Muller, Marcia - [McCone 02] - Ask the Cards a Question 3S(v1)(html) (6 page)

Even at nine-thirty, Twenty-fourth Street was well populated. People wandered along the sidewalks, in and out of the bars and hole-in-the-wall cafes. I walked along more purposefully.

The Sunrise Blind Center sat back from the sidewalk in shadow, its grounds surrounded by an iron fence. I was about to cross the street toward it when two figures came through the gate. Clemente and Linnea. They turned onto the sidewalk, walking close together, Clemente’s arm draped across Linnea’s shoulders. The Center’s director was a fast worker. For that matter, so was my friend.

I watched them walk away, then crossed and pushed through the creaking gate. A cement path led toward the floodlit front of the old church. All was quiet.

The church was adobe, its dark-timbered roof meeting in a peak over the front entry. The cross that had once adorned the peak was gone, and a brilliantly-hued, primitive mural of a sunrise spread across the triangular space below the roof line. Above the door, a crudely lettered inscription read:

“Sunrise, Beginning of New Life and Hope.”

Odd, for a blind center, I thought. None of the patients—or residents, as Clemente preferred to call them—would be able to see it.

The cement path continued around the building. There were lights in the former rectory and the convent, set far back on the deep lot. Another light spread across the path from a ground-level window of the church. On impulse, I pounded on a side door.

A tall, slender man with gray-flecked hair and a scraggly moustache answered. I recognized him as someone I’d seen around my apartment building. He stood in the doorway, swaying slightly, his pupils dilated as if he were high on something. His eyes focused on me, and he drew his bushy brows together in a laborious frown.

He said, “I didn’t order any pizza.”

“That’s good, because I didn’t bring any.”

The frown stayed in place. “Maybe not so good. Now that I think of it, I could use a pizza. Can’t remember when I ate last.” He pondered for a moment. “No, I really can’t remember. What do you want?”

“Are you Jeffrey Neverman?”

“Yes.” His tone was dubious, as if he weren’t really sure. “Who are you?”

“Sharon McCone. I live in Anya’s building.”

“Anya. Anya of the face like a foot.” Neverman swayed into the door frame, then recovered himself. “But I shouldn’t speak of Anya that way. She
is
my wedded wife. Come in.”

I stepped inside and almost toppled down a flight of stone steps. Neverman’s hand caught my shoulder. I felt its cold through my sweater.

“Careful there,” he said. “We have to go down to the basement.”

Clutching the railing, I followed him. It would have been highly appropriate had he held a candle aloft rather than the flashlight he flicked on. He led me down a narrow hallway with overhead pipes and heating ducts to a small room.

A sleeping bag lay on an air mattress in its center. Next to it stood a low wooden crate which held a portable radio, a pile of books, and an ashtray filled with what looked like marijuana roaches. The candle I’d envisioned flickered atop a wine bottle on the floor. The room reeked of grass.

“Please have a seat,” Neverman said. “You take the couch.” He giggled shrilly.

I dropped onto the sleeping bag, and my host sat cross-legged on the floor. He reached for one of the roaches in the ashtray, lit it, and offered it to me.

I shook my head. “No, thanks. I’ve got to keep straight tonight.”

He grimaced. “You
must
be a friend of Anya’s. She’s always straight. If that broad could ever get laid back… so what’s happening with her, anyway?”‘

“Her friend, Molly Antonio, got murdered.”

“I heard.”

“Anya says she prophesied it.”

“Shit! She can’t even lose a friend without claiming she saw it all with her precious powers!”

“I take it you don’t believe in them.”

Neverman glanced at the roach, which had gone out, and regretfully placed it in the ashtray. “Of course I don’t. I lived with that woman for five years, off and on. It’s nothing but a bunch of convoluted crap!” He looked at me slyly and added, “You don’t have any dope on you, by any chance?”

It wasn’t a commodity I normally carried. “Sorry, no.”

“I figured not. A friend of that broad’s wouldn’t.”

“I’m not really a friend of hers,” I said quickly. “But from what I do know of her, I’m surprised she’s married to somebody like you. Isn’t she a lot older?”

“Fifteen years. I’m forty, she’s fifty-five, but she likes to claim it’s only ten.”

“How come you married her, anyway?”

He shrugged. “Money. She had some, and I had a use for it.”

“I didn’t think fortune tellers made that much.”

“They don’t. Anya’s got a little inheritance squirreled away. I thought if I married her, I’d get the use of it. But that broad is as tight fisted as they come.”

“What were you going to use it for?”

“My business. I was going to start my own trucking line. ‘Neverman’s Intercoastal Trucking,’ it would of been called. I’d have gotten rich by now if she’d let me have the money.”

“It’s a good business to get rich in.”

“You can say that again!” Neverman’s face contorted with sudden anger, and he struck his fist against his thigh. “Damn that stupid broad! She’s saving the money for a rainy day, she says. So I end up here, living like some goddamned hippie, instead of owning my own company. That’ll all change soon. It’d better!”

“Exactly how did you end up here?” I asked.

His glance was veiled. “Anya didn’t tell you?”

“No,” I lied.

“Let’s just say I made some bad moves, then. I don’t want to talk about it. One thing I will tell you, it’s a hell of a lot better living like this than with her and her wax birds and that goddamn crow. I put up with it for over two years this last stretch, and then I couldn’t take it any more. Even prison was better.”

“Prison?”

“Figure of speech.” His eyes shifted away from mine.

“So what do you do here?”

“Handyman work. Drive the truck. Anything they need me for. You see the mural over the front door?”

“Yes.”

“Mine.” Momentarily, he looked pleased. “That was one of the things I liked doing. You should see the job I’ve got upstairs, though. That’s going to be a bitch.”

“Why?”

“Because of the fire they had, the roof’s burned out. I’ve got to put on a new one, or the Feds won’t renew one of our grants.”

Dimly, I recalled that St. Luke’s had sold out to the Blind Center after fire had destroyed part of the nave. It surprised me that it hadn’t been fixed long ago. To escape this oppressive little room, I asked, “Could I take a look?”

“Sure. Why not?” He rose, extending his hand to help me. In the candlelight, he looked less faded and down-and-out. I could understand how he would hold a certain scruffy charm for a woman like Anya.

The air in the upstairs vestibule was damp, the gloom as deep as in Neverman’s room. He groped along the wall and flipped on a light. I went into the main part of the church.

In the shadows, I made out the crouching shapes of the pews. Stained-glass windows glowed at the sides. Toward the front, where the altar presumably had been, I saw only darkness.

I went down the aisle. Neverman’s footsteps echoed behind me. Startled by a sudden rush of chill air, I stopped. Neverman’s body nudged mine. I looked up at the roof, but saw only stars and wispy, low-lying clouds.

“That’s where the roof’s burned out.” Neverman’s breath tickled my ear.

I stepped away from him. “Isn’t there a light in here?”

“Only over the altar. The fire wrecked the rest of the wiring.” He turned his flashlight on the ruined roof, shining it along the charred and jagged beams.

“Why hasn’t it been fixed before?” I asked. “The Center’s been in here a long time.”

He shrugged. “Government grants don’t give you that kind of money. Now Herb’s got the bright idea of having me do the work. That’ll be a trip.”

The darkness was making me edgy. “Why don’t you turn on that light so I can get a look at the altar?”

“What do you need a light for?” He turned the flash on my face, and I blinked and stumbled back against the first pew.

Neverman set the flash down and took hold of both of my arms, forcing me to sit. In the upward rays of the flashlight, his lean face looked like a bemoustached skull. He knelt in front of me.

“Hey, you know,” he said softly, “you’re really a pretty lady.”

Unlike Clemente’s flattery, Neverman’s words chilled me.

Letting go of one arm, he pushed up the sleeve of my sweater and began stroking me with his fingers. His nails were long and rasped on my skin.

“Cut it out, Jeffrey,” I said firmly.

“Aw, pretty lady, how about it? You and me, we could really get it on.”

I removed his hand and pulled down my sleeve. “I don’t think so.”

He snorted and stood up. “You may not be Anya’s friend, but you two would make a good pair.”

Relieved that my calm response had worked, I stood up too. “Now how about letting me see the altar?”

He shrugged angrily and strode up the aisle. In a moment pale light came up on the raised platform. It increased in intensity until it shone bright as daylight.

“It’s a dimmer switch,” Neverman called. “They probably used it to make the services more dramatic. Can’t you see Anya with one of these? She could use it like this.”

The light on the altar paled again.

“Your life up to this time has been happy, honey,” he mimicked in a harsh voice that sounded remarkably like the fortune teller’s. “But…”

The light increased several shades.

“I see great trouble ahead. This trouble, it is awful.”

Still brighter.

“Honey, I can’t begin to describe this awful trouble. But…”

The light flashed to full intensity.

“There is help ahead! I will pray for you, honey! And rip you off with my wax birds!”

It would have been funny, had his anger not been so fierce. I went up the aisle and joined him next to the round light switch in the vestibule.

“You didn’t like my little performance,” he said mockingly.

“Not particularly. I…”

The front door opened behind us. Sebastian entered, tapping along with a white cane.

“Neverman? Is that you in here?”

“Christ!” Neverman muttered. “He’s like something out of Charles Addams.”

Sebastian could not have missed the comment, but he merely said, “Who’s with you?”

“It’s only me, Sebastian,” I said. “Sharon McCone.”

“Miss McCone! You do turn up in the most amazing places.”

“So what do you want, Sebastian?” Neverman asked impatiently.

“You’ve got a phone call up at the dormitory.”

“Oh, yeah? From who?”

“It sounds like your wife.”

“Jesus Christ!” He twisted the light switch angrily, and the church subsided into darkness. Without another word, he stomped out the door.

“The man has a dreadful temper,” Sebastian commented.

“I guess. Shall I help you back to the convent… dormitory, I mean?”

Sebastian’s scarred face contorted into a smile. “That’s not necessary. I get around perfectly well with my cane in places I’m familiar with.”

I glanced at my watch. It was close to eleven, and I was in no mood for further conversation. “In that case, I’ll be going. Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow at Gus’s new apartment?”

“Very likely, Miss McCone.”

Sebastian left me on the path in front of the church, where the full moon looked down coldly through the twisted branches of a tree. Yawning, I decided to go home for some sleep. I’d talk with Mr. Moe, the dark-haired man who spoke falsely to me, in the sane light of morning.

The sane light of morning saw me called back to All Souls for a pretrial conference on the redwood hot tub case. It had not been a particularly dramatic investigation, but I’d discovered that the so-called contractor had used substandard materials. We had, as Hank put it, an airtight case against an outfit whose tubs did not hold water.

By one o’clock I was officially on vacation again. I returned to my office to fetch my bag and check for messages. There were two: one from Greg and one from Linnea.

Greg’s message simply said, “What’s new?” Briefly, I wondered if this indicated repentance over the sarcastic tone on which he’d departed yesterday. No, I concluded, it probably meant he was bored and hoped I’d take him to lunch. I discarded the note in the wastebasket.

The second message was disconcerting. Linnea asked that I call her; it was urgent. I lined the slip up on the blotter and stared thoughtfully at it, tapping my fingers on the edge of the desk. My friend had taken a turn for the better, but now I wasn’t sure how long it had lasted.

When I’d arrived home the night before, all had been quiet in the apartment. A cloud of warm, steamy air and the scent of Linnea’s favorite perfume greeted me as I entered.

Things must be picking up, I thought. She’s taken a shower.

I went into the bathroom and flicked on the light. The mirror was polished, the basin scoured clean. Fresh towels hung on the racks, the old ones dumped into the wicker hamper. A note, Scotch-taped to the mirror, said:

“Sharon—Sorry about the mess. I’ll try to do better. Love, L.”

I looked beyond the note to my face, which wore an expression of shame. Linnea meant well. I didn’t give her enough credit for trying.

I felt my way down the hall to the main room, where a night light burned. It revealed Linnea’s sleeping form in the bag on the floor, the cat curled up beside her. The room was orderly, and a Ghirardelli chocolate bar was propped against a vase of fresh daffodils on the coffee table. My stomach knotted as I thought of Greg.

Calm down, I told myself. So what if he was here? So what if he discovered Linnea was staying with me and talked to her? There’s nothing suspicious about the fact I haven’t mentioned her to him; we haven’t been seeing one another since she arrived.

But I still felt uncomfortable and knew it was directly linked to that missing piece of drapery cord.

I undressed, sniffing appreciatively at the clean, scented sheets as I slipped into bed and pulled the heavy quilts over me. I should get my mind off that elusive piece of cord and concentrate on the facts of the murder.

Try motive, Sharon.

What motive could Linnea possibly have? She liked Molly. So they quarreled. So Molly bawled her out about her drinking. You don’t strangle a person over something like that.

Not if you’re rational.

Is Linnea?

Of course she is.

Is
she?

Well, maybe not all the time. But look at the other facts: Molly’s apartment was searched. And she was preoccupied—worried, really—about something the day of her death. That alone should tell you her murder was well motivated. Maybe even well planned.

Why don’t you get off Linnea and look for the real killer? When you find him, you’ll know your friend is innocent.

Give it a try, huh?

My next impression was the smell of freshly brewed coffee. I struggled up on one elbow as Linnea emerged from the kitchen, wearing a yellow terrycloth caftan, her wheat-colored hair in childish braids. She looked at me with the expression of a naughty six-year-old.

“Are you mad at me?”

I could remember her asking the same thing in exactly the same way when she’d knocked me into the creek at the Girl Scout picnic. “Not now. Thanks for the coffee.” I made space for it on the bedside table.

“You’re welcome.” She sat down crosslegged on the bed. Her fresh-scrubbed face was cheerful, and her lips curled up contentedly. “I tried to clean the place up last night, and I promise I’ll finish the job today.”

“You must have really dervished around here,” I said, recalling how she and Clemente had left the Blind Center after nine-thirty.

Linnea chuckled. The verb “to dervish” was one of our old terms, part of that private language that springs up between close friends. “You should have seen me. It was sort of like doing penance.”

“Penance was easier than cleaning house.” I remembered the comforting shape of the rosary beads as I knelt in the shadows of Holy Name back home, then shook off the thought. I’d quit going to church many years ago. “So what do you have planned for today?”

“I thought I’d go to the Laundromat and do some ironing. Maybe I’ll bake us some bread. I want to be home in case…” She flushed prettily.

“In case Herb calls?”

She nodded, her eyes alight. “Sharon, he took me up to the Blind Center last night. You should see his place!”

“He lives in what used to be the rectory, right?”

“Yes. It’s beautiful—all parquet floors and dark wood and adobe. He’s got these handwoven Mexican rugs on the walls, and pottery and statues that look pre-Columbian, and a waterbed that I’m looking forward to…” She paused, both embarrassed and pleased.

I grinned, and she grinned back, and then we both snickered like boys in the locker room.

“Just what the doctor ordered,” Linnea said.

“It’s amazing what a new man will do for your spirits.” I got up and went to the closet. “Anyone who can make you turn to housework…” I gestured at the chocolate bar on the coffee table. “Did you buy the candy too?”

“Yesterday afternoon, at Safeway. I ate the last one that cop gave you, and I wanted to replace it.”

With a flash of relief, I took out a black wool pantsuit and reached for the clothes brush. “Lord, you didn’t have to do that!” And I wished she hadn’t; the chocolate bar she had eaten had been Hershey’s, an excellent brand. As far as serious chocolate lovers were concerned, the best thing about Ghirardelli was the wrapper.

“Linnea,” I said, brushing at my jacket, “Gus told me Molly was here with you around five o’clock the day she was killed. How did she seem?”

Linnea frowned and began fiddling with one of her braids. “What do you mean?”

“Was she happy? Unhappy? Upset about the fortune teller?”

“Oh.” She considered. “I’d say she wasn’t in the best of moods.”

“How so?”

“Well, she… she was kind of short-tempered.”

“About what?”

She shrugged sullenly. “I don’t really remember.”

I tried another tack. “Was that when she mentioned her bad session with Madame Anya?”

“Yes. Did you go see her last night?”

“Uh-huh. She’s a strange lady.”

“Old bat!”

“She’s not that bad. She’s lonely.”

Again a sullen shrug.

“Anyway,” I said, “Madame Anya wouldn’t tell me about the session with Molly—she claims it has to remain confidential. What exactly did Molly tell you?”

Linnea pressed a hand to her forehead. “Wow, everything kind of blends together lately.”

“Since you’ve been drinking so much.”

Instantly, I regretted it. Linnea lowered her eyes to her lap and picked at a thread on her caftan. In a moment, she said, “Why do you have to harp on that today? Why is it that every time we talk you have to bring that up?”

I wasn’t aware I had been. “I’m sorry. You meant, things are mixed up since your divorce and all.”

“Yes, since my divorce and all.” Her tone cruelly mimicked mine.

I turned to the full-length mirror on the closet door, tucking in my red blouse. “Anyway, do you remember what she said?”

Linnea sighed and set down her coffee cup with a clunk. “Some damned thing about how Anya’s advice would only get her deeper in trouble,” she said irritably. “There was something about how she wished she’d never seen the cards. Christ, Sharon, it was just some stupid, superstitious thing. Why am I supposed to remember?”

Because Molly took the trouble to remember your problems, I thought. I slipped on my jacket and arranged the collar of my blouse, gearing up to ask the question I really dreaded.

“Lin, while you were cleaning last night, did you come across that piece of drapery cord I cut off while I was putting up the new curtains?”

“What cord?”

“It was rolled up on the coffee table. A white cord.”

“I don’t remember it.”

“You didn’t see it on the coffee table, or anyplace else?”

“No. For Christ’s sake, Sharon, what’s so important about some leftover cord?”

I shrugged. “Maybe I’ll turn into one of those old ladies who collects string.”

She giggled. “A string-collecting detective who ties up her suspects and makes them confess all.”

I smiled, glad her good humor had returned. “It could be a professional asset.” I twisted my hair into a loose knot at the nape of my neck and gathered up my bag just as the phone rang.

Linnea answered it. “Hank. He wants you to come over to All Souls.”

“Thanks.” As I crossed the room, I said, “Look, Lin, try to take it easy today. Don’t think you have to do everything at once.”

“Okay.” Again, the guilty, little-girl look. It gave me the odd sensation that Linnea had substituted me for the vanished husband as an authority figure, a role I didn’t relish at all. The uneasy sensation persisted all through the drive to All Souls and the pretrial conference.

Now I sat at my desk, staring at her message. I knew very little about parenting, and the idea of becoming saddled with a twenty-nine-year-old child was appalling. And what of Linnea’s own children, who needed to depend on her? For them, she should become strong and resourceful as she had once been. They couldn’t forever be farmed off to Granny.

No, I resolved, Linnea would have to get through the day without me. I would do her more good by putting to rest my suspicions of her involvement in Molly’s murder than by coddling her all afternoon. I crumpled her message and tossed it in the basket as I headed for the door.