C is for Corpse (25 page)

Her face drained of color. “That has nothing to do with this,” she said.

I laughed, primarily because sudden recollection does that to me. A mental leap has a little chemical component to it that gives a quick rush.

“Oh come on,” I said. “It does connect. I don't know how yet, but it's all the same tale, isn't it?”

She sank back down on the love seat, one hand reaching for the glass tabletop to steady herself. She breathed deeply, trying to relax. “You would do well to let this pass,” she said, not looking at me.

“Are you nuts?” I said. “Are you out of your tiny mind? Bobby Callahan hired me because he thought somebody was trying to kill him and he was right. He's dead now and he's got no way to rectify the situation, but
I
do and if you think I'll back off this sucker, you don't know me.”

She was shaking her head. All the beauty was gone and what remained seemed drab. She looked, then, like we all look in fluorescent lighting—tired, sallow, shopworn. Her voice was low. “I'll tell you what I can. And then I beg you to drop the investigation. I mean that. For your own good. I did have an affair with Bobby.” She paused, searching for the path she wanted to take. “He was a wonderful person. He really was. I was crazy about him. He was so uncomplicated and he had no history. He was just young and healthy, vigorous. God. He was twenty-three. Even the sight of his
skin
. He was like a—” Her eyes came up to mine and she broke off with embarrassment, a smile forming and faltering, this time from some emotion I couldn't read . . . pain or tenderness, perhaps.

I eased into the chair carefully, hoping I wouldn't spoil the mood.

“When you're that age,” she said, “you still think things can be made right. You still think you can have anything you want. You think life's simple, that you only have to do one or two little things and it will all turn around. I told him it wasn't like that for me, but he had a streak of gallantry in him. Sweet fool.”

She was silent for a long time.

“ ‘Sweet fool,' what?” I said quietly.

“Well, he died for it, of course. I can't tell you the guilt I've felt . . ..” She trailed off and she looked away.

“Tell me the front end. How does Dwight fit in? He was shot, right?”

“Dwight was much older than I. Forty-five when we were married. I was twenty-two. It was a good marriage
. . . up to a point at any rate. He adored me. I admired him. He did incredible things for this town.”

“He designed Glen's house, didn't he?”

“Not really. His father was the original architect when the house was built back in the twenties. Dwight did the restoration,” she said. “I think I need a drink. Do you want one?”

“Sure, that's fine,” I said.

She reached for the brandy decanter, removing the heavy glass stopper. She laid the neck of the decanter against the edge of one of the snifters, but her hands were shaking so badly I thought she'd crack the glass. I reached over and took the bottle from her, pouring her a stiff shot. I poured myself one too, though at ten in the morning, it was the last thing I wanted. She gave hers a perfunctory swirl and we both drank. I swallowed and my mouth came open automatically as if I'd just risen to the surface of a swimming pool. This was clearly fine stuff, but I didn't think I'd need my teeth cleaned for a
year
. I watched her calm herself, taking a deep breath or two.

I was trying desperately to recall the accounts I'd read of the incident in which Costigan was killed. It must have been five or six years ago. As nearly as I could remember, someone had broken into their Montebello house one night and had shot Dwight to death after a struggle in the bedroom. I'd been off in Houston for a client so I hadn't followed the events very closely, but as far as I knew, it was still sitting on the books as an unsolved homicide.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Don't ask and don't interfere. I pleaded with Bobby to let it go, but he wouldn't listen and it cost him his life. The past is the past. It's over and done with and I'm the only one paying for it now. Forget it. I don't care, and if you're smart, you won't either.”

“You know I can't do that. Tell me what went on.”

“What for? It won't change anything.”

“Nola, I'm going to find out whether you tell me or not. If you lay it out for me maybe it won't have to go any further than this. Maybe I'll understand and agree to drop the whole thing. I'm not unreasonable, but you've gotta play fair.”

I could see the indecision written in her face. She said, “Oh God,” and put her head down for a moment. She looked at me with anxiety. “We're talking about a lunatic. Someone so crazy. You'd have to swear . . . you'd have to promise to back off.”

“I can't make a promise like that and you know it. Tell me the story and then we'll figure out what has to be done.”

“I've never told anyone except Bobby and look what happened to him.”

“What about Sufi? She knows, doesn't she?”

She blinked at me, momentarily startled at the mention of Sufi's name. She looked away from me. “No, not at all. I'm sure she doesn't know what's going on. Why would she?” The answer seemed too hesitant to be convincing, but I let it pass for the time being. Could Sufi be blackmailing her?

“Well,
somebody
else knows,” I said. “From what I gather, you're being blackmailed and that's what Bobby
was trying to stop. What's the deal? What does this person have on you? What kind of leverage?”

I let the silence stretch, watching as she struggled with her need to unload.

Finally, she started talking, her voice so low I was forced to lean forward so I could hear her. “We'd been married nearly fifteen years. Dwight was on medication for high blood pressure and it made him impotent. We'd never had a highly charged sex life anyway. I got restless and found . . . someone else.”

“A lover.”

She nodded, eyes closed as if the recollection hurt her. “Dwight walked in on us one night in bed. He was crazed. He got a gun from the study and came back and there was a struggle.”

I caught the sound of footsteps coming down the hall. I glanced toward the door and she did too, her voice becoming urgent.

“Don't breathe a word of this. Please.”

“Trust me, I won't. What's the rest?”

She hesitated. “I shot Dwight. It was an accident, but somebody has the gun with my fingerprints on it.”

“And that's what Bobby was searching for?”

She nodded almost imperceptibly.

“But who has it? Your ex-lover?”

Nola raised a finger to her lips. There was a tap at the door and Dr. Fraker stuck his head in, apparently surprised to see me sitting there. “Oh, hi, Kinsey. Is that your car in the drive? I was just about to take off, and I couldn't figure out who was here.”

“I stopped by to talk to Nola about Glen,” I said. “I
don't think she's doing too well and I was wondering if we shouldn't work out some arrangement to take turns spending time with her now that Derek's gone.”

He shook his head regretfully. “Dr. Kleinert told me she'd kicked him out. Damn shame. Not that I have any use for him myself, but she's got her share of trouble right now. I hate to see her saddled with something else.”

“Me, too,” I said. “Do you need me to move my car?”

“No, that's fine,” he said, looking over at Nola. “I've got some work to do at the hospital, but I shouldn't be back too late. Do we have dinner plans?”

She smiled pleasantly, though she had to clear her throat before she could speak. “I thought we'd eat here if that's all right with you.”

“Sure, it's fine. Well. I'll let you two hatch your little schemes. Nice to see you, Kinsey.”

“Actually we're finished,” Nola said, getting up.

“Oh, well good,” he said, “I'll walk you out.”

I knew she was just using his appearance as a way to terminate the conversation, but I couldn't think of any delaying tactics, especially with the two of them standing there looking at me.

We exchanged brief good-byes and then Dr. Fraker held the door for me and I left the den. As I glanced back, I could see that Nola's expression was tinged with anxiety, and I suspected she was wishing she'd kept her secret to herself. She had a lot at stake: freedom, money, status, respectability. She was vulnerable
to anyone who knew what I now knew. I wondered how desperate she was to hang on to what she had and what kind of payment had been extracted from her as a result.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I went into the office. There was a pile of mail on the floor under the door slot. I gathered that up and tossed it on my desk, opening the French doors to let in some fresh air. The message light on my answering machine was blinking. I sat down and pressed the playback button.

The message was from my friend at the telephone company with a report on the disconnect for S. Blackman, whose full name was Sebastian S., male, age sixty-six, with a forwarding address in Tempe, Arizona. Well, that didn't sound very promising. If all else failed, I could double back and check that out to see if there was any tie to Bobby. Somehow I doubted it. I made a note in his file. There was a certain security in having it all committed to paper. At least that way, if anything happened to me, someone could come along afterward and pick up the thread—a grim notion, but not unrealistic given Bobby's fate.

I spent the next hour and a half going through my mail, catching up on my bookkeeping. A couple of
checks had come in and I entered those in accounts receivable, making out a deposit slip. One statement had been shipped back to me unopened, marked “Addressee Unknown. Return to Sender” with a big purple finger pointing right at me. God, a deadbeat. I hated getting stung for services rendered. I'd done some good work for that guy, too. I'd known he was a slow pay, but I didn't think he'd actually stiff me for my fee. I set it aside. I'd have to track him down when I had some time.

It was almost noon by then and I glanced at the phone. I knew there was a call I should make and I picked up the receiver, punching in the number before I lost my nerve.

“Santa Teresa Police Department. Deputy Collins.”

“I'd like to speak to Sergeant Robb in Missing Persons.”

“Just a moment. I'll connect you.”

My heart was thudding in a way that made my armpits damp.

I'd run into Jonah while I was investigating the disappearance of a woman named Elaine Boldt. He was a nice guy with a bland face, maybe twenty pounds overweight, amusing, direct, a bit of a rebel, pirating copies of some homicide reports for me against all the rules. He'd been married for years to his junior-high-school sweetheart, who'd abandoned him a year ago, departing with his two daughters, and leaving him with a freezer full of crappy dinners that she'd done up herself. He hadn't been flashy but I don't look for that anyway and I'd liked him a lot. We'd never been lovers,
but he'd exhibited a bit of healthy male interest and I'd taken a dim view of it when he went back to his wife. Face it, I was miffed, and I'd kept my distance from him ever since.

“Robb here.”

“Jesus,” I said, “I haven't even talked to you yet and I'm already pissed.”

I could hear him hesitate. “Kinsey, is that you?”

I laughed. “Yes, it's me and I just figured out how frosted I am.”

He knew exactly what I was talking about. “God. I know, babe. What a load of pig swill that was. I've thought about you so often.”

I was saying “uh-hun, uh-hun” in what I hoped was my most skeptical tone. “How's Camilla?”

He sighed and I could almost see him run a hand through his hair. “About the same. She treats me like dirt. I don't know why I let her back in my life.”

“Must be nice to have the girls home though, isn't it?”

“Well, yeah, that's true,” he said. “And we're seeing a counselor. Not them. Me and her.”

“Maybe that will help.”

“Maybe it won't.” He caught himself and changed his tone. “Ah. Well. I shouldn't complain. I guess I did it to myself. I'm just sorry it ended up affecting you.”

“Don't worry about it. I'm a big girl. Besides, I've got a way for you to redeem yourself. I thought maybe I could buy you lunch today and pick your brain.”

“Sure. I'd love it, only lunch is on me. It'll help assuage my guilt. How you like that ‘assuage' stuff? That's the word of the day on my vocabulary calendar. Yesterday was ‘ineluctable.' I never did figure out how to sneak that one in. Where do you want to go? You name the place.”

“Oh, let's keep it simple. I don't want to spend a lot of time on social niceties.”

“How about the courthouse? I'll pick up some sandwiches and we can eat on the lawn.”

“God, right out in public. Won't the department talk?”

“I hope so. Maybe Camilla will get wind of it and leave me again.”

“See you at twelve-thirty.”

“Is there something you want me to research in the meantime?”

“Oh right. Good point.” I gave him a quick synopsis of the Costigan shooting, leaving Nola Fraker out of it. I'd decide later how much of the story I could trust him with. For now, I fed him the public version and asked if he could take a peek at the files.

“I have a vague recollection of that one. Let me see what I can dig up.”

“And one more thing if you would,” I said. “Could you run a check through NCIC on a woman named Lila Sams?” I gave him her two a.k.a.'s, Delia Sims and Delilah Sampson, the birthdate I'd taken off the driver's license, and the additional information I had in my notes.

“Right. Got it. I'll do what I can. See you shortly,” he said and hung up.