The Rita Farmer Mystery series Box Set

by Elizabeth Sims

  “What was the name of that piece you played?” I asked.

  In a blunt voice, Neneng answered, “‘To Spring.’”

  “How beautiful.”

  Now I could understand how Mrs. Keever could stand to isolate herself in this wasteland of a home. With music like that, I could exist happily in hell itself.

  Neneng stalked out, and we heard cookie sheets sliding from the oven. The smell that wafted in was no better than the taste of the first batch.

  While listening to Neneng, I’d noticed framed photographs lined up on the piano.

  One was of a young, fine-boned woman. The shot was professional; it looked, in fact, like a film studio starlet shot: burgundy drape, professional hair and makeup, jewels, a silk strapless gown that looked like pouring milk, perfect lighting, and I realized it was Mrs. Keever in her twenties. What a shot. She gazed frankly into the camera, an amused smile on her lips. Everything about her was hot except for that cool smile. What a hell of a shot.

  I saw a picture of a man I took to be Mr. Keever, receiving a plaque from a local-looking politician.

  Then there were pictures of another beautiful girl, ranging from toddlerhood through first day of school, on up to her teens. A few were snapshots—astride a new tricycle at Christmas, stepping off a balance beam with a determined grin—then a series of school portraits with missing teeth, then long burnished hair like a pony’s coat, then new breasts and a spark of adolescent defiance, then—no more. No college picture, no wedding picture. No womanhood picture.

  I wondered.

  Through this whole visit I’d tried to feel what was going on. I almost started to wonder if George and I had imagined Amaryllis’s whole errand here.

  I’d observed Mrs. Keever closely, Neneng too. The two women were tied in an unusual relationship, what with their isolation, mitigated by the beautiful piano music. Very tough to read. Was Neneng a conduit for money going overseas?

  I needed to pop a question or two, but I wanted to be ready to make for the door at any moment. I asked to use the bathroom.

  When I came out, Neneng had taken the tea tray away, perhaps to replenish the cookies—some family recipe from her village in the wilderness of Mindanao? Mrs. Keever sat waiting for me with a sourer expression than she’d had before.

  I picked up my purse. “I have to be going. You know, my sister lives in Los Angeles, and sometimes I go down to visit her. Sometimes I take our seniors on little junkets down there, to a ball game, you know, or to a show, or to the races at Santa Anita. Because I realize lots of people have connections in L.A., from past times.” I paused. “Do you?”

  “No.” She dropped the word like a brick.

  “Ah.”

  She stirred uneasily, shifting her wasted thighs in the slinglike seat of her wheelchair.

  “So many nice people in L.A.,” I commented. “I have a friend who works down there—his name is Dale Vargas.”

  Mrs. Keever looked blank. She wondered what my angle was. Man, she was a jawbreaker.

  I said, “There’s another friend of mine—Amaryllis B. Cubitt. When I’m in L.A., sometimes I stop in and volunteer at her—”

  Mrs. Keever made a startled, incoherent sound. “Guhh?”

  Neneng appeared from the kitchen as if shot from a popgun. She was holding some kind of pronged knife, not in attack mode but not not in attack mode.

  “What is it?” I said. “What’s wrong?”

  “Why did you come here?” said Mrs. Keever angrily. Instead of Boo Radley, I’d gotten Mrs. Dubose.

  “I—I—to deliver your basket!”

  “Don’t give me that.”

  I followed her eyes to my purse. Shit! I’d left it on the entry table. They could have looked at my ID while I was in the bathroom, and seen that I was not Sharon Pressley.

  Both of them were enraged, and scared shitless, even Neneng with her shining knife.

  I didn’t know what to say.

  Neneng demanded, “Who send you?”

  Finally I said, “No one sent me. I’m trying to help Amaryllis.”

  “Hah!” said Mrs. Keever. “In that case, go!”

  Neneng chimed, “Go!” She kept tight hold of her shank.

  I went, escorted out by Neneng, who gave me a haughty shove at the doorstep for good measure. I waited to feel the knife plunge between my shoulder blades, but it didn’t.

  Chapter 21 – Behind Mysterious Walls

  My adventure in Bakersfield was still reverberating in me when I called my aunts the next morning, Thursday, to check on Petey.

  Sheila answered and told me my boy had adapted to the potholder kit with a vengeance. “He’s made twenty-seven of them and counting. Toots is cutting new loops as fast as she can. Pretty soon she’ll have to go out and buy some.”

  “Dear God. What do you cut loops from?”

  “Old socks, you cut them crosswise. We’re running out of even new ones, though. She thinks she’s gonna sell all these potholders on the computer. We don’t even have a computer.” Like Toots’s voice, hers was as demure as a wolverine’s. “Hey, you know that old rotten shed we used to use as a corn crib? Me and Pete are gonna tear it down today!”

  “Oh! Cool.”

  “We’re gonna rig it with chains and pull it down with the tractor.”

  “He’ll love that.”

  “Yeah, then I think we might burn it.”

  “You can do that?”

  “This ain’t California, honey, you can damn well set fire to your own shed if you want to.”

  “Why not just burn it in place?”

  “I want to save the copper from the eaves, there’s this copper sheeting. I can sell it. We’re gonna tear those off once the roof’s down. Pete’s gonna help me, right, Pete?”

  I heard him laughing in demonic anticipation.

  Sheila went on, “On Saturday we’re going to the church carnival.”

  Petey seized the phone. “I’m getting a dog!” he shouted.

  “What!”

  Sheila grabbed the receiver back. “A corn dog. We told him we’d buy him a corn dog at the carnival. Pete, it’s a food you eat, not a real dog. We told you that already.”

  “Whatever became of Reeve?” I asked, remembering their dauntless little terrier.

  “Oh, old age. He couldn’t walk anymore.”

  “I’m sorry. Had to put him down?”

  “Yeah, I shot him last year. Buried him next to Mashy. More or less on top of Mashy, actually. You don’t have to get a dog down as deep as you do a horse. Haven’t gotten another dog yet.”

  “I see.” I should have known Sheila wouldn’t have given the job to a fancy-pants veterinarian with a hypodermic. Mashy used to pull their pumpkin cart before they got the tractor.

  _____

  That afternoon, George called from some airport hotel where he’d gotten stranded overnight. I told him all about Diane Keever and Neneng.

  “Good work,” he said in his steady baritone voice.

  “Really?” I stood watching Gina fuss over the herb pots on our patio. Peppermint runs rampant if you let it, we were learning. Golden streamers of sunlight were spilling into the apartment. Some kid in the alley was throwing a glider in the air over and over, just the glider swooping in an arc above the back wall.

  “Everything helps,” said George. “We now know she’s got some kind of personal connection with Amaryllis.”

  “Yeah. I’m still digesting what I took in.”

  “Good.”

  “I have a question. How hard would it be to find out Diane Keever’s last name before she got married?”

  “I can try it right now online.”

  “Can I just do it myself?”

  “I’ve got subscriptions to certain databases, so let me look it up for you. I’m logging in right now, I’ve got my laptop.”

  “Oh, you bought a new one?”

  “Yeah. It’s a—”

  “Don’t bore me with the details.”

  He laughed. Fai
nt sounds of keystrokes. I heard him breathing, patiently and evenly, and fancied I could feel his warm exhalations on my cheek through the phone. “It’s amazing how much work these databases save. I’ll have to search by county. Are we assuming they got married in Los Angeles County?”

  “Yeah, I think that’s reasonable. Didn’t Bruce Keever’s death notice say he was born in L.A.?”

  “That’s right, it did. Why do you want to know her maiden name?” His voice was so rich, so intimate to me.

  Down, girl.

  I said, “That picture of her, that semi cheesecake shot I told you about? I just wonder if she was in the studio system when she was young. That picture is important enough for her to see every day.”

  “So what if she was an actress back then? It’s interesting, but how can it help our—”

  “I just want to know. I think it might help me figure out her deal. Somehow. George, one thing I’ve realized that’s different between you and me is that I can size up a woman pretty quickly. I get her, you know? But I’m not that astute about men.”

  “I think you’re pretty astute about me.” I heard the smile.

  Not easily diverted from my point, I said, “I mean in general. Oh, I can figure men out, but it takes me a while. You, on the other hand, decipher men as quickly as I do women. You’re always so insightful with guys.”

  “Hm. Here it is. Her name was Diane Ratkinson,” and he spelled it. “They were married on February 4, 1950.”

  “OK. Thanks. Now about Amaryllis.”

  “Need some records on her?”

  “No. It’s just that I want to confront Amaryllis with what we know, or some of it. Tell her we know a few things. I want to do it today.”

  I heard him blow a breath away from the phone. “Don’t.”

  My adrenaline surged defiantly. “I will.”

  “Dammit, Rita.”

  “You can’t command me, George.”

  “Command, hell. As far as I can tell, you’ve always done exactly as you please. But you’re being stupid, Rita. Forgive me, but you’re being stupid.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because you’re not listening.”

  “OK. What? I’m listening now.”

  He gathered his temper, I could almost hear this little whoosh. I really can be a brat sometimes. Calmly, he said, “I’m trying to tell you it’s more dangerous over there than I thought. I won’t tell you not to go. But if you do, be as careful as you possibly can. If you mention Diane Keever, don’t say too much.”

  “How come?”

  “I can just feel it. Remember, you can always reveal knowledge to a subject, but you can never un-reveal it. It’s so much better to listen than to tell.”

  Gina began to sing “Stormy Weather,” low and slow.

  “What haven’t you told me about Amaryllis?” I asked.

  He sighed again. “Here’s the whole warning. Remember that Sunday morning when we were over there? When that woman had her seizure or whatever, I considered it a good distraction, and I took off for the basement. I’d already found a door to it, and other than that second locked classroom, it was the only part of the building I hadn’t gotten into yet, so I went down there while the security people were calling the ambulance and so forth. They all sort of herded toward the cafeteria to see if somebody was going to die, I think.”

  “And?”

  “It’s not a nice place. There’s a little room-within-a-room made of gypsum board down there.” He paused, expecting me to get it, I guess.

  “Well, what’s in it?”

  “Nothing. They used two-by-fours to create an air space between the drywall and the concrete block wall. Walls and ceiling. There’s a heavy rug on the floor.”

  “Yeah?”

  “And there’s a steel ring bolted into one wall.”

  “Explain it to me in baby talk.”

  “The room is totally soundproof. You could scream until your throat burst.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “It’s brand-new.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because the walls are perfectly clean. Not a stain, not a smudge.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “Yet.”

  “God, God.”

  “So now I’ve told you. They’ve got plans. I’m beginning to wonder if Vargas came up against somebody even more vicious than him: Amaryllis. Do you hear what I’m telling you?”

  “Yeah. I think—I just might, ah, wait a little.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  “I’m not your girl.”

  “I know, I know.”

  Chapter 22 – Rowe is Nobody’s Fool

  Rowe got back to Los Feliz and did his laundry, then he put on his bum disguise in Gonzalo’s bathroom. He’d have time to find a new apartment as soon as he got these two cases resolved.

  Gonzalo happened to be home this afternoon, reading a neurology journal in his den. The weather had clouded over, and he was feeling like cozying up in anticipation of cooler fall times. Tamiroff, the ninety-five-pound wolfhound, sat in the backyard quietly chewing the picnic table.

  Rowe said nothing to his friend before going into the bathroom with his stuff. When he came out as the buck-toothed lowlife, he sneaked into the den. Gonzalo, absorbed in his reading, didn’t notice. Rowe made a sudden move, as if to spring.

  Gonzalo saw him, screamed, and reached for the five-shot revolver he carried in an ankle holster. Rowe knocked it out of his hand, laughing.

  When he heard Rowe’s laugh, Gonzalo stared hard, then sank into his chair grasping his heart, too weak from the ebbing of adrenaline to get up and take a swing at him. “You about fucking killed me, buddy.”

  Rowe was pleased.

  He took the bus to the ABC Mission and went in, but said he didn’t need a bed.

  This was, now, the fourth time he’d been to the mission. After the first night, he’d stopped in every day, just to be seen by the guards, especially Wichita and Denny. He’d gradually cleaned himself up, and would just stand looking at the bulletin board for a while before wandering out again. He’d missed only two days when he went to Canada.

  Today he’d made himself look even less derelict, though Gonzalo’s reaction had told him that between the wig and the buckteeth he still didn’t look like George Rowe. Cleaner hands and face—he’d shaved—and better pants. He’d omitted the Richards Wild Irish Rose gargle.

  After wandering here and there, he found Wichita in an empty classroom playing with an Etch A Sketch someone must have donated for the kids.

  He had looked up Wichita’s criminal record thanks to the fact that Wichita was her real first name and that Internet databases let you search using first or last. She’d done fourteen months at Chowchilla for carjacking. For Denny, he could find nothing without a last name.

  Rowe waited until she noticed him.

  “May I talk to you, ma’am?”

  She looked up from the teacher’s desk. “What you want?” She had been drawing a robot with what looked like a flower coming out of its head.

  Quietly but clearly, he said, “Do you know where I can get some clean smack?”

  After a moment, with a little smile, she said, “Why do you ask me? I’m just a security guard.”

  He smiled back, self-consciously and unsuccessfully trying to keep his upper lip pulled over his long teeth. “‘Cause you look like you’re nobody’s fool around here.”

  She smiled wider. “I’ve seen you around.”

  “When I say clean, I mean really clean.”

  “You don’t look like you use.”

  He laughed uncomfortably. “Guess you know a wino when you see one.” He eased himself onto a student desk, feet on the seat. “But look, I’ve straightened up my act. Pretty much. Thing is, I used to deal, but I’m out of it. Doing other things.”

  She stared at him, and he watched the gears start to clank in her mind. Her forehead was high and rounded, lending her a belugalike appearance.

  �
��What’s up?” asked Denny, striding into the room, dreadlocked and dark-skinned, the locks up in a yellow Rasta hat.

  Wichita gave him an irritated look. She turned back to Rowe and repeated, “We’re just the security force.”

  “If you want to buy,” said Denny, “you can hit the street.” He had a gap between his front teeth that made him look more innocent than he was.

  Rowe maintained eye contact with him. “I don’t want street quality, it’s not dependable. I hear things. I know there’s better quality coming from somewhere around here. I want to buy before the cut. If possible.”

  Denny asked, “What’s your name?”

  “James.”

  “I’m Denny, then.”

  “Wichita.”

  “I was telling this lady that I’m working on my own self, I’m pretty straight now.”

  Wichita said, “Who you need clean smack for?”

  “Friend.”

  “He used to deal,” she said to Denny, meaningfully.

  “But no more.” Rowe held his hand out as if stopping a bus. “Too dangerous, too much risk for a single operator. Never, ever again will I deal, even as a soldier—there’s no source, no organization in the city that’s safe.”

  “How much did you used to do?” asked Denny.

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “No reason. Fuck off, then.”

  “I just want three goddamn grams! I’m trying to be a goddamn customer!” Rowe wiped his face. “About fifteen thousand a week, if you’re so interested. Mostly coke.”

  “That’s not so big,” said Denny.

  “No, it’s not,” Rowe agreed. “I was comfortable. Worked in stolen guns on the side.”

  “Yeah?” said Denny. He wanted to ask a question, but second-thought it.

  In spite of the Etch A Sketch, the classroom appeared to be used for adult reading. The teacher had posted a grown-up’s alphabet on a bulletin board using cut-out magazine pictures:

  A is for Avalanche (National Geographic)

  B is for Brooklyn Bridge (Time)

  C is for Condom (Playboy)