J is for Judgment (10 page)

“You think Wendell would try to get in touch with me? This is dumb. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Mrs. Jaffe. I can understand how you feel….”

“What are you
talking
about? The man is dead! Don’t you get it? He turned out to be a con artist, a common crook. I’ve had trouble enough dealing with all the people he cheated. You’re not going to turn around now and tell me he’s still out there,” she snapped.

“We think he faked his own death, probably to avoid prosecution for fraud and grand theft.” I reached for my handbag. “I have a picture if you want to see him. This was done by a police artist. It’s not exact, but it’s close.
I saw him myself.” I pulled out the photocopy of the picture, unfolded the paper, and passed it over to her.

She studied it with an intensity that was almost embarrassing. “This isn’t Wendell. This looks nothing like him.” She tossed it back toward the table. The paper sailed off the edge like an airplane taking off. “I thought they did these with computers. What’s the matter? Are the cops here too cheap?” She snatched up my business card again and read my name. I could see that her hand had begun to shake. “Look, Ms. Millhone. Maybe I should explain something. Wendell put me through hell. Whether he’s dead or alive is immaterial from my perspective. You want to know why?”

I could see she was working herself into a snit. “I understand you had him declared dead,” I ventured.

“That’s right. You got it. Very good,” she said. “I’ve collected his life insurance, that’s how dead he is. This is over and done. Finito, you savvy? I’m getting on with my life. You understand what I’m saying? I’m not interested in Wendell one way or the other. I’ve got other problems I’m coping with at the moment, and as far as I’m concerned—”

The telephone began to ring and she glanced back with annoyance. “The machine will pick up.”

The machine clicked in, and Dana intoned the standard advice about a name, telephone number, and a message. Without even thinking about it, we both turned to listen. “Please wait for the beep,” Dana’s recorded voice admonished. We paused dutifully, waiting for the beep.

I could hear a woman using the artificial message-giving voice that machines inspire. “Hello, Dana. This is
Miriam Salazar. Your name was given to me by Judith Prancer as a bridal consultant. My daughter, Angela, is getting married next April, and I just thought we should have a preliminary conversation. I’d appreciate a call back. Thanks.” She left her telephone number.

Dana smoothed her hair back, checking the scarf at the nape of her neck. “Jesus, this has been a crazy summer,” she commented idly. “I’ve had two and three weddings every weekend, plus I’m getting ready for a midsummer bridal fair.”

I stared at her, saying nothing. Like many people, she was capable of delivering informational asides while in the midst of a highly charged emotional conversation. I hardly knew where to take the matter next. Wait until she figured out that California Fidelity was going to reclaim the insurance money if Wendell showed up in the flesh.

I shouldn’t even have allowed the thought to enter my head, because the minute it occurred to me she seemed to read my mind.

“Oh, wait. Don’t tell me. I just collected half a million bucks. I hope the insurance company doesn’t think I’m going to give the money
back.”

“You’d have to talk to them about that. Generally, they don’t pay death benefits if a guy’s not really dead. They’re kind of cranky that way.”

“Now just a goddamn minute. If he’s alive—which I’m not buying for a minute—but if it turned out he was, it’s hardly
my
responsibility.”

“Well, it certainly isn’t
theirs.”

“I’ve waited years for that money. I’d be dead broke
without it. You don’t understand the kind of struggle I’ve been through. I’ve had two boys to raise with no help from anyone.”

“You’d probably be smart to talk to an attorney,” I said.

“An attorney? What for? I didn’t do anything. I’ve suffered enough because of Wendell goddamn Jaffe, and if you think for one minute I’m giving the money back, you’re crazy. You want to collect, you’ll have to get it from him.”

“Mrs. Jaffe, I don’t make policy decisions for California Fidelity. All I do is investigate and file reports. I have no control over what they do—”

“I didn’t
cheat”
she cut in.

“No one’s accusing you of cheating.”

She cupped a hand around her ear. “Yet,” she said. “Don’t I hear a big fat ‘yet’ at the end of that sentence?”

“What you hear me saying is take it up with them. I’m only here because I thought you should be aware of what’s going on. If Wendell tries to get in touch …”

“Jesus! Would you stop this? What earthly reason would he have to get in touch with me?”

“Because he probably read about Brian’s escapades in all the Mexican papers.”

That shut her up momentarily. She stared at me with the panicky blank look of a woman with a train bearing down the track at her and a car that won’t start. Her voice dropped. “I can’t deal with this. I’m sorry, but this is all nonsense as far as I’m concerned. I’ll have to ask you to leave.” She rose to her feet, and I rose at the same time.

“Hey, Mom?”

Dana jumped.

Her oldest son, Michael, was coming down the stairs. He caught sight of us and paused. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t know you were busy down here.” He was lanky and slim, with a dark mop of silky hair much in need of a cut. His face was narrow, nearly pretty, with large dark eyes and long lashes. He wore jeans, a sweatshirt emblazoned with a fake college decal, and high-top tennis shoes.

Dana flashed a bright smile at him to disguise her distress. “We’re just finishing. What is it, baby? Did you guys want something to eat?”

“I thought I’d make a run. Juliet’s out of cigarettes and the baby needs Pampers. I just wondered if you needed anything.”

“Actually, you might pick up some milk for breakfast. We’re almost out,” she replied. “Get a half gallon of low-fat and a quart of orange juice, if you would. There’s some money on the kitchen table.”

“I got some,” he said.

“You keep that, honey. I’ll get it.” She moved off toward the kitchen.

Michael continued to the bottom of the steps and snagged his jacket from the newel post where it was draped. He nodded at me shyly, perhaps mistaking me for one of his mother’s bridal clients. Despite the fact that I’d been married twice, I’ve never had a formal wedding. The closest I’d ever come was a bride of Frankenstein outfit one Halloween when I was in the second grade. I had fangs and fake blood, and my aunt drew clumsy
black stitches up and down my face. My bridal veil was affixed to my head with numerous bobby pins, most of which I’d lost by the time the evening came to an end. The dress itself was a cut-down version of a ballerina costume …some kind of
Swan Lake
number with an ankle-length skirt. My aunt had added sparkles, making squiggles with a tube of Elmer’s glue that she sprinkled with dime-store glitter. I’d never felt so glamorous. I remember looking at myself solemnly in the mirror that night in a halo of netting, thinking it was probably the most beautiful dress I would ever own. Sure enough, I’ve never had anything quite like it since, though, in truth, it’s not the dress so much as the feeling I miss.

Dana came back into the living room and pressed a twenty into Michael’s hand. They had a brief chat about the errand. While I waited for them to finish their business, I picked up one of the silver-framed photos. It looked like Wendell in high school, which is to say dorky-looking with a bad haircut.

Michael left for the store, and Dana moved over to the table where I was standing. She took the picture from my hand and set it back on the tabletop. I said, “Is that Wendell in high school?”

She nodded, distracted. “Cottonwood Academy, which has gone out of business since. His was the last class to graduate. I gave his class ring to Michael. I’ll give Brian his college ring when the time comes.”

“When what time comes?”

“Oh, some special occasion. I tell them it’s something their father and I always talked about.”

“That’s laying it on a bit thick, isn’t it?”

Dana shrugged. “Just because I think Wendell’s a schmuck doesn’t mean they have to. I want them to have a man to look up to, even if he isn’t real. They need a role model.”

“So you give them an idealized version?”

“It might be a mistake, but what else can I do?” she said, coloring.

“Yeah, really. Especially when he pulls a deal like this.”

“I know I’ve given him more credit than he deserves, but I don’t want to bad-mouth the man to his sons.”

“I understand the impulse. I’d probably do the same in your place,” I said.

She reached out impulsively and touched my arm. “Please leave us alone. I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t want them brought into it.”

“I won’t bother you if I can help it, but you’re still going to have to tell them.”

“Why?”

“Because Wendell could beat you to it, and you might not like the effect.”

I
t was nearly 10:00
P.M.
by the time I hoofed it through the strip lot behind the Santa Teresa Yacht Club. After I left Dana Jaffe, I hit the 101 north, tearing back up the coast to my apartment, where I hastily tried on several hangers’ worth of hand-me-downs Vera’d passed along to me. In her unbiased opinion I’m a complete fashion nerd, and she’s trying to teach me the rudiments of “shiek.” Vera’s into these Annie Hall ensembles that look like you’re preparing for a life sleeping on sewer grates. Jackets over vests over tunics over pants. The only thing I lack is a grocery cart for the rest of my possessions.

I sorted through the garments, wondering which items were supposed to go with which. I need a personal trainer when it comes to this shit, someone to explain the underlying strategy. Since Vera is twenty pounds heavier and a good five inches taller, I bypassed the slacks, imagining I’d look like Droopy of the Seven
Dwarfs. She’d given me two long skirts with elasticized waists, swearing either would look great with my black leather boots. There was also a forties-looking rayon drop-waist print dress with an ankle-length skirt. I pulled the garment over my head and regarded myself in the mirror. I’d seen Vera wear this, and she’d looked like a vamp. I looked like I was six, playing dress-up in the discards from my aunt’s rag bag.

I went back to one of the long skirts, a black washable silk. I think she intended for me to hem the length, but I simply rolled it up at the waist, a little doughnut effect. She’d also given me a tunic top in a color she called taupe (a blend of gray and old cigar butts), with a long white vest that went over both. She’d told me I could dress up the outfit with accessories. Big duh. Like I really had some kind of clue how to make that work. I searched my drawers for jewelry to no avail and finally decided to wear the long crocheted runner my aunt had made for the dresser top. I gave it a little flap to get all the woofies out and then looped it around my neck with the ends hanging down the front. Looked good to me, kind of devil-may-care, like Isadora Duncan or Amelia Earhart.

The yacht club sits on stilts overlooking the beach with the harbormaster’s office nearby and the long concrete arm of the breakwater curving out to the left. The sound of the surf was thunderous that night, like the rumble of cars moving over wooden trestles. The ocean was oddly agitated, the far-flung effects from some violent weather pattern that would probably never reach us. A dense haze hung in the air like a scrim through
which I caught shadowy glimpses of the moon-tinted horizon. The sand glowed white, and the boulders piled up around the foundations of the building were draped with strands of kelp.

Even from the sidewalk down below, I could hear the trumpeting laughter of the heavy drinkers. I climbed the wide wooden steps to the entrance and in through the glass doors. A second set of stairs ascended to the right, and I made my way up toward the smoke and recorded music in the bar above. The room was L-shaped, diners occupying the long arm, drinkers confined to the short, which was just as well. The noise level was oppressive given the fact that most of the dinner crowd had departed and the bar was only half-filled. The floor was carpeted, the entire upper story wrapped in windows that overlooked the Pacific. By day, club members were treated to panoramic ocean views. At night, the black glass threw back smudged reflections, pointing up the need for the rigorous application of Windex. When I reached the maître d’s pulpit, I paused, watching him approach me from across the room.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. I guessed he’d been recently promoted from his job as headwaiter because he held his left arm at an angle, a ready rack for some wine towel he no longer had to tote.

“I’m looking for Carl Eckert. Is he here tonight?”

I saw his gaze flick downward, taking in my scruffy boots, the long skirt, the vest, shoulder bag, and my ill-cut hair, which the sea wind had tossed into moplike perfection. “Is he expecting you?” His tone suggested he’d expect invading Martians first.

I held out a discreetly folded five-dollar bill. “Now he is,” I said.

The fellow slipped the bill in his pocket without checking the denomination, which made me wish I had given him a single. He indicated a gentleman sitting at a window table by himself. I had plenty of time to study him as I crossed the room. I put him in his early fifties, still of an age where he’d be referred to as “youthful.” He was silver-haired and stocky. His once handsome face had gone soft now along the jawline, though the effect was still nice. While most of the men in the bar were dressed casually, Carl Eckert wore a conservative dark gray herringbone suit, with a light gray shirt and navy wool tie with a grid of light gray. I wound my way among the tables, wondering what the hell I was going to say to him. He saw me headed in his direction and focused on me as I drew within range. “Carl?”

He smiled at me politely. “That’s right.”

“Kinsey Millhone. May I join you?”

I held out my hand. He half rose from his chair and leaned forward courteously, shaking hands with me. His grip was aggressive, the skin on his palm icy cold from his drink. “If you like,” he said. His eyes were blue, and his gaze was unyielding. He gestured toward a chair.