Impulse (15 page)
They trudged up the small rise from the restaurant toward the hotel. Rosemary inhaled. The air carried the aroma of new-mown grass and deep frying. She laid her hand on his sleeve. “Are you sure about this?”
He looked up and sniffed. “Sure about what?”
“Doing this search, investigation, whatever it is we’re up to.”
“You’re having doubts?”
“Maybe. Some, I think.”
He sighed. “Do you think they’re right?”
“Who?”
“The youth of America, or in this case, the sleek young people who snookered us into doing this. Are they right to discount us? I’m not sure how much of my willingness to pursue this is professional curiosity and how much is annoyance at a generation that assumes we’re all dotty.”
“It doesn’t do any good to rail about being discounted as old and marginalized, Frank. As far as the general population is concerned, that’s what we are. It doesn’t matter that many of us stay in reasonably good shape, vote intelligently, and take care of our health…you name it. We are routinely patronized by the culture that sees us as fragile, quirky, and foolish. Wrinklies, they call us. We are the butt of jokes on late-night television and the target of every scam artist in the country.”
“But why?”
“Because for every one of us who is normal and stylish, if you will, there are a half dozen who, God love them, wear black knee socks with their plaid shorts, striped shirts, and too white sneakers with Velcro closers.”
“And dorky sunglasses. Don’t forget them, the ones that fit over your regular glasses.”
“And talk too much about the old days, make right turns from the left turn lane, and complain about the noise in the neighborhood after nine o’clock at night. The truth is, Frank, there are two kinds of old folks, those like you and me, who resent the stereotype, and the rest who
are
the stereotype. And here’s the bad news, you and I are about ten years away from joining the latter. A walker with yellow tennis balls on the back legs beckons even now.”
“This has got to be the most depressing conversation we’ve ever had.”
They sat in silence for a moment.
“Do you want to know something else?” he said. “Those sunglasses really work. I don’t care how silly they look. Back where I come from, where the sun can be unremitting, they are the only thing I ever found that really protects my eyes. They block the UV rays front and side.”
“And there are days when I would die for a pair of Velcro closure shoes,” she said. “You see how it is? At some point we surrender to comfort and what works and toss style and what other people think about us out the window. On that day, we become the very thing for which senior citizens are ridiculed.”
“Yeah, but the good news is, we will soon outnumber all the other age groups and will be the trendsetters. Soon teenyboppers…are they still called that? Soon they will wear clunky sunglasses and ridiculous shoes and shirts that don’t match, shorts that don’t fit and…wait a minute…they already do! It’s only their parents that don’t fit in.”
“Why don’t I feel reassured?”
***
They tried reading in the lobby. Frank thought she might be reluctant to go to the room. It might have worked, but just then a convention of noisy medical technologists arrived and filled the area with happy chatter. Frank sent Rosemary up to the room while he had one more try at the Internet. Nothing in the papers caught his eye. He retrieved his home phone messages. Nothing new there either. He called his daughter; got her answering machine. He didn’t leave a message. He joined Rosemary in the room. Rosemary sat calm and composed at the desk. Whatever old-fashioned misgivings he might have had about being alone with her in a hotel room seemed not to be shared.
Lunch caught up with Frank an hour after they began to read. His eyelids gained five pounds. Tryptophan, he thought. I shouldn’t have had the turkey club. He put the report down and stretched. Rosemary had the yearbook open in her lap.
“I need some fresh air, or coffee,” he said, “or a nap.”
“Well, there’s a bed handy,” she said. “As long as you don’t snore, it’s okay by me.”
“I’m going to settle for coffee.” He fixed the coffee maker next to the sink and turned it on. The room had one chair at the small desk, and another in the corner. Since there didn’t seem to be any light for that one, they had to settle for Rosemary at the desk and Frank on one of the beds next to the nightstand.
The room filled with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. He loved it but it masked her perfume, a loss, he reckoned. He had not enjoyed a woman’s perfume for four years. His daughter rarely used it.
“Coffee smells wonderful,” she said. “Your notes say that one of the people still on campus is a Marvin Parker. There’s no separate picture of him, but in the library spread, there’s a Luella Mae Parker. Were they related?”
He poured two cups and gave her one. “Ms. Roulx said they were married but she left that year, divorce or something. Anyway, we can talk to him tomorrow. What kind of name is Luella Mae, anyway?”
“Southren, honeychile. You won’t find any Luella Maes north of the Mason-Dixon line. She’s from South Carolina, Alabama, someplace like that. She was quite a looker.”
Frank looked over her shoulder at the woman on the page. Even in black and white, she was a knockout.
“Wow. I bet the library did a booming business. Can you imagine what adolescent testosterone and this woman could create?”
Leaning close to her this way, he could smell her perfume again. Scents and colors were not his forte. Sandy used to kid him about both. She said she could douse herself in apple cider and wear a trash bag for a dress and he wouldn’t know the difference. He would have. He might not be able to identify the scent but he knew what he liked, and he liked whatever Rosemary wore.
Rosemary looked at the picture again. “Assuming the worst about this woman, and we have no reason to do so, she could cause a heap of trouble, especially when you throw in one of those southern accents dripping magnolias.”
They found several more pictures of Luella Mae scattered through the book. A very popular woman, it seemed. There were no pictures of her husband except in the faculty group shot. Bowtie askew, he peered myopically at the camera, through unfashionably large, horn-rimmed glasses.
“The owl and the pussy cat.” He returned to his corner of the bed and picked up the reports. They worked quietly for the next hour, only occasionally exchanging a comment. The coffee had only a marginal effect on his sleepiness.
“Here’s the picture of that man, Dexter Light,” she said. She had been reading his notes, writing some of her own and referring to the book. “He was a nice-looking boy then, and important, Corps Commander, no less.”
“Went to the Naval Academy but bilged out, I gather.”
“Here’s his page. My word, captain of two teams, clubs, and voted Teacher’s Pet. I’m not sure I would want that honorific if I were a boy. It says, ‘Dex is bound to succeed. All that time in the library stacks has got to pay off.’ What do you suppose that means?”
“Either he had a reputation as a bookworm, or he, like most of his classmates, hung around the pulchritudinous Mrs. Parker like drones around the queen bee. Given his status, I expect his droning seemed more obvious than, say, the nerdy-looking guy on the next page.”
She flipped the page and smiled. “This guy is the CEO of one of the biggest dotcoms in the country. I read about him in the alumni magazine last year. Don’t you remember?”
“I don’t read the magazine. Never have.”
She looked up and shrugged. Frank shuffled his reports again and put them back in chronological order.
“We should write an outline of what happened and then see how we can fit these people into it as we go along.”
“You dictate. I’ll write.”
“Okay, but if you think I’m off, or have something to add, jump in.” He waited until she had a fresh sheet of paper in front of her and began. He dictated slowly, referring to the reports and notes from time to time. It was like writing a book backward. When he wrote a book, he knew the story and created the crime. Now he had the crime and needed to write the story.
When he finished, she read it back to him. The details were the same as the news reports. They hadn’t found anything new, but writing it out helped them to focus. She paused in mid sentence and reread one line.
“A group of boys, four or five, were seen entering Old Oak Woods at two in the afternoon.” She paused, a frown line appearing between her brows. “Four or five, the reports say. At least two witnesses say something like that. One says there may have been as many as six.”
“Right. Apparently there were a group of campus kids who ran together—”
“I know, but that’s not what caught my eye. It’s the number thing.”
“The number thing? I don’t follow.”
“It’s the way people perceive them.” She walked to the window and stared down. “Come here for a minute, I’ll show you.” He went to the window and stood beside her.
“Look over there in the parking lot, in that corner. How many cars do you see?”
“Three.”
“Okay, now over against the wall, how many?”
“Four.”
“Good. Now right below us, how many?”
“Um…there are six.”
“Right. Do you see what I mean?”
“No. Did I miss something?”
“When I asked about the first group you said three. No hesitation, no doubt, three you said. Same with the second, four, but when you got to the third group you had to pause. You were counting, one, two, three, four, five, six. It’s the number thing.”
“I still don’t get it.”
She sat down at her desk again. “Most people can identify numbers up to four without counting. You see one person, it’s one. You don’t stop to count. One is one. Same holds with two, three, and a group of four. But five, for most people a group of five requires a quick check. Maybe a count. And six and up…you see what I mean?”
“Not yet.”
“The reports, the witnesses, all but one, say four or five, even six. That means they weren’t sure, didn’t count, just saw a group of boys larger than four. Four they would have known; would have recognized with a fair degree of certainty. We now know four went missing, not five. You said we were to play
what if
. Well, here is mine. What if five, not four boys, went into the woods at two o’clock?”
“It would mean that someone might know what happened to the other four and isn’t talking. That’s a maybe, of course; it requires five boys and it requires the fifth one to stay with the other four and not go home for a dentist’s appointment or something.”
“But it’s a good what if?”
“An excellent what if. You are very good at this. I should hire you as a story consultant.”
“I work cheap.”
“Okay.
What i
f
number one: Five not four.” He wrote it down.
“Two’s company, three’s a crowd, four’s a given, five’s a…count?” she chanted.
“Very good. Anything else strike you?”
“Only that one of the witnesses who saw the boys go in the woods was our lovely Luella Mae. She said…let me see,” Rosemary glanced at the notes. “‘I had just gone for my walk, it was such a beautiful day….’ Can’t you just hear her? Police must have had their tongues hanging out. ‘And I remember distinctly hearing the chapel bells toll the hour.’ Too bad we can’t interview her. I wonder what she looks like now.”
“The rest of the reports are vague about the time, aren’t they? So if she made a mistake about the time, we have another
what if
,” he said.
“How so?”
“If the boys went into those woods at one or one thirty, all sorts of other people need to account for their whereabouts, drivers, other hikers, other boys. Remember, the boarding students would be around and possibly in the woods at an earlier hour.” He looked at his watch. “It’s late. I’ve kept you too long. Let me buy you dinner and let you go home.”
“After that lunch, restaurant food doesn’t appeal. How about I cook you dinner at my house?”
“I can’t ask you to drive me all the way back out here.”
“You could stay over.”
Frank inhaled the last of her perfume and guessed as he did so that she was deep into another conversation with herself.
“What did she say?” he asked.
“She thinks you are dangerous. Are you?”
“Very.”
“This guy writes crap,” Ledezma said, and tossed his copy of
Monkey See, Monkey Don’t
on the desk. Pastorella looked up from his magazine.
“Who writes crap?”
“Smith. He’s like all those mystery story writers—except Connelly, of course—they don’t have a clue how real crime works. Take this book.” He pointed to the book on the desk. “The eyewitness to an animal trainer’s murder is a chimpanzee that’s been taught sign language. Do you believe that? Then his detective takes two hundred pages and two more murders to figure that out, get a signer in to talk to the ape and then get the bad guy, who, of course, can’t be prosecuted because a monkey’s evidence isn’t admissible in court. How many monkey murders do you get a year, Dom?”
Pastorella grinned. “Jeez, no more than a half dozen….You’re kidding about the book, right?”
“Read it. That’s the story. And the lieutenant wants to know why I think he’s our guy. See, these writer types think they’re smarter than people. They think because they write about murder, they can get away with it.”
“I never read that stuff,” Pastorella said. “Waste of my time.” He resumed the perusal of his copy of
Hot Rod
magazine. Ledezma picked up the envelope Maria Gutierrez left earlier. He looked at the label, lifted the flap, and peered inside at the sheaf of papers. He tossed it on the desk next to the book.
“The ME’s preliminary,” he said. “It ought to convince Phelps once and for all.”
“You read it?”
“No need to. I already talked to the doc in person. The Smith dame took a slug in the back of her head while she knelt and prayed for mercy. Can you see it, Dom? She’s praying for him not to shoot and he blows her away. I want to nail that bastard, Dom. I want his butt on the frying pan. Lethal injection is too good for him.”
“We’ll get him.” Dom didn’t sound convinced, but Ledezma put that down to inexperience. Some things you could only learn when you worked a city like LA, things that didn’t translate to McMicken, Arizona. He’d have to teach Pastorella detective work, LA style.
“When do we notify Smith about finding his wife’s body?”
“Not yet. We don’t have to until it’s official, and I want Smith to think he’s in the clear a little longer. I want to check out one or two more things, and if he doesn’t know, well, he won’t be on guard, will he? By the way, where’s our intern with the big knockers?”
“Gutierrez? Boss gave her the rest of the day off so she could ride right seat with Bobby Abramowitz.”
“Great. Barbie Goes on Patrol with Ken—coming soon to better toy stores near you. Patrol car sold separately.”
***
Dexter Light’s ears burned. His grandmother used to say that meant someone was talking about him. Somehow, he had managed to navigate past the Scylla and Charybdis of The Ironman and Cal’s and the other half-dozen bars that lined his route home. He bought food, a novelty for him. The checkout clerk asked if he just moved into the neighborhood. He smiled at her and allowed, in a way, he had.
He’d just spent the longest Monday in his life—no, the second longest, trying desperately to stay focused, make his quota, sell something. The longest was that Monday in the library with Mrs. Gardiner. He’d been a good telemarketer before today. You had to be on something—in his case, slightly drunk—to sell some of the dreck they put on your desk. He made his call quota, but hadn’t sold much. Chalk up another for sobriety. He’d spared the public from buying more crap.
Somehow he made it to his apartment, flipped on his tiny window air conditioner, and collapsed on the bed. The unit rattled and moaned. A little cool air settled on his forehead. The bottle of scotch began to sing to him again. He considered pouring it down the drain. He had not done it yet. As long as that bottle sat under the sink, he could fix his world. If he got rid of it and needed to restore the haze that shielded him from his guilt, it meant buying another. Also, if he did manage to stay sober, the presence of the booze so close certified his change. He could take it or leave it. Not the course recommended by the experts, but the one he needed. He either had character or he didn’t. He fell asleep.
The telephone’s ringing caromed around his skull, hit the backs of his eyes, and knocked them open. His phone never rang except when he overslept and Janetta called to get him moving. This would not be Janetta.
“Yeah?” His voice sounded like he’d gargled with sand.
“Dexter Light?”
“Yeah, I’m Light.”
“Are you the Dexter Light that attended the Scott Academy in—?”
“That’s me. Who am I talking to?”
“I am Harlan Mosley. I am an attorney representing the estate of Mrs. Mae Farragut.”
“Who?”
“You probably remember her as Luella Mae—Luella Mae Parker?”
Dexter sat up and reached across the few feet to the sink. He jerked the cabinet door open and reached for the bottle.
“Mr. Light? Are you still there?”
He uncorked the bottle and poured two inches into his toothbrush glass.
“I’m here.”
“Well, Mrs. Farragut specified in her will that certain documents should be forwarded to you in the event of her death. I will need you to personally pick them up at the office or, if that is not convenient, I will need some sort of authentication that you are the person to whom these documents were intended.”
Dexter gazed into the golden liquid like Merlin pondering King Arthur’s future in his crystal ball.
“Your office. Where might that be?”
“Spartanburg, South Carolina.”
“It will not be convenient. Can’t you just tell me what the documents are and then I can tell you if I want them.”
“That would be very convenient, but, unfortunately, I don’t know the contents. The envelope is sealed and I am prohibited from opening it.”
“How did she die?” he asked. He didn’t know why. Except for the note and picture, he had not been in touch with her for how long? He scratched his head. Why now?
“Massive cardiac failure, I believe, unusual for someone her age, but then, Mrs. Farragut was an unusual person, as you probably know.”
“Yes, she was. What do you need from me, exactly?” Dexter put the still filled glass down and squeezed his eyes shut.
“I think a notarized statement establishing your identity would do. Send it to me and I will mail the documents to you.”
“If I gave you a power of attorney in addition, could you open the envelope and tell me the contents over the phone? Then, if I want them, you could mail them to me.”
“I suppose I could do that, yes. Are you sure that’s what you want to do?”
“It’s what I want,” Dexter said. He jotted down Mosley’s address and hung up. He lifted the glass of scotch up to the light. “How many more lives must I destroy before I’m allowed to forget?” he asked. Neither the scotch nor the glass had anything to say in return. He decanted the liquor back into the bottle and replaced it under the sink. He didn’t spill a drop.
***
“Now admit it, this is better than a restaurant.”
Frank sat opposite Rosemary at a mahogany dining room table that would be too big for a dozen people. She had prepared a simple meal, but the atmosphere and, he supposed, the company made it special. His mother used to talk about houses like Rosemary’s, usually with a hint of envy in her voice. Rosemary lived in Ruxton on what might be the last eight-acre lot in the area. The dining room had, in addition to the table, a large sideboard, wall sconces, and molded plaster filigree that marched across the walls a few inches from the ceiling. Two silver candelabra provided most of the light.
The living room, he knew, was at least twice the size of this room. Oriental carpets on inlaid oak floors throughout, antiques and reproductions all tastefully arranged, polished, and expensive. George Mitchell had done very well indeed. He figured if she kept half an acre with the house and subdivided the rest, she would clear at least two million dollars on the lots alone. Rosemary did not have to worry about where her next meal might come from. He pushed back his plate and folded his napkin.
“Can I ask you a personal question?”
“It’s a little late to worry about that, isn’t it?”
“You think? Anyway, it’s okay, right?” She nodded and returned his smile.
“What scent are you wearing? Is that the right word? Do you say scent or perfume?”
“I don’t know or, for that matter, care. I think people say scent now because perfume, good perfume, costs so much, and so a lot of women use cologne.”
“You?”
“I grew up with perfume. Haven’t changed. It’s Shalimar today, by the way.”
Frank inhaled noisily and grinned. She shook her head.
“Coffee on the patio,” she said, “unless you want something stronger.” They filled coffee cups in the kitchen and she led him through French doors onto a screened porch and then outside through a screen door that slapped shut behind them. They descended four steps to the patio, made with bricks set in concentric circles. A table and four chairs stood at the center. Azaleas formed a low hedge around the area, broken only where brick paths entered or exited. In the half light, he couldn’t tell if the azaleas were white or pink.
“This is very nice,” he said and stretched out his legs.
“It’s nice now. Spring is the best season. We can sit out here. It’s not too cool and there are no bugs yet. In the summer we have to sit on the screened porch or the mosquitoes will eat you alive. What’s it like in Arizona?”
“McMicken is one of the new municipalities in the West Valley. Surprise, Goodyear, and Buckeye are growing so fast you can’t leave for a week and not have trouble recognizing your street when you return. They are rolling up the desert, citrus farms, and cotton fields and building thousands of houses. Roads that were two lanes into the country are now six lanes of divided highway and crowded. Autoplexes, cinemas…you name it, we either have it or will soon. The weather is hot, most of the time, very hot by East Coast standards. That’s in the valley. In the high country, Flagstaff and places like that, the climate is more like it is here. Snow, rain…seasons. But down in the valley, hot is the word. No mosquitoes, to speak of. No screened porches as a rule.”
“No pests at all?”
“I didn’t say that. We have scorpions, snakes, coyotes, and rabbits destroying the lantana. It’s the law of compensation. Ease in one area is always balanced by hardship in another.” They fell silent again. Then she sat forward, put down her cup and folded her hands.
“What comes next? About the mystery, I mean.” Was she blushing? He caught the fading scent of her Shalimar.
“Tomorrow, we’ll start interviewing. I’ll call people in the morning. We’ll use the hotel as our base so if we lose touch, that’s where we’ll hook up again.”
“Are we going to talk to them together or separately?”
“I don’t know. What do you think would work best?”
“I think I should do the women, you do the men, and we do the families together—if there are any.”
“I want to talk to Dexter Light sometime. He lives downtown. We’ll have to do him late in the afternoon, I think. He works, but the alumni office didn’t know where.”
“Try him tomorrow evening. You can take the car to wherever and I’ll make dinner again. When you are finished, call me. If he’s downtown, that is to say, way downtown, you will be twenty minutes from me. That way I can time the meal.”
“You’re sure about the cooking and…everything?”
“I’m sure.”
