by Sue Grafton
“Who was there?”
“Bayard and Troy and a few other guys.”
“Any other girls besides you?”
“Maybe four or five. Iris for sure because I gave her a ride up.”
“You’re talking about Iris Lehmann?”
“Right. She was my best friend at the time.”
“But not now?”
“I see her now and then,” she said cautiously.
“What about Fritz?”
“He was a show-off. He got everything he deserved.”
All-righty then, I thought. “So it wasn’t a big party; just a dozen or so.”
She shrugged, but offered nothing more. She’d reverted to her former caution and I wondered if something had happened that day that she didn’t want to talk about. I’d have to coax her back into the conversation before she shut down altogether. In the adjacent dining room, I noticed an old-fashioned Underwood typewriter with a rolling desk chair pulled up to it. The surrounding tabletop was covered with books, files, and typing paper, some of it wadded up and cast aside—the universal symbol of writerly angst.
I indicated the poster board. “Is this what you do for a living? I should have asked you earlier.”
Her eyes strayed to the typewriter. “I’m working on a screenplay.”
“You’re a writer?”
“Well, no. Not really. This is a movie about the murder.”
Her cheeks had acquired a pink tint and her expression was earnest. “People are always telling me I should put it down on paper since I was there and saw it firsthand. I don’t mean when she was killed.”
“Are you writing a fictionalized account?”
“Well, it’s not a documentary, so I guess you could call it true fiction or something along those lines. People swear a movie like this could be a box office smash, especially if I include a starring role for a big-name actor, which I intend to do.”
“Whose part do you see as the starring role?”
That was a stumper. She shrugged. “Austin’s, I guess.”
“Really.”
“He’s, you know, the antagonist and now that he’s a fugitive from justice, it makes him kind of an outlaw. Like an antihero.”
“In other words, someone the audience admires,” I said.
“Uh-huh.”
“You have a literary agent?”
“I don’t need one. A couple of months ago, I met someone who works for a Hollywood production company and she promised to show the script to her boss as soon as I finish it. That way I don’t have to pay the agent’s ten percent off the top. She says in the film business, it’s all about who you know.”
“So I’ve heard. How far along are you?”
“Page twenty-six. It’s harder than I thought. You have to know all these technical terms.”
“What, like fade out, fade in?”
“Exactly.”
Talk about no hope. Her stepmother had loved telling me what a poor student she’d been, so the notion of her writing anything worth money seemed farfetched. “What are you calling the screenplay?”
“I was thinking about Yellowweed,” she replied. She paused long enough to study me. “Do you have siblings?”
“I don’t. I’m an only child,” I said, wondering where she was going with this.
“You’re lucky. You have no idea what it’s like growing up in a house where your sibs think they’re so smart. All my family ever cared about was money and prestige.”
“I understand your mother walked out about the time Sloan was killed.”
Her expression darkened. “Right. Thanks a lot, Mom. Way to go. My sisters were out of the house by then. They acted all hurt and upset, but what was it to them? They had their own lives. I was the one stuck at home. My family’s never had a clue who I am or what I care about. Forget creativity or the arts or anything original. They’re all science types.”
“You seem to be doing okay. This place is great.”
“My dad pays the rent, which irritates the shit out of Loretta because it’s money she could be spending on herself. She doesn’t say so, but I know she sees me as a big old loser. When my screenplay sells, I’ll at least have enough money to get the hell out of Dodge.”
“I think it’s nice that they’re willing to pitch in financially,” I said, trying to inject an optimistic note. Meanwhile, I was thinking that her denying Sloan had given her the tape might be a big old lie. What if she’d had it in her possession all these years? If the tape had triggered the end of her relationship with Troy, wouldn’t she take pleasure in getting back at him? He hadn’t been approached for money, but if the tape became public knowledge, he and Fritz would be tarred with the same brush. Nice belated revenge for his betrayal of her. I pictured what she might do with twenty-five thousand bucks. Thumb her nose at Loretta, at the very least.
Miss Mopey was saying, “All they care about is getting me out of their hair. Emotional support would be nice, but I guess that’s too much to ask.”
I didn’t want to foster additional lamentations, so I shifted the subject. “Have you had a chance to talk to Fritz since he got out?”
“He’s stopped by a couple of times, which I try not to encourage. He acts all goofy, like he has a crush on me. Wouldn’t you know it? Cute guys won’t give me the time of day. Doofus like him is all over me.”
“Do you mind if I ask a few more questions about Sloan? It might be helpful going back over events. Since you’re hard at work on the script, this might stimulate your memory.”
Mollified, she said, “Like what?”
“It must have been a shock when you heard she was dead.”
“A big shock. Horrible. I didn’t believe it at first. Iris found out before me and she called, crying so hard I couldn’t understand a word she said. Then when I got the point, I thought she was making it up.”
“When was this?”
“When we heard what happened? Three days after the party, I think. Something like that.”
“Where did you think Sloan was all that time?”
“I had no idea. We weren’t hanging out that much, so it’s not like we were in constant touch. Austin said after they closed up the cabin and came down the pass, they dropped her off downtown and then went straight to his house.”
“To do what?”
“They goofed around, playing Ping-Pong and Foosball. I know they watched TV because I remember him describing a couple of the shows.”
“Would have been mostly reruns, wouldn’t it?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Meaning he mentioned the shows to lend credence to his story. If he’d already seen episodes, he could rattle off enough details to be convincing.”
“Oh.”
“Did it occur to you they might have done something to harm her?”
“Not really. I was kind of bothered about the dog. She must not have thought she’d be gone long because she left Butch in the backyard. When it got dark, the next-door neighbor heard him howling and she took him in. She’s the one who called the police. Sloan never would have left him like that. She’d have come back for him no matter what.”
“So you did or didn’t believe Austin’s account?”
“I didn’t have any reason not to. He was as worried as the rest of us when it turned out she was missing.”
“What made them decide to kill her?”
“I don’t know. I’d already left by then. Anyway, I don’t think they decided to do anything. It just happened.”
“You’re saying four guys in the woods at night with a loaded handgun, and the girl who accompanies them just ‘happens’ to die?”
“But that’s how it was. It all came out at the trial. It wasn’t premeditated or anything like that—except for the hole Austin dug, and he only did that so she
’d take him seriously.”
I could feel myself squinting in disbelief. “Austin dug a grave before he took her up there that night?”
“I wouldn’t call it a grave. It was a hole he dug at the campsite where she was shot.”
“If it was the hole they buried her in, wouldn’t you call it a grave?”
“Sure, if you put it like that.”
“Who found the body?”
“Hikers.”
“As I understand it, the murder weapon was never recovered.”
“It wasn’t, but everybody knew the gun was Austin’s because he had it at the cabin, waving it around.”
“I’m assuming the police questioned all of you when the body came to light. Austin, in particular.”
“Sure, but they didn’t have enough to charge him. He told the cops the same thing he told us. He said they dropped her off on State Street and that’s the last they saw of her. I guess he was pretty torn up by then since he’d dated her.”
“I’m sure he put on a good show,” I said. “And then what?”
“The two detectives just kept after them and after them.”
“This was at the police station?”
“Some of the time and partly at Austin’s house. This was two or three days running, but they hadn’t been booked or anything like that. I know they separated the guys and talked to them individually, but they all said the same thing.”
“I’ll bet, alibis being what they are,” I said. “Did the police read them their Miranda rights?”
“They weren’t under arrest.”
“Didn’t anyone ask for an attorney?”
“Austin said they didn’t need attorneys since she was fine when they dropped her off.”
“And his parents didn’t object? I thought he came from a family of hot-shot lawyers.”
“He did, but he said if they hired one, it would look like he needed one.”
“He did need one. He still does. You’re talking about homicide.”
“I think it was more like an unfortunate accident. Fritz didn’t know anything about guns. Austin had to show him how to take the safety off.”
“Were you aware that Austin intended to leave town?”
She shook her head. “I think he acted on impulse the minute he got word Fritz had told on him.”
“‘Told on him’? Like they were little kids?” I knew I sounded outraged, judgmental, and condemnatory, but I couldn’t help myself. I watched her and wondered why she wouldn’t meet my eyes. Probably because I was talking to her like the idiot she was. I took what I hoped was a deep, calming breath. “Is there anything else you want to tell me?”
“Not really. Except Iris and I were scared to death.”
“The two of you were scared? How so?”
“Well, what if Austin showed up again? What if he’d come after us? We were there at the cabin the day she was killed. We were, like, witnesses.”
“To what?”
She closed her mouth. She waved a hand in front of her face as though a gnat had singled her out for pestering. “Nothing. I hope we’re done here because I have work to do.”
I knew I’d pressed her to the point of defensiveness, which is seldom productive. “I guess this covers it for the time being. If any other questions come up, can I come back and talk to you?”
“I think I’ve said enough.”
“Not quite, but I’m sure I’ll find a way to fill in the blanks.”
She murmured something.
I said, “Sorry, I missed that.”
“I said your information’s out of date. Sloan’s mother decided it was time to empty her room and pack up her stuff, which she did a couple of weeks ago.”
“How did you hear about Sloan’s room being emptied?”
“I didn’t hear about it. I helped.”
14
Wednesday evening, September 20, 1989
I was home later than usual and after the usual hassle found a semi-decent parking spot at the end of the block. When I reached the gate, I pulled the mail from the box, surprised that Henry hadn’t yet collected it. It wasn’t until I rounded the studio to the backyard that I realized something was wrong. Henry, in a T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops, stood on his back porch as still as stone. Pearl, suspended between her crutches near the clothesline, appeared to be anchored to the spot. In the kitchen window, Ed the cat was puffed up, his white fur looking like dandelion fuzz, every hair standing on end.
The pup tent was in its usual place, the opening flap zipped shut. In front of the tent flap, a massive black dog chewed on a rubber baby doll. His coat was short-haired except for his shaggy buff-colored tail and an incongruous golden ruff at his throat. He had a huge head and a dark, deeply wrinkled face with a small gold dot over each eye. His brown eyes were focused intently on his toy, which he gnawed on vigorously without doing serious harm. The minute he caught sight of me, he rose silently to his feet, his head low, his ears back. His tail was tucked in close to his body and oddly kinked. A growl rumbled through his chest like an engine turning over. He fixed me with a look, snarled once, and then barked. While my body froze, my heart was doing double time.
“Well, he’s a charmer,” I remarked.
Pearl said, “I wouldn’t make a move if I was you.”
“Not to worry. How long has this little standoff been going on?”
“I’d say twenty minutes. Does that sound about right to you, Henry?”
“Close enough. I heard her shriek and came running out to see what was wrong. The dog refused to let her move. I thought to intervene, but he didn’t seem to care for it. He rushed me and barked so close to my shin, his hot breath felt like ankle wind.”
“This is the mutt you rescued?”
Pearl said, “That’s him.”
“Where’s Lucky?”
“In the tent sleeping off a drunk. Him and Henry went and fetched the dog from the vet. Lucky said it stressed him out and he ain’t over it yet. All them poor sick pussycats and puppy dogs. One of ’em had got hit by a car and the doc had to amputate his hind leg. Lucky said it was the awfulest thing he ever seen. Nothing but a stump was left. He got home and had to knock back four beers just to settle his nerves. Minute he went in the tent, the dog put hisself in charge and put us on notice. Nobody better move or he’ll bite the shit out of you.”
As though to demonstrate the point, the dog barked so savagely his chest quivered and his front feet came off the ground. All three of us jumped as though jolted by a cattle prod.
“What kind of dog is that?” I said, trying not to move my lips.
“Part mastiff and part Rottweiler. He’s got some golden retriever in the mix as well. The mastiff and Rottie parts are all loyal guard dog. The retriever part loves to fetch. I throwed him his baby and he brought her right back to me, but after Lucky went in the tent he didn’t want to play no more.”
“He have a name?”
“Killer.”
“Very nice,” I said. “How’re you doing, Henry? Everything okay?”
“More or less. Pearl says you were here earlier looking for me.”
“I thought we should talk about putting in a home alarm to cover your place and mine. Ned’s on the loose. He stopped by yesterday.”
“Pearl mentioned that. Nothing wrong with home security.”
“I’ll be happy to split the cost.”
“No need. My treat. What company?”
“Security Operating Systems. They installed the alarm at my office.”
“S.O.S. Clever. I’ll give them a call.”
“Actually, with Killer on the premises, burglars wouldn’t have a chance,” I said. I turned to Pearl. “Any news on Ned’s whereabouts?”
Pearl said, “My homies ain’t seen him, though a pitcher of him might be nice. You talk about a midd
le-aged white guy and it don’t exactly set off alarms.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” I said.
Henry said, “Oh. Before I forget, I wanted to remind you of Rosie’s birthday. We’re having a little party for her Friday night.”
“Glad you mentioned it. I’d blanked on that.”
Pearl said, “Lucky and me are invited too, so don’t give us no guff.”
“We’ll do it after supper and I’ll be baking the cake.”
Pearl said, “He was going to make an angel food cake, which is a type of sponge cake. Stiff-beaten egg whites is used as leavening instead of baking soda or baking powder, but I suggested a sheet cake, which will feed more.”
Henry said, “Very good, Pearl. I’m impressed.”
Pearl shrugged modestly.
“Friday’s the twenty-second?” I asked.
“Indeed.”
“Gifts?”
“I leave that up to you.”
I glanced at Pearl. “How long is Lucky apt to sleep?”
“I hope it ain’t long. I gotta pee.”
“Me, too,” Henry said weakly.
The dog lifted his head and bared his teeth. The hair on his back rose magically in a stiff line from his shoulder blades to his tail, making him look like a hound from hell. I wasn’t sure about Henry or Pearl, but I was ready to repent.
“Might be some Rhodesian ridgeback in him, too,” Pearl said.
“Anybody have a plan?” I asked.
“Fresh out,” she said.
“Henry?”
“He can’t be as suspicious of you as he is of Pearl and me. I think he associates us with Lucky’s disappearance. I don’t think he’s made up his mind about you.”
“He seems pretty opinionated from where I stand,” I said. “Have you tried calling Lucky’s name to see if you can rouse him?”
“We gave up. That guy passes out and he’s down for the count,” Pearl said. “See if you can get him to play.”
“Lucky?”
“The fucking dog,” she said, exasperated. “Pardon my potty mouth, Henry. I know you don’t hold with talk like that.”
Henry accepted her apology philosophically, by now accustomed to my occasional salty outbursts.
