by Sue Grafton
“But that was to get himself off the hook, wasn’t it?”
“Both were true. He settled a score and he protected himself. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“And now that Fritz is dead, where does that put you?”
“If he’d taken responsibility, things might have come out differently.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“Where it puts me is I’m glad he’s dead. I wished it on him. I may go to hell for it, but I don’t care.”
“Did you have a hand in his death?”
“No, but I wish I had.”
“You have a hard heart.”
“You may discover you do as well,” she said. “Meanwhile, do you want to know how I know there’s a god? Because he answered my prayers.”
• • •
Well, that was a depressing conversation. I drove home, pondering the meaning of it all without understanding any of it. Sloan’s death seemed to be the sorry culmination of random elements—paranoia, miscues, rage, passivity, herd mentality, and poor judgment among them. Fritz’s death had a different feel to it. I believed he was killed for a reason, while she was killed for no reason at all. Bad luck as much as anything. I didn’t think his killing was predicated on hers, but there had to be a link between the two. At least that was my current working theory and one I needed to test. I’d have to talk to someone who was present back then and perhaps understood the larger picture. Lauren McCabe came to mind.
I drove into town and left my car near the Axminster Theater, then walked through the covered passage that led from the parking lot. The McCabes’ condominium appeared at my immediate left as I emerged onto the street. Lauren and Hollis had learned about their son’s death less than a day ago and I imagined their apartment filled with friends, offering support, sympathy, and casseroles. When I reached the top of the stairs, however, there were no signs of life. The front door was ajar and there was a stillness pouring out of the place like smoke. I pushed the door open, saying, “Lauren?”
There were no lights on. The interior, which had seemed simple and uncluttered, now seemed diminished. The absence of artificial lighting lent the living room an air of coldness and abandonment. No fresh flowers. No cooking smells. No voices.
“Lauren?”
It felt intrusive to be present without someone greeting me. I knew from my first visit where the library was located and I knew that Fritz’s bedroom was the first door on the left. I thought about going as far as his room, but I was reluctant to infringe on their privacy. I didn’t hear anyone approach, but I sensed movement in the corridor and Lauren appeared. She was barefoot and the clothes she wore looked like she’d selected them from a pile on the floor.
I said, “There you are. I’m sorry to barge in uninvited. I thought maybe you’d have people here.”
She shook her head. “We’re on our own. Hollis is napping and I’m wandering around thinking I should be doing something. I don’t blame people for avoiding us. There’s nothing in the etiquette books to cover situations like this. What do you say to a mother whose son has been murdered? What comfort can you offer a father who’s lost his only child? It’s awkward and difficult and people think of reasons to stay away. They tell themselves we’d prefer to be alone. They’ll remember how undemonstrative we are and think we’d doubtless protect our solitude. In some ways, that’s correct. I find it hard to deal with people I don’t much like.”
I’d actually told myself much the same thing, thinking that if I tried to hug or console her, she’d rebuff me. I don’t particularly like to be hugged myself, especially in a social setting where there’s no reason whatsoever to promote physical contact beyond a handshake. Most of the time, people are just going through the motions anyway, pretending to be happier to see you than they actually are. “Isn’t there someone you’d like me to call?”
“Well, that’s just it. I can’t think of anyone. A friend will come to mind and I’ll realize I haven’t spoken to her in a year. This is hardly the time to offer an invitation. I tried calling another friend, someone I was close to in the past. I found out she died two months ago and no one thought to tell me.”
“What about Hollis’s brother? You’ve mentioned him.”
“Their relationship is strained. Really, it’s quite superficial. Having him here would be a burden. They don’t get along and I’d be stage-managing their bad behavior, which is something I can do without. I’d have to think about meals and entertainment and small talk. You can’t have people in from out of town and then leave them to their own devices, even if the occasion is a death.”
“I can see your point,” I said. “The question may seem odd, but have you heard from the extortionist?”
“No and I don’t anticipate contact. If this is someone who knows us, then he’s probably heard about Fritz’s death. Even if he doesn’t know us, surely he’d be keeping tabs on us and he’d be aware of what’s happened. Anyway, Valerie did stop by and I thought that was lovely.”
She made the reference to Valerie as though the name would mean something, which it didn’t. Then I remembered that Valerie was the cleaning lady I’d encountered in my initial meeting with her.
I thought I should tell Lauren why I was there, but I wondered if it would seem callous if it was business as usual for me while she was trying to cope with her son’s death. This was probably one of the finer points of good manners that she was referring to. “This may not be a good time for you, but I have questions and I don’t know who else to ask.”
“Why don’t we sit?”
We moved into the living room, where she took a seat at the end of the sofa and I settled in the upholstered chair nearby. “Were you aware that Tigg Montgomery was Sloan’s bio-dad?”
“Yes. He talked to Hollis about his options—whether to own up to it or keep the information under wraps. There might have been a middle road, but none of us could think of one. Tigg was extremely conservative. His values were strictly Old Testament. Adultery was prohibited, as he believed it should be, even though he was a party to it. He decided to keep it quiet, which I didn’t particularly admire, but he was Hollis’s boss and I knew better than to speak up.”
“Eventually, Bayard found out. How did that happen?”
“Tigg told him. When he had the new will drawn up, he thought it would be unfair to have Bayard find out about the changes after he was gone.”
“What was Bayard’s reaction?”
“He was angry at first. He looked at Tigg’s money as his reward for being a good boy and putting up with the brutal emotional gamesmanship he was subjected to as a child. The notion of cutting his payoff in half didn’t sit well at first. Then he realized how much he loved and admired Sloan. He’d been raised as an only child and suddenly he had a younger sister. It shed a whole different light on the situation.”
“You think he was sincere? He wasn’t just covering?”
“I can’t answer that. I thought he was fully reconciled, but he’s always been good at guarding himself.”
“You said Tigg was extremely conservative. How did he feel about Bayard’s being gay?”
“He didn’t know. The rest of us were aware of it, but he seemed to have a blind spot. He was rabidly homophobic, so if he found out, he’d have cut Bayard off without a cent.”
One call. I thought about Austin’s warning about one call, his harping on it. That’s what it was about, Austin’s threat to pull the rug out from under Bayard. One more piece of the puzzle had locked into place.
40
Saturday, October 7, 1989
I didn’t sleep well. I found myself turning this way and that, thinking some as-yet-undiscovered position would be sufficiently comfortable to invite unconsciousness. Instead, with one eye on the digital clock, I watched the minutes flick by. If I slept at all, it was in brief increments, at least until the wee hours w
hen I fell into a deep pit of dreams. I woke at nine, feeling groggy, startled that the time had gotten away from me. It was Saturday and it was light out, so in theory I could have gotten in a run, but I didn’t want to. I was anxious about Celeste’s arrival, uneasy about the fact that Ned had dropped out of sight again. I didn’t see how he could interfere with the plan, but Ned had the built-in cunning of a psychopath and he’d show up when least expected.
I showered. I dressed. I ate my bowl of cereal. I drank two cups of coffee, which woke me up as I’d hoped, but also fed my apprehension. I felt heavy and full of dread, little flickers of fear like heat lightning dancing along my spine. Celeste’s plane got in at 1:15. Just to be on the safe side, I’d leave for the airport at 12:30, which meant I had roughly three hours to kill. I went next door to Henry’s, where the back door was open and the screen unhooked. I could smell freshly baked cinnamon rolls. I tapped and he told me to come on in. Anna was sitting at his kitchen table, which was taken up with two sheet pans onto which she was dolloping cookie dough with a small ice cream scoop. Now that I knew she was pregnant, she seemed Madonna-like, bathed in serenity. It had been two weeks since her condition was made known and already she seemed rounded and ripe, her skin aglow.
Henry sliced the crusts from a loaf of white bread and he had a bowl of egg salad at the ready. He’d already prepared small homemade buns with butter and country ham, small leaves of baby endive with a dab of blue cheese at the tip of each. There were six trays of finger sandwiches covered in Saran wrap. Peering closely, I could identify anchovy butter and radishes, thinly sliced cucumber with cream cheese, sharp cheddar and chutney—all specialties of his. He’d arranged cupcakes, petit fours, and tiny cream puffs on three silver platters, again protected from the drying air with clear plastic wrap.
“I’m catering a tea party for Moza Lowenstein,” he said in answer to my unspoken question.
Anna said, “I’m invited because I live there. Now that I have a little peanut on board, I’m ravenous. I eat everything, all the time. I can’t stop myself. You want to see a picture?”
“Sure.”
She took a 4-by-6 black-and-white photo out of her pocket. The image was fuzzy and looked like somebody had been making snow angels in the background. In the center of this colorless world, there was a creature that might have been left behind by an alien spacecraft: big head, body curved in a soft C, thin limbs, transparent skin, tethered in place by a gray rope.
“You’ve decided to keep the little tyke,” I said.
“Well, I don’t know about that. I’ve decided to see this through and hope for the best.”
I said, “I’m operating on the same plan. Are we screwed or what?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Just as well. May I have a cinnamon roll?”
“Help yourself,” Henry said. “There’s still coffee if you’d like.”
“Why not? I’m a nervous wreck anyway.”
“What’s going on?”
“I’ll tell you when it’s over with.” I crossed to the coffeepot, took a mug down, and filled it. “What time’s the tea party?”
“Four. If I know Moza, she’ll bring out the cooking sherry and the ladies will go on until the wee hours.”
“No husbands to feed?”
“These are widows. They all have little dogs that they bring in their purses, with tiny cans of dog food. One has trained her pup to do its business on indoor potty pads with fake grass so she doesn’t even have to take him outdoors. She just folds up the mat, seals it in a gallon-sized plastic bag, and she’s good.”
“These can go in,” Anna said.
Henry opened the oven door, reached over, picked up the two trays of raw cookie dough, and slid them in. He set a timer and went back to his finger sandwiches.
I said, “I’m surprised Pearl’s not here.”
“One of her homies thought he saw Ned Lowe and they’ve gone off on the hunt.”
“Well, I hope she uses good sense. She has no clue how dangerous he is.” I finished my coffee and put the mug in the dishwasher. “You need help?”
“We’re covered here, but thanks.”
“I’m going to try to find something useful to do.”
I let myself out and returned to the studio. I made a trip to the supermarket, where I stocked up on life’s essentials, toilet paper being primary. Home again, I unloaded my bags and put everything away. I’d used up forty-two minutes, during which I’d gone from being worried to being bored. I lay down on the couch with a paperback mystery and read until I fell asleep two paragraphs later. I woke at 12:25, which I took as a good omen since it allowed me just enough time to brush my teeth, avail myself of the facilities, and head out to Colgate.
The Santa Teresa Municipal Airport was built in the 1940s and most nearly resembles a modest hacienda, complete with stucco exterior, red-tile roof, and magenta bougainvillea. The baggage claim area looks like a carport affixed to one end. There’s a coffee shop on the second floor, and a grassy courtyard below surrounded by a glass-topped wall so that you can watch planes take off and land. I positioned myself twenty feet from the main entrance, in full view of five of the six gates.
Within minutes, I saw a little commuter plane wobbling toward earth in the final moments of its descent. I knew from previous flights that the landing would have a rocky start, with the ups and downs of a roller coaster, passengers fingering their rosaries and trying not to scream. The wheels touching down would chirp like sneakers on hardwood flooring.
Passengers began to trickle into the terminal, some with rolling suitcases trailing behind, some on their way to baggage claim. Celeste was one of the last to emerge. I’d assured her that I’d recognize her, but I hadn’t been entirely certain. I’d met her once six months before and most of the image I retained consisted of an oval face, pale hair, and dark eyes. Also, the demeanor of a prisoner of war recently released from captivity. Life with Ned Lowe had deadened her. At the time I encountered her, she’d reduced her personality to a shadow as flat as a photo mounted on a piece of cardboard. Anything more animated would attract Ned’s attention and, shortly after that, his ire.
Celeste spotted me and raised a hand in greeting. She looked like she’d been rehydrated, her exterior plumped up by confidence. Hers wasn’t a type A personality, so she’d never be a firebrand, but she moved as though a spark had fanned to life in her. She wore a lightweight brown tweed coat. She carried a briefcase and had a purse hooked over one shoulder with a leather strap.
“Hey, how are you?” I asked, holding out my hand for her to shake. I’d avoided the use of her name, still censoring myself lest Ned picked up a faint whiff of her presence in town. “You have luggage?”
“Just this,” she said, indicating the briefcase.
“Have you had lunch?”
“Maybe afterward. I’m nervous.”
“Me, too.”
As we proceeded to my car in the short-term parking lot, both of us scanned the area for signs of Ned.
“I really don’t think he can get to us,” I said.
“Are you armed, by any chance?”
I shook my head. “My H&K is locked away at home. If I’d thought about it, I’d have carried it. Last contact I had with him, I fired off three rounds. If my line of sight had been better, I’d have crippled him for life.”
“You shot him?”
“Nicked is more like it. His hip or his thigh, but whichever it was, it made him howl. Later, he used the keys he’d stolen from Phyllis to let himself back into her condominium. He applied first aid, leaving behind bandages that suggested a festering wound.”
“Love it. I am so proud of you,” she said.
The drive into town was without incident. I was careful not to ask any personal questions on the theory that the less I knew, the better. When we reached the polic
e station, I parked on the nearest side street and walked with her to the front steps. Both of our heads swiveled from side to side.
Once in the lobby, I relaxed. Ladies and gents in uniform, decked out with deadly weapons, create a sense of safety I treasure. The desk officer called Cheney in the Detective Bureau and he appeared shortly thereafter and accompanied us to his desk. I watched Celeste hand over the envelope containing Ned’s trinkets and then I excused myself and went back to the lobby to wait while she told him what she knew. The gasoline receipts Ned had saved would serve as a road map of his travels and might yield as-yet-undiscovered victims.
The meeting went on longer than I’d anticipated and I became more antsy as the minutes rolled by. Celeste hadn’t given me her departure time and I had to trust she’d keep an eye on the clock. Finally, at 4:10, Cheney appeared and I crossed the lobby to the desk.
“Where’s Celeste?”
“Visiting the ladies’ room. She says you’re taking her straight to the airport and she wanted to be prepared in case time was short.”
“What time’s her flight?”
“Five fifteen.”
I checked my watch again. “That’s cutting it close.”
“Trust Providence,” he said.
Behind him, Celeste appeared. “Are we okay here?”
I said, “Fine. But we have to hustle. It’s twenty minute to the airport as long as we don’t run into traffic.”
Cheney and Celeste shook hands. The “thanks and appreciation” exchange was hurried along by my shifting from foot to foot. I’m a stickler about arriving an hour before flight time and we’d already cut that in half. Celeste was apparently one of those people who don’t mind showing up after the airplane door is closed and requires a lot of banging to gain admittance. Many airlines won’t oblige the tardy passenger once the door is shut. If she missed her flight, it would mean hours of chitchat while we hung out, waiting for a seat to open on the next available flight.
