Muller, Marcia - [McCone 02] - Ask the Cards a Question 3S(v1)(html) (4 page)

When I opened the apartment door, the cat leapt out at me. He charged toward the little bed of blue pebbles and plastic flowers that was the owner’s idea of lobby decoration and began to root enthusiastically among the fake geraniums. I smiled, remembering that Tim’s pet peeve was the inability among felines in the building to distinguish between this synthetic jungle and the out-of-doors. Well, at least Watney had waited until I got home.

I leaned against the door frame, suddenly tired and looking forward to a cool glass of white wine. The cat approached tentatively, glancing up at me with wide yellow eyes before he sidled inside and slithered down the hall. Apparently Watney, with some reservations, had accepted his new home.

I followed him, looking into the bathroom and frowning at the wet, crumpled towels strewn on the floor. Blond hair clogged the basin, and the mirror was speckled. The main room was dark, my new draperies drawn tightly across the bay window. I jerked the cord, half expecting to find Linnea curled up in the bed, but the light revealed only twisted quilts. My friend must have taken my advice to get out of here, and with good reason: Clothes were draped over every available piece of furniture, glasses stood on the shelves and table tops, ashtrays overflowed. Surely the place hadn’t looked as bad this morning!

I sighed and went into the kitchen in quest of wine. Dirty dishes stood everywhere, some on the floor. I’d been busy the last few days and hadn’t had time to wash them. But then, I hadn’t been home long enough to dirty them either. I shoved aside a greasy frying pan and set down the carton of cat supplies, then opened the old electrified icebox that was built in to the wall and stared glumly into its depths. Besides every dish in the house, Linnea had used up all the wine.

“Jesus Christ,” I said wearily. I shut the icebox and, after dishing out some food for the cat, went back to the main room. After a feeble attempt at straightening the disordered bedclothes, I picked up my purse and left.

I got as far as the front steps before I realized I didn’t know where to go. There I sat, chin propped on my hand, watching the buses disgorge rush hour crowds at the corner stop. I should think, I told myself. I should think.

But what was there to think about? Linnea Carraway, my oldest friend, had turned into an obnoxious, self-centered bitch. And, in her post-divorce depression, she had veered so far off course that I could half-seriously entertain thoughts like those about the drapery cord. Not even my fondest memories of the days when we were growing up together in San Diego could change the fact of Linnea’s drastic deterioration.

Still, the memories came rushing back as I sat here on the steps. Linnea was my friend from the days when we had asked the cards a question and, deep down, I still loved her.

Even now, my mind traveled to San Diego, to my bedroom in my parents’ old, rambling house, to a younger Linnea sitting crosslegged on the floor as she dealt out a single game of solitaire. Her wheat-colored hair would be hitched up in horsetails on either side of her head, her pretty face pinched with concentration as she sat in the lamplight, her eyes pleading with the cards to make the game come out.

That was the trick: You asked the cards a question. If the game came out, the answer was “yes.” If the cards stuck, the answer was “no.” And the question, more often than not in those days, was: “Does he love me?”

Well, the “he” of Linnea’s questions had loved her, for a while. He’d married her, given her two children, and left her for someone else, all in five short years. When the divorce was final, Linnea had left the kids at her mother’s and come to me, her best friend, for sympathy and help in pulling the pieces of her life together. Dammit! How could I let her down?

Contrary to our younger days, I was now the strong one, the one who’d made the kind of life she wanted for herself. And Linnea: She had a broken marriage, two preschool kids parked with Grandma, and a full-blown nervous breakdown over the prospect of her spousal support running out in three years when, by the court’s reckoning, she should have become self-supporting.

For weeks now I’d told her: “Look, three years is a fantastically long time. By then you could have gone to law school, or become an accountant. Hell, you could even have become a cop!”

But to Linnea, accustomed since her marriage to having her plans made for her, three years was all too short. She never disagreed with what I said, but she would sit there, staring at me as if I were speaking in tongues, and then reach for whatever liquor bottle was closest to hand. She went her sodden way, dropping her clothes on the floor, burning cigarette holes in the furniture, and in general playing havoc with my life. I couldn’t understand what had happened to my gutsy, independent friend.

Linnea had always been a leader, one of those people who got things done with fanfare and flourish. In high school, she had hitchhiked to Los Angeles one weekend to see a rock star—and convinced him to come to San Diego for a benefit concert for our class’s senior trip. She’d been the first in our crowd to backpack alone in the Sierras, to try skydiving, and to get a prescription for the Pill. While the rest of us went from school to dull jobs as secretaries or sales clerks or, in my case, security guards, Linnea wangled a job as a receptionist at a local TV station. In two years, she had become their first female news commentator. Her reportage, like her personal style, was decisive, forthright and determined.

When Linnea met pro football player Jim Carraway, we all approved of the match. Jim was as strong and lively—a trifle domineering, though—as Linnea herself. The cards said “yes” about Jim, and Linnea married him.

And now, five years later, she had emerged from the marriage bedraggled, indecisive, and afraid of her own shadow. She searched the mirror for nonexistent wrinkles, talking of how she—at one hundred pounds—was “fatter and dumpier” than Jim’s new woman. She complained of how her little girls loved their father more than her and would elect to live with him as soon as they reached the age when they could choose. She agonized about ever finding a job—who would hire anyone as “stupid” as her?

In the last three weeks, convinced there were no solutions to her problems, Linnea had begun to immerse herself in alcohol. Hours of drunkenness would alternate with periods of manic activity. She refused my help, refused professional help, and I didn’t know what to offer next. So I let her walk all over me, feeling angry and guilty at the same time.

Well, I decided now, I wouldn’t let her keep me from having my glass of wine. Why should I feel bad about bringing liquor home when she’d only buy it anyway? I got up and crossed to the Albatross Superette.

Mr. Moe was deep in conversation with a customer. The other man, a tall Latino with swooping black moustaches, glanced at me.

“Ah, Miss McCone,” Mr. Moe said. “How are you tonight?”

“Fine, thanks.”

“Have you met Mr. Clemente?” He nodded at his companion.

“I don’t believe so.”

“Mr. Herb Clemente is director of the Sunrise Blind Center. Miss Sharon McCone, from the building where the tragedy occurred, is a private detective.”

“Pleased to meet you.” The man called Clemente bowed in greeting. I half expected him to click his heels together.

“And I’m glad to meet you,” I said. “In fact, I’d like to thank you for what you did for Gus Antonio.”

He made a deprecating gesture. “
De nada
. The poor little man was completely helpless—more so than most of the residents of our Center. I merely made a phone call on his behalf.” He paused, frowning. “Of course, something will have to be done about his future. That was only a temporary solution. Should you have any suggestions, Miss McCone, I’d be happy to hear them.”

“If I think of anything, I’ll let you know.”

I went down the aisle to the refrigerated cases and picked out a bottle of Grey Reisling. On the way back, I checked out the freezer. Egg rolls, stuffed cabbage, TV dinners, cauliflower, artichoke hearts, lima beans… I stopped, looking down at them, then plucked out a package and carried it with the wine to the cash register.

On the curb outside, I checked my watch. It was close to six o’clock, but I was reluctant to go back to my dirty, depressing apartment. A few doors down the block were the welcoming lights of the neighborhood tavern, Ellen T’s. I decided to stop off for a drink.

When I perched on the stool at the bar, Ellen T’s skinny husband, Stanley, poured me a glass of the house white, my usual.

“How’re you tonight?” he asked.

“Fair. You?”

“Surviving. Why’d you bring your own bottle along?” He gestured at the paper bag.

“I’m on my way back from a shopping trip, that’s all. Do you think I could get a roast beef sandwich?”

Stanley frowned. “Is that going to be your dinner?”

“Guess so.”

He shook his head. “Sharon, how many times have I told you that you’ve got to start eating better? You need fruit, green things… By the way, the roast beef sandwich comes with a tossed salad this week, no extra charge.”

I sighed. “Okay, Stanley, give me a salad too. But charge me for it, please.”

I loved this bar. Big, motherly Ellen made the world’s best sandwiches, and little Stanley dispensed sound, fatherly advice. Together they managed to preserve a bit of the fading tradition of the San Francisco neighborhood tavern.

While I ate, I looked around the room with the aid of the mirror over the bar. It was early, and there were only a couple of other people, men I didn’t know, lined up on the stools. A woman who lived in my building was reading at one of the center tables, and a fellow I’d often seen in the nearby Laundromat sat in the front window bay, working out solitary moves on the chessboard.

I had finished my dinner and started on another glass of wine when a voice spoke over my shoulder. “Sharon McCone! We meet again so soon!”

I swiveled to face Herb Clemente. “Considering you live only a few blocks away, that’s not surprising. You do live at the Center don’t you?”

“Yep. In what used to be the rectory. Makes me feel positively holy. How about having a drink with me?”

“I’d enjoy that.” Picking up my wineglass and grocery bag, I followed him to a corner table. Stanley arrived shortly with Clemente’s beer.

“Here’s to new friends.” Clemente raised his glass in a toast. “May they all be as pretty as you.” He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, humor and keen intelligence lighting up his dark eyes.

“You flatter me,” I said, “and I appreciate it.”

“Good. Tell me, are you as clever as you are pretty?”

“I like to think I’m reasonably bright. Why?”

“Because if you are, maybe you can come up with an idea about what to do with Gus Antonio.” He made a mock-sorrowful face. “I confess I’ve wracked my brain with very few results.”

“It’s not an easy question.” I considered. “Why not have him live at the Blind Center? Since he has to pick up and deliver Sebastian there every day, it might actually be more convenient.”

Clemente sipped his beer. “That’s a good idea, but unfortunately… it’s impossible.”

“Why?”

“We’re funded by a combination of state and federal grants. One of their conditions is that no one but the director and certain designated staff members live on the premises with the residents—we prefer to call them that rather than patients. We have one ‘illegal’ right now—the handyman who also drives our truck. I couldn’t risk another.”

“Why
is
the handyman there?”

“He skipped out on his wife, a move I can fully sympathize with. She’s a dreadful old woman. Anyway, he hasn’t gotten it together to find another place, and I’d just as soon he didn’t. It’s useful to have him on the grounds. But try to tell that to the bureaucrats who approve our grants.”

“Hmmm. That’s too bad. It would be ideal for Gus.”

“It would be more ideal if he could stay right where he is now. But he seems to think he can’t afford his dead wife’s apartment.”

“He’s probably right. It’s a one bedroom place; I have a studio, and even the rent for that is out of sight.”

“Well, I wish we could think of something.” Clemente set down his glass and signalled for another round. “Gus has done a damned good job helping Sebastian. He makes rounds with him every day but Sunday, and you could set your watch by him. I feel we should return the favor and help him now.”

“Is it really necessary to restock those racks every day?” I asked. “Surely you don’t sell that many brushes.”

Stanley set our drinks down, and Clemente dug in his pocket for change. “With display racks, you have to keep on top of the situation. A poorly stocked rack looks like hell and doesn’t attract customers.”

“Ah, yes.” I nodded. “I remember my days in the department store, folding and refolding layettes and baby blankets.”

Clemente frowned. “You used to sell baby clothes?”

“Not for long. I was in the management training program of a San Diego store. They required three months of actual selling experience before you were funnelled into your particular area of the operation. After the layettes, I went into security.”

“So that’s how you got into your line of work. You like it?”

“Department store security or private investigation?”

“Well, either.”

“I hated the department store after a while. We had to snoop around pretending to be shoppers, with these big purses equipped with walkie-talkies. You can’t imagine how sick you can get of looking through the same dresses every day. Anyway, when I’d saved enough money, I quit and went to college, at Berkeley. Afterwards, I joined one of the big detective agencies here in the city.”

“Your degree prepared you for that?”

“No. It was in sociology, and it made me damned near unemployable. My security background got me the job.”

“And you’re with that firm now?”

“Not now. We had… a disagreement a few years ago. I’m not very responsive to authority. All Souls Legal Cooperative is where I work. But here I am, telling you my life story. What about you—how’d you get into the brush business?”

Clemente grinned broadly. “I’m a psychology graduate, and I’ve been a government parasite my whole career. I started as a prison guard while attending college. In the fifteen years since then, I’ve operated a halfway house and directed programs for counseling parolees. When the job with the Blind Center came up, I jumped at the chance to get away from felons.”

“I can understand. I don’t deal with too many, but a lot of the characters I come across are pretty shady…” My attention was drawn to the door behind Clemente, where Linnea stood. “Oh, there’s my friend.” I motioned for her to come over.

Linnea waved and walked toward the table. She wore jeans and a suede jacket that hugged her trim little figure. Her wheat-colored hair hung free, framing her face, which was still tanned from the Southern California sun she worshipped.

I made the introductions, and Linnea joined us, ordering a stinger in response to Clemente’s offer of a drink. “Hey, this is great,” she said to me. “You weren’t at the apartment when I got back from shopping, so I went over to the Superette, and Mr. Moe said he’d seen you go in here. Not bad detective work for an amateur, huh?”

“Damned good.” Linnea was sober and definitely in her manic stage. She smiled brightly and made animated gestures while she spoke, the many rings on her fingers flashing.

Clemente sat up straighter, looking at her with visible interest.

“Well, I’ve studied detection with one of the best,” Linnea replied, grinning warmly at me, our hot words on the telephone forgotten.

“So you went shopping?” I asked.

“For food and cleaning stuff. I had to. The place is a pit.” To Clemente, she added, “I’m staying with Sharon, and I’ve managed to destroy her apartment. Why I’m such a slob…” She smiled helplessly.

Clemente smiled back, obviously enchanted.

I studied them thoughtfully. A new romantic interest might be just what Linnea needed.

“Ah,” Clemente said, “you’re staying over there.” He jerked his head in the direction of my building. “Did you know the woman who was murdered?”

Linnea nodded, her eyes wide. “Did you?”

“Oh, yes. Her husband works for the Blind Center. In fact, it was Mrs. Antonio who suggested he apply to us.”

“How did that come about?” I asked,

“Gus had retired and was picking up bad habits. What they were, she wouldn’t say, but she wanted something for him to do so he would stay out of trouble. All she had in mind was a volunteer position, but fortunately we were able to pay him a small—very small—salary.”

Linnea leaned her chin on her hand, affecting fascination. Clemente’s gaze slid back to her.

“Even though you’re only an amateur detective, do you have any suspicions about who killed her?” he asked.

She shook her head. “It’s strange, coming right after she’d had such a bad session with her spiritual advisor.”

“Spiritual advisor?” Clemente and I chorused.

“Oh, that’s what she called her fortune teller. She said Madame Anya hadn’t been able to give her any advice that wouldn’t lead her into a worse predicament than she was already in.”

“What kind of predicament?” I asked.

“She wouldn’t say, but she was very upset. She said it was all because of the cards.”

“Good grief. Who is this Madame Anya?”

Linnea looked surprised. “Don’t you know?”

“No. I’ve never heard of her.”

“But she lives in your building.”

“A fortune teller in the building? That’s a new one!”

“She’s been there a long time. I guess you’re not around enough to meet the other tenants.” Linnea’s reproachful look indicated that I wasn’t around enough to suit her, either. “Anyway, it’s Mrs. Neverman, on the third floor.”

“Mrs. Neverman is Madame Anya?” I thought of the hatchet-faced woman, whom Greg had described as a witch.

“Yes. Wait, I’ll show you.” Linnea rummaged in the bottom of her big canvas purse.

I glanced at Clemente. He wore an amused smile.

“Here it is!” Linnea extended a tattered handbill to me. It was crudely printed, with Tarot figures around its edges. I took it and read aloud:

“ ‘Madame Anya—All Welcome.’ ” I looked up at Linnea. “Is this serious?”

“Keep going,” she said. “You won’t believe it.”

The handbill was headlined: CARD READER—PSYCHIC READER—SPIRITUAL ADVISOR. I read on, into the fine print.