by P. J. Conn
"I'm definitely getting out of insurance."
"And going into ice cream?"
"Maybe. I'd like to try mixing in peanut butter, but I'm afraid it would chill into solid clumps. I might have to bake peanut butter cookies and break them up into vanilla ice cream."
"That does sound good. Have you've been giving this a lot of thought?"
"Since last night?" He hadn't spent a second thinking about ice cream until a minute ago. "No, but I liked your idea of beginning with vanilla ice cream and seeing what I can conjure up with it before I hit Aunt Lucy up for a job."
He was relieved she didn't appear to be upset with him for walking out on her last night, and he kept the conversation light while they lingered over dinner. When they cracked open their fortune cookies, he found his amusing. "All women are pretty in the moonlight."
"That might be a stretch with some," she replied. She showed him her fortune. "Love answers all questions."
"Probably, but I forgot to ask them. Forgive me, I don't mean to sound sorry for myself."
"You usually don't. In fact, you've shown remarkable strength of character in the time I've known you."
He managed an embarrassed smile. "Thank you, but I don't feel as though I'm out of this unholy mess yet." He paid their bill, and left a generous tip. "Let me walk you to your car." She took his arm rather than his hand, but he counted himself lucky. She'd parked on the street rather than in a lot, and he had only a moment to tell her good-bye before she got in her car and drove away. He wished again that he'd kissed her last night when they'd had plenty of time, and was sorry he'd no such opportunity tonight.
"Love answers all questions," he muttered under his breath, but he knew absolutely nothing about love.
* * *
Thursday morning, Hal walked into Pierce Custom Tailoring wearing a dress shirt and slacks. A male mannequin in a beautifully tailored navy blue suit immediately caught his eye. "Good morning," he called to the dark-haired man seated behind the counter. "What does a custom tailored suit as handsome as this one cost?"
The man closed the open ledger he'd been working on and slid it onto the shelf beneath the counter. "Frankly, it all depends on how much you annoy me."
"Really?" Hal couldn't tell if he were joking or not. The fellow was perhaps fifty-years-old, and was dressed in dark slacks, and a white dress shirt and tie. A measuring tape hung loosely round his neck.
"Really. I'm Samuel Pierce. Forgive me if I've shocked you, but you appear to be a reasonable man, and you'd be easy to fit. You'd be surprised if you saw some of my clientele. I'm discreet of course, and never reveal names, but when a man would be more comfortable in a loose tent, it's difficult to create a suit that will flatter him."
"I know the type." Hal was immediately reminded of George Sharp, and wondered if he patronized Pierce Tailoring. "A young man recommended you. His last name was Yates, I believe."
"Lord help us," Samuel returned to his stool behind the long counter. "Phillip is my sister's son, and he works for me between stints in jail, I'm sorry to say."
There had been an apostle named Phillip, so one of the card players in the Square Deal Café had been right. "That's very generous of you. I hope it wasn't anything violent."
Samuel shrugged. "My sister married a thug, and her son is just like him. His main job was to keep the shop swept and clean, but now he's quit, as usual without giving notice."
Hal studied the woolen fabric swatches on display. "The shop looks fine. When did he leave?"
"He didn't come in on Tuesday last week, and I haven't heard from him since. Enough about him. Custom suits vary in price according to the fabric selected. How much did you want to spend?"
A week ago Tuesday, the Times had printed the story about Faye's double identity, and if Phillip had had something to do with her death, it could have hit him hard. It was definitely a suspicious time for him to leave his uncle's employ.
Hal stayed to talk with the tailor and convinced he would like to own a custom tailored suit rather than another off a rack, he promised to return when he had his finances in order. He went by Joe Ezell's office, but heard him speaking to a client and preferred not to interrupt or wait.
Once home, he glanced toward the window expecting to see Mr. Cuddles yawning a bored greeting. He felt foolish for missing the damn cat, and at the same time, he was enormously grateful Gladys had taken him in. He made a fresh pot of coffee, and drank a cup slowly while he debated how to go about giving Detective Lynch a lead on who had killed Faye.
Lynch answered his phone on the second ring, and listened quietly as Hal gave him a name of a possible shooter. "I know Phillip Yates. He's been in trouble since he turned thirteen and began robbing newsstands. He isn't the type to do good deeds for a lady, but if it involved murder, he might have. I'll follow up on it."
"Please let me know what you find," Hal answered.
"If we make an arrest, you'll read about it in the Times," Lynch countered and hung up.
Hal had expected as much. George Sharp hadn't called, so he couldn't go into the office. He looked around the apartment, and with nothing that needed doing, it was time to ask Carmen to help him pack up Faye's belongings. He'd need some boxes first though, and would see what he could pick up behind the grocery store. The afternoon was settled in his mind, but in a dark melancholy mood, he just couldn't get up and get on with it.
Chapter 20
Dr. Andrew Soule telephoned Hal Sunday afternoon just as he was preparing to go to the movies. Elated to hear from the psychiatrist, he agreed to meet with him that same afternoon. He called Gladys, and when her phone continued to ring, he feared he'd missed her. He was about to hang up when she finally answered.
"Sorry, I was outside playing at gardening," she apologized in a breathless rush.
"Dr. Soule is home and can see us this afternoon. Do you still want to come with me?"
"Are you kidding? Of course I do."
"He lives near you. I'll pick you up in half an hour."
"Make it forty-five minutes. I've got to rinse off the dirt."
He had never showered with Faye, which struck him as a sad failing. It wasn't the afternoon to offer to clean-up with Gladys either, but maybe someday it would be. "You have it."
* * *
Gladys dressed in dark slacks and a cream-colored sweater rather than her usual professional attire. "Let Dr. Soule assume whatever he'd like, but don't introduce me as your attorney. If he thinks there's a chance he'll have to testify in court, he might not be nearly as forthcoming as he'd be with us otherwise."
"Good plan. Do you ever miss anything?"
"Not much." She pulled a small leather-bound notebook from her purse. "You ask the questions, and I'll take notes."
"Fine, but ask any questions I miss."
"Will do."
Dr. Soule lived in a stately brick two-story home that appeared to be losing a battle with the lush green ivy growing in profusion up the north side. The psychiatrist opened the door on the first ring of the doorbell and ushered them into his book-lined den. He was of medium height with a chunky build and had the thick silver hair of film actors playing politicians. A neatly trimmed mustache and goatee framed a wide friendly smile. He was dressed in tan slacks, a pale blue shirt, and a forest green vest that might have been knit by someone who loved him.
"Here, take a seat on the sofa, and I'll pull a chair up close. When I heard you'd called about Renee, I was deeply saddened to learn of her death. May I extend my sympathies for your loss. If it wouldn't be too painful, would you please tell me how it happened?"
"Thank you." Hal hadn't expected him to be so open to a discussion about Renee, and while he welcomed it, he also found it somehow unsettling. "I'll tell you what I know of her story, but what you know about Renee, should come first."
"Then we'll be here a long while. Would you care for coffee or tea?" When Hal and Gladys politely refused refreshments, the psychiatrist got comfortable in his chair and began. "Re
nee's father brought her to me when she began having trouble in high school. She'd gone from being an A student, to one barely passing her classes. She wouldn't confide in her father, and he hoped I'd be able to discover what had gone wrong and correct it. Of course, it's impossible to fix anyone the way you would tune a car, but I recognized the girl's potential and agreed to see her.
"She was very shy, and did indeed appear to be troubled. I thought hypnosis might enable her to speak of her problem more easily. Curiosity may have prompted her to agree."
"So you hypnotized her?" Hal asked.
"Yes, I did, but rather than gaining significant insights into her falling grades as I'd hoped, hypnosis revealed something astonishing." He leaned forward. "Permit me a quick aside. Around the turn of the century, ending in 1904, a twenty-three-year-old woman referred to as Christine Beauchamp became a patient of a Boston neurologist, a Dr. Morton Prince. Under hypnosis, Miss Beauchamp revealed three distinct personalities, and none had any knowledge of the other. It's a classic case discussed in medical textbooks, but it's rare, and I'd not encountered such a patient until I met Renee."
Dumbfounded, Hal asked, "Are you saying she had more than one personality?"
"Indeed she did. Emotional trauma can be a cause and while she never admitted it directly, she may have been abused by one of her mother's gentlemen friends."
Gladys exchanged a quick perplexed glance with Hal. "So you met with Renee, and under hypnosis, another personality emerged?"
"Yes, she called herself Pearl and was insistent that I speak with her. She wanted to be a model, and had no interest in finishing high school. She was far more sophisticated than Renee, but she appeared only when I'd hypnotized Renee. I couldn't contact her otherwise, but from the way she spoke, she convinced me that she had a distinct life separate from Renee's. Unfortunately, her father died. Her mother regarded psychiatry as expensive foolishness, and removed her from my care. It was most disappointing, I assure you."
"Did you talk to Renee's mother about her second personality?" Hal inquired.
"No, she wouldn't have been receptive to the idea, and while I took slow measured steps with Renee, she didn't appear to fully grasp what I told her. I'd hoped she would come to see me again once she'd turned eighteen, but she didn't. Now please tell me your parts of her story. I'm anxious to hear it."
Hal drew in a deep breath, and released it slowly, but his thoughts remained in a painful jumble. He'd wanted answers from the psychiatrist, but what he'd learned had left him all the more confused. He repeated what Aunt Millie had told him about Renee's quixotic temperament as a child.
"I knew her as Faye Renee Bell, not Renee Stewart. She created a history for herself that bore no relation to the truth. We met, got along well, and married last summer." He described how he'd met Pearl after the first of the year.
"Now it looks as though my wife may have died in a murder for hire she'd arranged herself. It sounds impossible, but she may have been desperate to get rid of Pearl without realizing she'd be killing herself."
Like many silver-haired men, Dr. Soule's eyebrows were dark and each twitch and dip accented his dismay. "Remarkable in all respects," he murmured. "Of course, we all see the tragedy in her death, while I'm fascinated by how different her separate lives had become. I could have studied Renee for years, but sadly the opportunity is lost." He shrugged and sighed unhappily.
Gladys studied her notes. "So Renee could have hired someone to kill Pearl and been completely unaware that she'd also die?"
"Yes, although I know it stretches belief. If she had any other psychiatric care, I'm unaware of it. If only Renee's mother had let her continue to see me, we might have had a much better result."
"It's difficult to imagine a worse one," Hal interjected. "Would Pearl have planned Faye's murder?" Hal asked.
Dr. Soule sat back in his chair and knit his fingers over his chest. "I was hired to treat Renee, but Pearl seemed the stronger personality of the two. She was more confident and self-assured. She wouldn't have regarded Renee as a threat. This is all conjecture, of course, you realize."
"Yes, I understand. Thank you for your time." He stood and offered Gladys his hand to help her rise. "May we contact you again if we have more questions?"
The psychiatrist walked them to the front door. "Yes, please do. There's still a great deal more to be learned from Renee's life."
"I'll keep in touch," Hal promised.
Gladys whispered as they walked down the brick path to their car, "Do you mean that?"
He shook his head and unlocked the Packard's passenger side door for her. "Yes, but only if I have to. He regarded Renee as a lab rat, and it doesn't matter to him that she's dead. She was a fascinating case, and reporting on her would embellish his reputation as a psychiatrist. It was plain he didn't really care about her."
Once they were both seated in the car, he gasped as though all the air had been sucked from his lungs, and quickly rolled down the window. "We've found a psychiatrist who will attest to our belief that Pearl was a separate identity, and I'll give his name to Detective Lynch and let him pursue it."
Gladys reached for his hand. "I've had enough for today and could use some of Aunt Lucy's ice cream. How about you?"
"It won't be a bit of help, but why not?" Hal squeezed her hand and then took her to Aunt Lucy's. He needed to make fresh memories rather than fret over his wife's tragic death. Maybe Pearl was haunting him without the bells or cold mists or music coming from a piano while no one played. He ordered double fudge and thought of her with every single bite.
* * *
Monday morning, Hal practiced by telling Joe Ezell what they'd learned from Dr. Soule before he contacted Det. Lynch with the psychiatrist's name. "Does that make any sense to you?" he asked.
Joe gestured helplessly. "I met the same Faye you married, a sweet girl who loved you. All this other stuff about Pearl, or hiring a hit man, it's difficult to believe."
"If it's difficult for you, imagine how impossible it is for me," Hal countered. "I may have found the hit man, and I've given Detective Lynch his name. He's a young man who's been in trouble since he was a kid. I'm still curious about Pearl and wonder about her life, but we'll never wrap up the details. It's time to end the investigation. Go ahead and total up my bill."
Joe carried a small notebook to keep track of the hours he spent working on each case and pulled it out of the top drawer. "Give me a couple of days to type up a bill. While your wife's case defies logic, I've enjoyed working with you. Most of the guys I grew up with have moved out of the area or didn't make it home from the war. I'd hate to miss a chance to find a golf partner. Do you play?"
"I played a few rounds in college with a fraternity brother who was on the golf team, and that's it. I may have a lot of time on my hands, so I probably should take up the game."
"I could give you lessons," Joe offered. "I'd once thought of becoming a golf pro, but that ship has sailed."
"Lessons would be good," Hal responded. He'd not admit it, but he was short on friends as well, and Joe knew his story so he wouldn't have to repeat it to anyone new. "I need to get back to work, if I still have a job. I'll talk to you soon."
Joe stood with him. "I'll mail your bill."
As Hal walked home, the idea of taking up golf became increasingly appealing. The top executives of California West played together, and he ought to be ready when, and if, he reached their level. He called his secretary to check in, and found her nearly hysterical.
"What's happened, Lorraine?"
"It's Charlie Sharp," she rushed to explain. "He had a heart attack at a relative's wedding over the weekend, and died before they could rush him to the hospital. The whole office is in a state over it. Can you come in?"
"Of course, I can." Hal dressed in a favorite suit and took the Red Car to work as he had so many times. The familiar routine was a welcome release, and a couple of his salesmen cheered as he came through the door. "Good morning," he called. "We'll meet
in fifteen minutes to plan the rest of the week."
Lorraine nearly cried she was so glad to see him. She followed him into his office with the notes she'd kept. "If you'll excuse me for saying so, the last couple of weeks without you have been hell. There's a good chance you'll get Mr. Sharp's job, and I know you're ready for it."
Hal had come too close to being fired to hope for a promotion but swallowed a chuckle rather than laugh out loud. "Thank you for the vote of confidence. Let's wait and see what happens." He reviewed her notes quickly before the meeting he'd called began. Overall, his salesmen had behaved themselves and sold insurance. Now he'd have to inspire them to sell even more.
First he needed to contact Detective Lynch with Dr. Andrew Soule's name. "This should be my last call," he began, but the detective interrupted him.
"You were right about Phillip Yates. We arrested him, and he confessed to your wife's murder. He'd seen himself as her hero until the news broke that Rose and Faye were one and the same. He was drunk and hysterical when we picked him up, and his gun proved to be the murder weapon. So your wife's case is closed."
Hal was relieved, as well as grateful, but he refused to thank Lynch for his work when he'd been so damn misguided. He gave him Dr. Soule's name, but doubted the detective would follow up now they had made an arrest. As he saw it, the LAPD might never have solved the case without Phillip Yates' name. He'd gladly allow Lynch to take the credit, however, and hope he'd never have any need to see him again.
* * *
That night, after Hal had eaten what could pass for a dinner, he called Gladys at her home. He let her know Detective Lynch had arrested the man who'd shot Faye, and his wife's case was closed. "Are you ever going to send me a bill?" he asked.
"Yes, eventually, of course. How's the ice cream coming?"
"It'll have to wait. I've gone back to work, just to keep myself sane. By the fall, I should be able to decide what I really want to do."
"That's a good plan, Hal. Mr. Cuddles sends his best wishes."
