Huckleberry Fiend (24 page)

“But that’s got to be illegal!”

He shrugged.

“Do banks even keep keys to people’s boxes?”

“Certainly not— but they have locksmiths on the payroll. Some people don’t pay their rent, you know.”

“So you stiffed her.”

“I’m afraid it came to that. Of course, I still had to go to the bank and pick up my package. She could have waited for me there and demanded her money if she chose. I would hardly have made a scene, merely administered a severe tongue-blistering. However,” he said, spreading his hands, “she chose not to. And so, as it turned out, yes. I stiffed her.” He looked utterly delighted with himself.

“I guess,” I said, “that’s how the rich get richer.”

“Of course.” Canary feathers fairly fell out of his mouth. “However—“ He sighed,“Apparently, Miss Williams is not without resources. As you heard, somehow or other, she’s apparently reclaimed her property. Or perhaps some other interested party has jumped into the fray.”

“Did anyone know you had the manuscript?”

“Of course not. Only the pseudonymous Miss Williams. Who, I’m forced to conclude, is a practicing member of the criminal class.”

“A shame the sorts of people who prey on honest businessmen.”

Afterward, I went to Little Joe’s for some food to get rid of the cloying taste of the Irish coffee— not to mention the taste of Kittrell. There were two ways of assessing him— either he was a crook, or he’d told that preposterous story to cover up the fact that he was a murderer. Perhaps he didn’t have $950,000 lying around but he’d wanted the manuscript as much as he said he did. And he simply killed Beverly Alexander to get it. Had he killed Rebecca Thaxton too? Were she and Beverly playing the game together?

His story made no sense at all. But if it was a lie, it must mean he’d burglarized my house as well, and I couldn’t see a man like him stooping to burglary— actually I could see him stooping, I just didn’t think he could pull it off.

There was one thing that argued his story was true— the fact that he’d told it to me. When I left him, he’d looked at me steely-eyed and said: “You’re wondering, I suppose, why I told you all this.”

“I thought you were the ancient mariner.”

“And you’re quite as anonymous as the wedding guest. The fact is, I don’t know who you are, Mr. Harper, or how you really fit into this.”

“I told you.”

“Of course. But rather sketchily, wouldn’t you say? I just want you to know that I’d be happy to leave the door open for negotiations. If you should find the manuscript and that original owner of yours wants to sell, I still have my $950,000. And if he doesn’t, I feel sure I could make it an even million. Do you understand me?”

“Perfectly.” I wanted to be polite, but I couldn’t control my voice. It was as cold and hard and nasty as a knife blade.

Odd, considering I’d never before been offered a million dollars. I intended to find the manuscript, and there was a good chance I would— I had once, already— but I wasn’t even tempted. It was worth at least that much never to have to see Kittrell again.

On the way home, I picked up the early edition of the
Chronicle
, for the story on Tom Sawyer’s arrest. It should have been on page one, but a quick perusal showed it hadn’t made the paper at all. I phoned Joey the second I got home, not even playing my messages first.

He said: “They’re not talking.”

“Who’s not?”

“Nobody in Nevada, so far as I can see. I sent my best man on it—”

“Debbie’s not a man.”

“Picky, picky. Anyway, if Debbie couldn’t pry their jaws open, no one could. They won’t hold out long, though. Someone tipped Debbie they’re trying to find the body— what’s left of it— and get it identified. In fact, if you want the truth, they think your Tom might be a crock.”

“I can see that.”

“But she says they’re excited as hell and it’ll be like Niagara Falls as soon as they’re sure they’ve got a story to give her. Nobody in Storey County ever had their name in a big-city newspaper before.”

“That’s not the half of it. The networks are going to be on this thing like sand on a beach.”

“Okay, okay, Mcdonald. Three-fifty for the sidebar— if it’s worth a damn.”

“It’s Tom Sawyer’s life story, that’s all. I could sell it to a magazine for at least seven-fifty.”

“Five hundred.”

I sighed. It was a bird in the hand. “Done. Just give me Debbie’s number in Nevada, okay?”

“What for?”

“I miss her. I want to talk to her.”

“You can’t kid me, Mcdonald. You miss reporting.”

“Yeah. Like I miss my teenage acne.”

What I needed Debbie for was to talk to Tom once she got the story and could get permission— to see if he was still willing, after he talked to a lawyer, to let us run the sidebar. But I wasn’t about to tell that to Joey. Even Debbie told me I’d gone soft. But she also promised to phone as soon as she got the go-ahead; she was a little on the soft side herself.

That taken care of, I listened to my messages— Booker had called to say his dad and Isami were back from the Sandwich Islands, and it was music to my ears. If there was one person I needed to talk to, it was Isami.

But it was nearly ten, I’d just driven back from the city, and Spot wanted to discuss the sound of one paw clapping. Since the story hadn’t run, I figured I could risk waiting till morning, but it would have to be very early morning. When Isami went to work, she went to New York, and I didn’t want to take a chance on missing her.

I arrived at eight a.m., an uncivilized hour by most standards, but Isami couldn’t have been nicer. Wrapped in a light-blue robe and rubbing sleep from her eyes, she assured me she wasn’t going to work that day— hence not going to New York— and that I’d be very welcome at eleven A.M. or so. I could have gone out for breakfast like a normal person, but maybe she was lying. For all I knew, she’d been Beverly’s partner and was giving me what used to be called the slip. So for the next three hours I sat in the Toyota.

By eleven I felt like a human pretzel— a very sleepy one at that, rather desperately in need of a bathroom. And hardly prepared to meet Booker’s dad. But apparently he wasn’t going to work that day either. He probably felt he had to stick around to make sure his sweetie didn’t get bullied by the mysterious stranger.

Isami Wommy had changed into jeans and a pink shirt. Kessler senior was wearing khakis and a polo shirt. They’d been drinking coffee in the kitchen and I would have been a lot happier if they’d asked me to join them there, but they led me into the living room. Which I promptly left to visit the bathroom.

When I returned they were together on the sofa, holding hands, Dad Kessler looking ready to do battle. I sat in a chair across the room, feeling outflanked.

“As I mentioned before,” I said, “I work for the
Chronicle
.”

“That’s funny,” said Kessler. “I called there and they didn’t know you.”

“You must have talked to someone new. I haven’t been on salary there in quite a while— I’m freelancing now.”

“Could I see your press card, please?”

“Freelancers don’t get them, but if you’d like to call the city editor, he’ll vouch for me.”

“I already talked to him.”

“I beg your pardon? You talked to Joey Bernstein?”

“Is that who answers when you get City Desk?”

“Not often. Usually, it’s a copyperson.”

“Mr. Mcdonald, watch my lips. They don’t know you there.”

“But they do. All you have to do is talk to the right person.”

Isami appealed to him with helpless almond eyes. “Shall I try them, Jack?”

“Oh, hell, I’ll do it.”

When he was gone, I tried small talk. “Had you known Beverly long?”

“Jack told me not to comment unless he was present.”

Oh, comment, comment, comment! Why did perfectly normal people talk like second-rate politicians around reporters? After an interminable time in which neither of us commented even on the weather, Jack came back.

“Well?”

“Bernstein’s in a meeting. I think you’d better go.” Forseeing this might happen, I’d worked up a contingency plan. “Actually, I’m here as a private citizen as much as a reporter. Miss Nakamura indicated this morning she’d be glad to talk to me and if you don’t mind, I’d like her to tell me if she wants me to leave.”

She stared at Kessler, stricken. She was obviously a girl who couldn’t say no, and he’d told her to. Or else she was a good actress.

“My house was burglarized after I came here, and I want to know why.”

The almond eyes went almost round. “But I was burglarized too.”

Good. I had her attention. “Several times, I hear.”

“Three.” She spoke in a whisper, as if she still hadn’t taken it in.

“Mcdonald,” said Kessler, “why don’t you get to the point?”

“Frankly, I do think the burglaries have something in common. I really am working on this damned thing for the
Chronicle
— as you’d know if you’d paid a little more attention to getting information and a little less to trying to be a hero— but I’m also damned mad about the burglary. Your roommate got killed in a burglary, Miss Nakamura. Maybe I would have been killed too, if I’d been home. I don’t feel safe in my own house any more and I’m trying to get to the bottom of this.”

“With all respect, Mr. Mcdonald,” said Kessler, “that’s a job for the police, isn’t it?” He was soft-spoken and ingratiating now, apparently trying out some of that psychology he taught.

But I’d given Isami something she could identify with. She said, “Why do you think I can help you?”

“All I want is a list of your roommate’s friends.”

“But I hardly knew her. We had different schedules and didn’t see each other more than a couple of times a week. I only knew her boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend.”

“Well, that’s a start. What’s his name?”

“Rick something. Duboce? I’m not sure.”

There it was— the missing link.

“Debay, by any chance?”

“Yes, of course. Rick Debay. Do you know him?”

“We’ve met once or twice. How well did you know him?”

“I never saw him more than four or five times. But then he broke up with Beverly a few weeks before she died.”

“He broke up with her? I mean, it wasn’t the other way around?”

“No. He dumped her. She was very depressed about it— until a week or so before…” She started to cry. “And then, that last week, she seemed so happy again. I thought she had a new boy friend. Oh, poor Beverly!” She fell sobbing into Kessler’s arms. He smoothed her hair and cooed for about half a century, obviously in an advanced state of rapture. He might be a psych professor, but he seemed to have forgotten about Oedipus.

Oh, hell, I might as well break it up. “Miss Nakamura,” I said.

“Can’t you see she’s under stress?” The prof forgot himself and yelled.

“I can see,” I said, “that she’s very sad because her roommate died. I think it would help her to talk about it.”

“What are you, a psychologist?”

“Mr. Kessler, with all due respect to you, I don’t think you have to be one to see that.”

“As a matter of fact, I happen to be a psychologist and I can assure you she doesn’t need this.”

“Frankly, I don’t think she needs a daddy, either. She seems a perfectly capable adult to me, and you seem determined to infantilize her for your own gratification. She may be under stress and I can verify that I am, but you seem to be having the time of your life, Jack.”

“Who do you think you are?” He stood up, not quite putting up his dukes, but flinging his arms about at any rate.

I lazed back in my chair, nonthreatening as anything. I spoke in the soft, phony manner of a shrink from central casting. “I’m a very nice man and so are you, Jack. Just two nice guys, talking in a sunny living room. Everything’s going to be okay, now… there’s really nothing to…”

“Don’t you condescend to me, you asshole.” He doubled up a fist. Isami, who hadn’t caught on that I was baiting him, jumped up and started petting him, convinced, I guess, that he was going off the deep end.

“Papa Bear,” she said, “sit down, okay? Be Isami Wommy’s nice Papa, pretty please?” Naturally, under the circumstances, that sent him out of his tree. Looking as if it took every bit of his self-control not to turn her over his knee, he kicked over a magazine stand and sat down heavily, gradually turning purple.

I hoped I could finish the interview before he recovered, but he was sulking so energetically it was hard to concentrate.

“Miss Nakamura, to your knowledge had Beverly ever been involved in anything illegal?”

“Oh, no. She was from a very good family.”

“Did she know any of these people, to your knowledge? Russell Kittrell, Herb Wolf, Pamela Temby?”

“Of course. Everyone knows Pamela Temby.”

“Did she know her personally?”

“Not that I know of. But she could have— her family is very influential.”

“How about Linda McCormick?”

“I don’t think so.”

“One last thing— have you seen Rick Debay since Beverly died?”

“Of course not. Oh, wait, yes, I have. At Beverly’s funeral.” The tears were starting to come back.

“Did you happen to tell him I was here— asking for Beverly?”

“No, I— but I did! We were talking about the investigation and I mentioned you came while Inspector Blick was here, and I thought…”— she flushed— “it was mysterious. I mean, the inspector thought…”

“It’s okay. Blick and I just kid. We’re like brothers, really. Nice to have met you, Jack.”

I tried to call Booker, but he wasn’t home— or more likely, since he was a night worker, wasn’t answering. The time had come for a pow-wow, so I left a message inviting him to dinner. Cooking, I thought, would stimulate thought. Next I invited Sardis. And, finally, I went shopping— I was going to make a meal that would have knocked Huck and Tom’s socks off.

Just thinking about all the thinking I was soon going to be doing made me so tired I took a nap. I was awakened by a wildly ringing phone— Debbie Hofer calling to say she’d finally got the story and not only that, she’d seen Tom and he still wanted my sidebar to run. I called the
Chronicle
and dictated it. After that, I made the first apple pie of my life. Also, the first biscuits, and decidedly the first fried okra. I rounded out the menu with fried chicken and corn on the cob, though these were not the most challenging parts of the meal— the average three-star chef could probably have done as well.