E is for Evidence (10 page)

I followed her. She was wearing a wide-shouldered black suit, nipped in at the waist, a stark white shirt, knee-high glossy black boots with heels sharp enough to pierce a cheap floor covering. She smelled of a high-powered perfume, dark and intense, faintly unpleasant at close range. A trail of it wafted back at me like diesel fuel. This was going to give me a headache, I could tell. I was already annoyed by her attitude, which was peremptory at best.

The second floor was carpeted in pale beige, a wool pile so dense I felt as if we were slogging through dry sand.

The hallway was wide enough to accommodate a settee and a massive antique armoire. It surprised me somehow that she was living at home. Maybe, like Ash, she was here temporarily until she found a permanent residence somewhere else.

She opened a bedroom door and stepped back, waiting for me to pass in front of her. She should have been a school principal, I thought. With a tiny whip, she could have done a thriving trade in dominance. As soon as I'd entered the room, she closed the door and leaned against it, still holding onto the knob at the small of her back. Her complexion was fine, loose powder lending a matte finish to her face, like the pale cast of hoarfrost.

 

 

 

 

 

There was an alcove to the left, done up as a little sitting room with a coffee table and two easy chairs. “Sit down,” she said.

“Why don't you just tell me what you want and let's get on with it?”

She shrugged and crossed the room. She leaned down and plucked a cigarette from the crystal box on the coffee table. She sat down in one of the upholstered chairs. She lit her cigarette. She blew the smoke out. Every gesture was separate and deliberate, designed to call maximum attention to herself.

I moved to the door and opened it. “Thanks for the trip upstairs. It's been swell,” I said, as I started out the door.

“Kinsey, wait. Please.”

I paused, looking back at her.

“I'm sorry. I apologize. I know I'm rude.”

“I don't care if you're rude, Ebony. Just pick up the pace a bit.”

Her smile was wintry. “Please sit, if you would.”

I sat down.

“Would you like a martini?” She set her burning cigarette in the ashtray and opened a small refrigerator unit built into the coffee table. She extracted chilled glasses, a jar of pitted green olives, and a bottle of gin. There was no vermouth in sight. Her nails were so long they had to be fake, but they allowed her to extract the olives without getting her fingers wet. She inserted an acrylic tip and pierced the olives one by one, lifting them out. I watched her pour gin with a glint in her eye that suggested a thirst springing straight from her core.

She handed me a drink. “What happened with you and Lance?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because I'm curious. The company's affected by whatever affects him. I want to know what's going on.” She picked up her cigarette again and took a deep drag. I could tell the nicotine and alcohol were soothing some inner anxiety.

“He knows as much as I do. Why don't you ask him?”

“I thought you might tell me, as long as you're here.”

“I'm not sure that's such a good idea. He seems to think you're part of it.”

Her smile returned, but it held no mirth. “In this family, I'm not part of anything. I wish I were.”

I felt another surge of impatience. I said, “Jesus, let's quit fencing. I hate conversations like this. Here's the deal. Someone set me up and I don't like it. I have no idea why and I don't much give a shit, but I'm going to find out who it was. At the moment I'm self-employed, so the only client I have to answer to is me. If you want information, hire a private detective. My services are spoken for.”

Her expression hardened like plaster of Paris, dead white. I suspected if I reached out to touch her, her skin would have had the same catalytic heat. “I hoped you'd be reasonable.”

“What for? I don't know what's going on, and what I've seen so far, I don't like. For all I know, you're at the bottom of this or you know who is.”

“You don't mince words, do you?”

“Why should I mince words? I don't work for you.”

“I made a simple inquiry. I can see you've decided to take offense.” She stubbed out her cigarette at the halfway mark.

She was right. I was hot and I wasn't sure why. I took a deep breath and calmed myself. Not for her
sake, but for mine. I tried again. “You're right. I'm out of line. I didn't think I was pissed off, but clearly I am. Somehow I've gotten caught up in family politics and that doesn't sit well with me.”

“What makes you so sure it's family politics? Suppose it's someone outside the company?”

“Like who?”

“We have competitors like anybody else.” She took a sip of her martini and I could see her savor the icy liquid as it flooded through her mouth. Her face was narrow, her features fine. Her skin was flawless and unlined, giving her the bland expression of a Madame Alexander doll. Either she'd already had plastic surgery or she'd somehow learned not to have the kinds of feelings that leave telltale marks. It was hard to imagine that she and Ash were sisters. Ash was earthy and open with a sunny disposition, generous, good-natured, easygoing, relaxed. Ebony was as lean as a whip, all edged—brittle, aloof, controlled, arrogant. It was possible, I thought, that the differences between them were related, in part, to their relative positions in the family constellation. Ebony was the oldest daughter, Ash the youngest. Woody and Helen had probably expected perfection of their first child. By the time they got down to Ash, and beyond her to Bass, they must have given up expecting anything.

Ebony touched the olive in her drink, turning it. She eased the fingernail into the hole and plucked it
out, laying the green globe on her tongue. Her lips closed around her finger and she made a faint sucking noise. The gesture had obscene overtones and I wondered suddenly if she was coming on to me.

She said, “I don't suppose you'll tell me what Mother wanted.”

I could feel my temper climb again. “Don't you people talk to each other? She invited me for tea. We had a few laughs about old times. I'm not going to run straight up here and spill it all to you. If you want to know what we talked about, ask her. When I find out what's going on, I'll be delighted to dump the whole thing in your lap. In the meantime, I don't think it's smart to run around telling everything I know.”

Ebony was amused. I could see the corners of her mouth turning up.

I stopped what I was saying. “Have you got some kind of problem with that?”

She laughed. “I'm sorry. I don't mean to condescend, but you were always like this. All that energy. So fiery and defensive.”

I stared at her, stumped for a response.

“You're a professional,” she went on pleasantly. “I understand that. I'm not asking you to divulge any confidences. This is my family and I'm concerned about what goes on. That's my only point. If I can be of any help, just tell me how. If something you discover
has a bearing on me, I'd like to hear about it. Is that so unreasonable?”

“Of course not. Sorry,” I said. I circled back through our conversation, returning to something she'd said earlier. “You mentioned that the trouble might originate from someone outside the company. Were you talking in general or specific terms?”

She shrugged languidly. “General, really, though I do know of someone who hates us bitterly.” She paused, as though trying to decide how to frame her explanation. “There was an engineer who worked for us for many years. A fellow named Hugh Case. Two years ago, a couple of months before my father died, as a matter of fact, he—um, killed himself.”

“Was there a connection?”

She seemed faintly startled. “With Daddy's death? Oh, no, I'm sure not, but from what I'm told, Hugh's wife was convinced Lance was responsible.”

“How so?”

“You'd have to ask someone else for the details. I was in Europe at the time, so I don't know much except that Hugh shut himself up in his garage and ran his car until he died of carbon monoxide poisoning.” She paused to light another cigarette and then sat for a moment, using the spent match to rake the ash into a neat pile in the ashtray.

“His wife felt Lance drove him to it?”

“Not quite. She thought Lance murdered him.”

“Oh, come on!”

“Well, he was the one who stood to benefit. There was a rumor floating around at the time that Hugh Case intended to leave Wood/Warren and start a company of his own in competition with us. He was in charge of research and development, and apparently he was on the track of a revolutionary new process. The desertion could have caused us serious harm. There are only fifteen or so companies nationwide in our line of work so the defection would have set us back.”

“But that's ridiculous. A man doesn't get murdered because he wants to change jobs!”

Ebony arched an eyebrow delicately. “Unless it represents a crippling financial loss to the company he leaves.”

“Ebony, I don't believe this. You'd sit there and say such a thing about your own brother?”

“Kinsey, I'm reporting what I heard. I never said
I
believed it, just that she did.”

“The police must have investigated. What did they find?”

“I have no idea. You'd have to ask them.”

“Believe me, I will. It may not connect, but it's worth checking out. What about Mrs. Case? Where is she at this point?”

“I heard she left town, but that might not be true. She was a bartender, of all things, in that cocktail
lounge at the airport. Maybe they know where she went. Her name is Lyda Case. If she's remarried or gone back to her maiden name, I don't know how you'd track her down.”

“Anybody else you can think of who might want to get to Lance?”

“Not really.”

“What about you? I heard you were interested in the company. Isn't that why you came back?”

“In part. Lance has done some very foolish things since he took over. I decided it was time to come home and do what I could to protect my interests.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning just what it sounds like. He's a menace. I'd like to get him out of there.”

“So if he's charged with fraud, it won't break your heart.”

“Not if he's guilty. It would serve him right. I'm after his job. I make no bones about it, but I certainly wouldn't need to go about it in an underhanded way, if that's what you're getting at,” she said, almost playfully.

“I appreciate your candor,” I said, though her attitude irritated me. I'd expected her to be defensive. Instead, she was amused. Part of what offended me in Ebony was the hint of superiority that underscored everything she did. Ash had told me Ebony was always considered “fast.” In high school, she'd been
daring, a dazzler and wild, one of those girls who'd try anything once. At an age when everyone else was busy trying to conform, Ebony had done whatever suited her. “Smoked, sassed adults, and screwed around,” was the way Ash put it. At seventeen she'd learned not to give a shit, and now she seemed indelibly imprinted with an air of disdain. Her power lay in the fact that she had no desire to please and she didn't care what your opinion of her was. Being with her was exhausting and I was suddenly too tired to press her about the little smile that played across her mouth.

It was 6:15. High tea wasn't doing much for someone with my low appetites. I was suddenly famished. Martinis give me a headache anyway and I knew I smelled of secondhand cigarette smoke.

I excused myself and headed home, stopping by McDonald's to chow down a quarter-pounder with cheese, large fries, and a Coke. This was no time to torment my cells with good nutrition, I thought. I finished up with one of those fried pies full of hot glue that burns the fuck out of your mouth. Pure heaven.

When I got back to my place, I experienced the same disconcerting melancholy I'd felt off and on since Henry got on the plane for Michigan. It's not my style to be lonely or to lament, even for a moment, my independent state. I like being single. I like
being by myself. I find solitude healing and I have a dozen ways to feel amused. The problem was I couldn't think of one. I won't admit to depression, but I was in bed by 8:00
P.M
. . . . not cool for a hard-assed private eye waging a one-woman war against the bad guys everywhere.

 

 

 

 

 

By 1:00 the next afternoon, I had tracked Lyda Case by telephone to a cocktail lounge at the Dallas/Fort Worth airport, where she was simultaneously tending bar and hanging up in my ear with a force that made me think I'd have to have my hearing rechecked. Last May I'd been compelled to shoot someone from the depths of a garbage bin and my ears have been hissing ever since. Lyda didn't help this . . . especially as she said a quite rude word to me before she smacked the phone down. I was deeply annoyed. It had taken me a bit of doing to locate her and she'd already hung up on me once that day.

I'd started at 10:00
A.M.
with a call to the Culinary Alliance and Bartenders Local 498, which refused to tell me anything. I've noticed lately that organizations are getting surly about this sort of thing. It used to be you could ring them right up, tell a plausible
tale, and get the information you wanted within a minute or two. Now you can't get names, addresses, or telephone numbers. You can't get service records, bank balances, or verification of employment. Half the time, you can't even get confirmation of the facts you already have. Don't even bother with the public schools, the Welfare Department, or the local jail. They won't tell you nothin'.