for PERIL

by Sue Grafton

  “He’d heard a rumor Crystal was having an affair. He assumed it was me. Too bad I couldn’t up and confess. I’d have taken a certain satisfaction shoving that in his face.”

  “It wasn’t you.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “How long were you married to her?”

  “Six years.”

  “Bad years? Good?”

  “I thought they were good, but like they say, the husband’s the last to know.”

  “I’ve heard your relationship was volatile.”

  He paused and leaned on the fender while he wiped his hands. “We had chemistry. Stone and flint. We’d come together and the sparks would fly. What’s wrong with that?”

  “She didn’t have sparks with Purcell?”

  “Are you kidding? The way I heard it, he liked the kinky stuff. That must have been the shock of her life. Here she marries the guy thinking he’s the answer to her prayers. Turns out he drinks like a fish and can’t get it up unless she wears high-heeled boots and beats his ass with a whip. It doesn’t surprise me she’d cheat. I might have slapped her around, but I never did that stuff.”

  “Was she faithful to you?”

  “Far as I know. I don’t put up with any shit on that score.”

  “How’d you get along with Purcell?”

  “Considering he walked off with my wife, we did fine.”

  “You remember where you were?”

  He smiled, shaking his head. “The night he took a dive? I already went through that. The cops were here yesterday.”

  “What’d you tell them?”

  “Same thing I’m telling you. I was working that Friday, the night of the twelfth. I had a gig driving cabs – it’s on the company books. Leila was here with her friend Paulie, watching videos. Crystal picked her up Sunday morning as usual. You can ask her yourself if you don’t believe me.”

  I watched him for a moment. “What happened to the earring?”

  “Took it out for an interview I had a few months back. Didn’t want the guy to think I was a fruit.”

  “You get the job?”

  “No.”

  “Is that why you’re going back to Vegas, to change your luck?”

  “Here’s my theory. Things get bad? Think about the last place you were happy and go there.”

  In a fit of guilt, I devoted all of Friday to other clients. Nothing exciting went down, but at least it paid the bills.

  The memorial service for Dr. Dowan Purcell took place at 2:00 Saturday afternoon in the Presbyterian Chapel on West Glen Road in Montebello. I donned my black all-purpose dress and black flats and presented myself at 1:45. The sanctuary was narrow, with high stone walls, a beamed ceiling, and fifty pews divided into two sections of twenty-five. Outside, the day was damp and gray and the six stained-glass windows, done in tints of deep scarlet and indigo, reduced most of the available light to a somber gloom. I don’t know much about the Presbyterian faith, but the atmosphere alone was enough to put me off predestination.

  Despite the fact the mourners were assembled by invitation only, the crowd was sizeable and filled the chapel to capacity. Crystal’s friends sat on one side, Fiona’s on the other. For some, the decision seemed easy. Dana and Joel, for instance, took their seats without hesitation, studiously avoiding Dow’s second wife out of loyalty to his first. Those I judged to be mutual acquaintances seemed torn, consulting one another surreptitiously before they slid into a pew. While the stragglers were being seated, an unseen organist worked her (or his) way through a selection of dolorous tunes, the funereal equivalent of Top Forty Dirges. I used the time to contemplate the brevity of life, wondering if Richard Hevener intended to shorten mine. Mariah, when she’d called back, didn’t seem that alarmed. Her theory was the Hevener boys would never risk another murder so soon after the first. This was not a comfort.

  Crystal had arranged things in haste and it felt about like that. I guess organizing a funeral is like planning any other social event. Some people have a flair for it, some people don’t. What made this one odd was the absence of a casket, a crematory urn, or even floral sprays. The announcement in the paper had suggested that, in lieu of flowers, a charitable donation should be made in Dr. Purcell’s name. There wasn’t even a photograph of him.

  In the matter of seating, I’d suffered a bit of conflict. Crystal had asked me to attend, but since I was still technically in Fiona’s employ, I felt fiscally obliged to sit on her side of the church. I’d settled on the aisle in the last pew, affording myself a panoramic view. Fiona’s older daughter, Melanie, had flown in from San Francisco and she walked her mother down the aisle as solemnly as a father giving away his daughter in marriage. Fiona was dressed, not surprisingly, in black; a two-piece wool suit with big rhinestone buttons on the jacket and the skirt cut midcalf. Her curls had been subdued under a black velvet cloche and she wore a veil suggestive of the Lone Ranger’s mask. I saw her press a tissue to her mouth, but she might have been blotting her lipstick instead of holding back tears. Mel’s hair, like her mother’s, was dark, though the style was quite severe; hennaed and blunt cut with dense, unforgiving bangs. She was taller and more substantial, in an austere charcoal pantsuit and black ankle boots.

  Blanche followed them down the aisle in a voluminous maternity tent. She moved slowly, both hands framing her belly as though holding it in place. She walked as carefully as someone whose soup is threatening to slop out of the bowl. Her husband, Andrew, accompanied her, his pace slowed to hers. She’d left the children at home, which was a mercy on us all.

  Mrs. Stegler, from Pacific Meadows, sat just in front of me; brown suit, brown oxfords, and her mop of red curls. There were also numerous doctor types in dark suits and several elderly people I took to be Dr. Purcell’s former geriatric patients.

  On the other side of the aisle, Crystal and Leila were ushered to their seats in the first pew on the left. Crystal wore a simple black sheath, her tumble of blond hair giving her a look of elegant dishevelment. She looked tired, her face pinched, dark circles under her eyes. Leila had forsworn the outlandish in favor of the strange: a black latex tube top matched with a black sequined skirt. Her short white-blond hair stood out from her head as though charged with static electricity. Jacob Trigg, in a coat and tie, swung into the church on his forearm crutches. He eased into a seat on Fiona’s side, near the rear. Anica Blackburn appeared and smiled at me briefly before she took her seat in the pew across from mine. There was the usual rustle and murmuring, an occasional cough. I checked my program, wondering how Crystal managed to get it printed up so fast. Altogether, we were looking at a scattering of hymns, a doxology, two prayers, a soloist singing Ave Maria, followed by the eulogy, and two more hymns.

  A latecomer arrived, a woman with medium-blond hair whom I recognized belatedly as Pepper Gray, my favorite nurse. I watched her shrug out of her coat and tiptoe halfway down the aisle, where she paused while a fellow rose to let her into the pew. She walked as if she was still wearing crepe-sole shoes.

  The minister appeared in a robe like a judge, accompanied by his spiritual bailiff, who intoned the corollary of a courtroom “All rise.” We stood and sang. We sat and prayed. While all heads were bowed, I occupied my thoughts by reflecting on the state of my pantyhose and my unruly soul. I don’t know why pantyhose can’t be designed to stay in place. As for the state of my soul, my early religious training would have to be considered spotty at best, consisting as it did of sequential expulsions from a variety of church Sunday schools. My aunt Gin had never married and had no offspring of her own. After I was so rudely thrust into her care by the death of my parents, she fell headlong into parenting without any experience, making up the rules as she went along. From the outset, she labored under the misguided notion that children should be told the truth, so I was regaled with lengthy and unvarnished replies to the simplest of questions, the one about the origin of babies being my earliest.

  My most unfortunate Sunday-school experience came that first
Christmas in her care when I was five and a half years old. She must have felt some obligation to expose me to religious doctrine so she dropped me off at the Baptist church down the block from our trailer park. The lesson that Sunday morning was about Mary and Joseph, of whom I instantly disapproved. As nearly as I could tell, poor baby Jesus had been born to a couple of deadbeats, with no more sense than to birth him in a shed. When my Sunday-school teacher, Mrs. Nevely, began to explain to my little classmates how Mary came to be “with child,” I was apparently the only one present who knew how far off the mark she was. Up shot my hand. She called on me, pleased at my eagerness to make a contribution. I can still remember the change that came over her face as I launched into the doctrine of conception according to Aunt Gin.

  By the time Aunt Gin came to fetch me, I’d been set out on the curb, a note pinned to my dress, forbidden to say a word until she arrived to take me home. Fortunately, no blame attached. She made me a “sammich” of white bread and butter, filled with halved Vienna sausages out of a can. I sat on the trailer porch step and ate my picnic lunch. While I played croquet by myself in her tiny side yard, Aunt Gin called all her friends, spoke in low tones, and laughed quite a lot. I knew I’d made her happy, but I wasn’t quite sure how.

  When the minister finally stepped up to the pulpit, he made the sort of generic remarks that were safe for any but the most depraved decedent. The service finally ended and people began to file out of the church. I lingered near the door, hoping to catch Fiona before she left the premises. I wanted to set up a time to chat with her so we could sort out the details of our relationship. I finally caught sight of her, leaning heavily against Mel, who walked in tandem with her. Melanie must have known who I was because she shot me a warning glance as she guided her mother down the steps and out to the parking lot.

  Anica touched me on the arm. “Are you coming back to the house? Some people are stopping by.”

  “Are you sure it’s okay? I don’t want to intrude.”

  “It’s fine. Crystal told me to ask. We’re at the beach.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Good. We’ll see you there.”

  The parking lot emptied slowly. The crowd dispersed as though from a movie theater, people pausing to chat while departing vehicles inched by. I returned to my car and joined the thinning stream. The overcast had lightened and a pale hint of sun seemed to filter through the clouds.

  The beach house was only two miles from the church on surface roads. I must have been one of the last to arrive because the gravel berm on Paloma Lane was completely lined with expensive cars. I grabbed the first spot I saw, locked my car, and walked the rest of the way to the house. I sensed the crotch of my pantyhose had slipped to midthigh. I hoisted the suckers back into place by giving a little jump. For ten cents, I’d peel ‘em off and toss ‘em in a bush.

  As I turned into Crystal’s driveway, I saw the same vintage auto I’d seen at Pacific Meadows. Cautiously, I paused and scrutinized the area, noting that I was protected from view. The entire rear facade of Crystal’s beach house was windowless and the roadway behind me was momentarily empty. I circled the vehicle, checking the manufacturer’s emblem affixed to the right front fender. A Kaiser Manhattan. Never heard of it. All four doors were locked and a quick look into the front and backseats revealed nothing of interest.

  The front door had been left ajar and the sounds spilling out were not unlike an ordinary cocktail party. Death, by its nature, reshapes the connection between family members and friends. Survivors tend to gather, using food and drink as a balm to counteract the loss. There is usually laughter. I’m not quite sure why, but I suspect it’s an integral part of the healing process, the mourner’s talisman.

  There were probably sixty people present, most of whom I’d seen at the church. The French doors stood open to the deck and I could hear the constant shushing of the surf beyond. A gentleman in a cropped white jacket walked by with a tray, pausing to offer me a glass of champagne. I thanked him and took one. I found a place near the stairs and sipped champagne while I searched for the man with the mustache and thick silver hair.

  Jacob Trigg came up behind me, pausing as I had at the edge of the crowd. Many of the mourners were already engaged in animated conversations and the thought of breaking into any given threesome was daunting. Trigg said, “You know these people?”

  “No, do you?”

  “A few. I understand you were the one who found Dow.”

  “I did and I’m sorry he died. I was hoping he’d gone off to South America.”

  “Me, too.” Trigg’s smile was bleak.

  “Did Dow ever mention money missing from his savings account?”

  “I know he was aware of it. The bank manager became concerned and sent him a copy of the statement with a query attached. Dow thanked him, said he knew what it was and he’d take care of it. In truth, it was the first he’d heard. Initially, he figured it had to be Crystal since the statements were being routed to her P.O. box.”

  “Did he ask her?”

  “Not about the money, but about the post-office box. She told him she’d dumped it about a year ago. He didn’t want to press the issue until he’d looked into it. It almost had to be someone in the house because who else would have access to the bank card and the pin number for that account?”

  “Who’d he suspect?”

  “Crystal or Leila, though it could have been Rand. He’d obviously narrowed it down, but he wouldn’t say a word until he knew for sure. He and Crystal clashed over Leila so many times, she’d threatened to walk out. If he’d had a problem with Leila, he’d have handled it himself. Of course, when it came to Rand, Crystal was just as fierce. Why take that on? There’d have been hell to pay there, too.”

  “How so?”

  “He’s the only one she trusted with Griff. Without Rand, where’s her freedom? Dow was in a bind any which way it went.”

  “Why not close the account?”

  “I’m sure he did.”

  “Did he ever figure out who it was?”

  “If so, he never told me.”

  “Too bad. With his passport missing, the cops figured he might have left of his own accord. I wonder why Crystal didn’t fill them in.”

  “Maybe she didn’t know. He might have decided pursuing it wasn’t worth the risk.”

  “He’d let someone walk off with thirty thousand bucks?”

  “Dad?”

  Both of us turned. A woman with a thick blond braid halfway down her back stood behind us. She was in her forties, no makeup, in a long cotton sweater, a peasant skirt, and sandals. She looked like the sort who never shaved her legs, but I didn’t want to check. She was too smart to wear pantyhose, so I gave her points for that. Mine were sinking again. Any moment, they’d slip down as far as my knees and I’d have to start hobbling, taking little mincing steps wherever I went.

  “This is my daughter, Susan.”

  “Nice meeting you,” I said. We shook hands and the three of us stood chatting for a while before she took his arm.

  “I hope you don’t mind if we go. This is all a bit rich for my blood,” she said.

  “She thinks I’m tired, which I am,” Trigg confessed. “We’ll talk again soon.”

  “I hope so.”

  Chapter 21

  *

  As soon as they left, I set my glass down and found the nearest bathroom. The door was shut. I tried the handle and found it locked. I waited, leaning against the wall, making sure I was first in the one-person line. I heard the toilet flush, water running in the sink. Moments later, the door opened and the man with the mustache and silver hair emerged. He smiled at me politely and went into the den. I shut myself in the bathroom and availed myself of the facilities. Having hoisted my pantyhose up the pole like a flag, I went out and found a perch on the stairs, three steps down from the top, the perfect vantage point from which to view the gathering. Rand was making the rounds with Griffith affixed to his hip. Griff was outfitted
in a sky blue sailor suit, and Rand mouthed Griff’s imaginary monologue as though the child were a ventriloquist’s sidekick. I hadn’t seen Leila but figured she was in the house somewhere. Crystal would never tolerate her boycotting the event.

  The caterers had finished setting out a cold buffet of boneless chicken breasts, three kinds of salad, marinated asparagus, deviled eggs, and baskets of fresh rolls. People loitered near the table in clusters, everyone trying to avoid going first. Ordinarily, I’d have left Crystal’s long before now, but I was curious about the man with the silver hair. I saw him return to the great room, this time in the company of a gaunt brunette, who had a wineglass in one hand, the other hand hooked through his arm. She wore a black long-sleeved leotard under skin-tight black leather pants, cinched by a wide silver belt. The stiletto heels on her boots looked like five-inch toothpicks. This was an outfit more appropriate to soliciting on street corners than attending a wake. Her body wasn’t quite slick enough to bear up under such pitiless revelations. Her liposuctionist should have slurped another pint of fat from the top of each thigh.

  She seemed watchful, her gaze flitting uneasily around the room. Her smile, when it appeared, was self-conscious and never quite reached her eyes. I’m not sure I buy into talk like this, but her “aura” was dark; I could almost see the magnetic force field surrounding her. She was bristling, battle-ready. What was the deal here? The guy seemed to know quite a few people. Relaxed and at ease, he chatted first with one group and then another while she clung to his arm. In contrast to her tartlike ensemble, his suit was well cut, a conservative dark blue that he wore with a pale blue shirt and a tone-on-tone pale blue tie. I pegged him in his late fifties, one of those men who’d aged well: trim and fit-looking. He had to be a doctor. I couldn’t think what else he’d have been doing at Pacific Meadows at midnight, aside from the impromptu game with Pepper Gray.

  He murmured to the woman and then took his place in the supper line, picking up his plate and a napkin-wrapped bundle of silverware. Though she moved into line behind him, they didn’t speak to each other. I watched him fill his plate to capacity while she helped herself to a demitasse of salad and four asparagus spears. He settled on the couch in the only remaining space. He rested his wineglass and his plate on the pale wood coffee table and began to eat. When she tried to join him, there was no seat left. She stood there for a moment, clearly hoping he’d scoot over and make room for her. He seemed intent on his meal, and she was forced to take a chair by herself at a distance. She busied herself with her plate to cover her discomfiture, though no one else present seemed to notice. The server walked by with a bottle of Chardonnay. She looked up at him sharply and held out her glass, which he filled generously.