Pennies on a Dead Woman's Eyes (12 page)

The old man seemed to like to hear himself talk and would probably ramble unchecked if allowed to. I leaned around Wingfield, told him my name and occupation, and added, “I'm trying to locate one of the other tenants of the flat—Melissa Cardinal. Do you remember her?”

“Sure, there's nothing wrong with my memory. What's she done?”

“Nothing. Louise just wants to see her again, and asked me to help find her.”

“Well, I remember her like she was back then. Little blond girl. Nice shape.” Fabrizio's hands described Melissa's curves. “When that one came around to pay the rent, the wife didn't let me out of her sight.”

“When was the last time you saw Melissa?”

Fabrizio's prompt response took me by surprise. “Two weeks ago.”

I glanced at Wingfield. She frowned.

“Where?”

“Over on Broadway, near Chinatown. She hasn't aged well, not like you.” He winked at Wingfield. “Damned blowsy looking, doesn't keep herself up. I wouldn't have recognized her except the guy she was with used her name. Funny about that, too; he wasn't her type. A gentleman. Good haircut, good suit, real quality.”

“What were they doing?”

“Coming out of a bar. It wasn't his type of place, any more than she was his type of woman. And they were arguing.”

“About what?”

“I couldn't make out the words. But I caught the tone: whine, whine, carp. I got enough of that from the wife to recognize it.”

“Melissa was doing the whining?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And the man?”

“He wasn't too happy with her, but he was trying to be nice. Like I said, a gentleman, didn't want a public scene.”

“Can you describe him?”

“Well. I didn't see him face on. And I was looking more at Melissa than him. Younger thane me, from the way he held himself. Gray hair? White? Well, plenty of hair at any rate.” Ruefully he patted his own balding pate.

“Height? Weight?”

“Medium, I guess.”

“Like I said, he had his back to me, and I was paying more attention to Melissa. I really saw him as a type, you know?”

I knew. Unfortunately, it was a type that populated San Francisco in large numbers. “What's the name of the bar?”

“The Haven.”

I'd noticed it—a typical Broadway dive. “What time of day was this?”

“I was coming back form my morning walk to the produce stand on Jackson, so maybe eleven-thirty, quarter to twelve.”

It would do no good to go over to the Haven tonight, then; I'd have to check tomorrow when the daytime shift was on. But it was my best lead to Melissa so far, and if she was a regular, someone might know where she lived.

I asked, “Is that the first time since you rented you flat that you've seen Melissa?”

“She's been around the neighborhood for years, but so far as I know, she only goes out at night. And to tell you the truth, I never connected that blowsy dame with the little stewardess until I heard the guy say her name.” Fabrizio's features grew glum, and he pulled heavily at his wine. After a moment he looked at Wingfield and added, “It's a bitch, isn't it—what time does to us all?”

She nodded in silent reply.

The conversation with Frank Fabrizio had depressed Louise. As we walked downhill toward Washington Square she was silent, hands thrust deep in her jacket pockets. Finally I said, “I saw Leonard Eyestone this afternoon. And odd man, but interesting. He admitted he was responsible for Cordy's pregnancy.”

“Just like that?”

“With no hesitation, once he acknowledged that he was the other man at the Institute whom she'd been involved with.”

“Well, he must have figured it didn't matter at this point. Water under the bridge, over the dam, whatever. On the surface, the affair might seem peculiar, but Leonard had a brilliant mind, and Cordy, whatever her other failings, was not stupid.”

“He said he would have married her, but she'd tired of him.”

Wingfield's lips tightened. “Inability to sustain interest in things and people was one of the failings I just mentioned.”

“She sustained an interest in Vincent Benedict long enough to make him want to leave his wife and marry her. Eyestone also told me that.”

“I doubt the wedding would ever have taken place.”

“You think she would have tired of him, too?”

“Maybe not tired, but . . . consider the situation. Vincent was going to divorce Lis. A divorce would have been costly, especially with a child involved. Also, this was in the days before no-fault; Lis would have named Cordy as correspondent. And when that happened, Cordy's family would have cut her off instantly. Vincent would have had to pay alimony, provide child support, plus support Cordy on his salary from the Institute—which was good, but not all that generous. It never would have worked out; Miss McKittridge was used to, and liked, her luxuries.”

I thought about that. “And if Cordy had broken it off after Vincent asked Lis for the divorce?”

“Potentially explosive.”

“But Vincent, according to all the witnesses, was at the Dulles banquet and reception the night Cordy was killed.”

“And Lis was not.”

We had reached my MG. Wingfield said, “I'm going to have to trouble you for a lift. My car's in the shop, and one of my volunteers dropped me off here.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Not particularly. You?”

“No.” But I hesitated, unwilling to put an end to the evening. “How do you feel about indulging in more nostalgia?”

“Not terribly enthusiastic. But what do you have in mind?”

“I want to take a look at the estate in Seacliff.”

“Why?”

“The same reason I wanted to see the location of the flat. Going to crime scenes or places that figure in a case is a habit of mine. It helps me get a feel for what happened.”

“Even so many years after the fact?”

“Yes.”

She compressed her lips, shifted her weight indecisively.

I said, “I'll drop you off and go alone.”

“. . . No. I'll go with you. It'll be easier for you to find the place if I direct you. And it's time I confronted the past.”

“Lis Benedict said something like that just yesterday.”

“Did she? Well then, as I speculated this morning, Lis and I have more in common than I realized. We're both victims of what happened to Cordy.”

The area of exclusive homes called Seacliff is spread over a bluff south of the Golden Gate, high above the open sea. Sandwiched between Bakers Beach and Lincoln Park, it is not set off from the adjacent Richmond district by walls or security gates, but imposing stone pillars mark its boundaries. Once one passes through them, it quickly becomes apparent that this is an enclave of wealth and privilege. The lots are large by city standards, and the houses are custom-built. The landscaping is elaborate, the views breathtaking. A mere estimate of maintenance cost for one of those establishments is enough to make a modest property owner like me cringe.

That night a strange, motionless fog gripped the terrain outside the Gate. It made the pavement slick, the curves of the winding street dangerous; blurred the contours of the great homes that sprawled on the promontory; muted light and sound. Beneath it I sensed hidden life and activity—deceptively quiet and faintly menacing.

Wingfield directed me, with a few errors and some backtracking, through the maze to El Camino del Mar. The houses on the bluff crowded together to take advantage of the view, but as we neared Lincoln Park, the long stone wall overhung with vegetation appeared, then a driveway flanked by pillars. A For Sale sign was prominently displayed on one of them.

“Stop here,” Louise whispered. Her fingers grasped my right hand where it rested on the wheel—tense and icy.

I guided the MG to the curb and leaned forward, trying to glimpse the house. All I saw above the cypress trees on the other side of the wall was a dark monolith with a steeply peaked roofline. I took my foot off the brake and let the car inch forward.

Wingfield said, “You'd better not drive in there. The police patrol frequently, you know.”

Then we'll walk in. If anyone comes along, we'll tell them we're prospective buyers.” I motioned at the sign on the pillar.

“Prospective buyers wandering around at night?”

“Why not? If I were about to pay what they must be asking for this, I'd want to see the property at night as well as during the day, wouldn't you?”

She shrugged but got out of the car.

Except for the cry of foghorns and the muted restive motion of the sea, it was very quiet there. Cold moisture touched my cheeks; I could taste and smell its brininess. I crossed to the driveway and started up. Wingfield a bit behind me. The drive cut through the cypress grove that I'd glimpsed across the wall; when I reached the other side of it, I stopped, staring up at the mansion.

It was a tall house with dormer windows on the third story. English in style, half-timbered above the brick, flanked by thorny pyracantha hedges. An enormous lead-glass window rose beside the door, its small diamond-shaped panes dark and lusterless. Much of the brick was covered with climbing ivy, and below the slate tiles of the roof the rain gutters were choked with the vines. Several small security spots cast deceptive patterns of light and shadow.

The driveway bled out into an oval parking area with room for at least a dozen cars. I started across it, then realized Wingfield wasn't following. She stood at the edge of the cypress grove staring at the house as I had. Her arms hung limp at her sides, but as I watched she hugged herself; even at a distance I could see her shiver. I motioned for her to join me, and she did, reluctantly.

“Where was the dovecote?” I asked.

“Over there.” She motioned to our right, where the grounds sloped toward the edge of the bluff. “They tore it down as soon as the trial was over. For years they tried to sell the lot, but there were no takers.”

I peered over at the lot. It was heavily wooded, misshapen Monterey pines dark against the motionless fog. If I had crossed to the bluff's edge, I would have had a view of tumbled rock and waves breaking on the crescent of China Beach. Beautiful as this place probably was in daylight, at night it seemed desolate. Even the empty mansion looked more inviting.

I asked Wingfield, “Why no takers, given the value of oceanfront land?”

“The slope of the lot makes it extremely difficult to build on, plus there was the stigma of the murder. That's faded by now, but the lot is still priced too high, as is the mansion.”

“But some of the property was sold off?”

“Yes, in the late fifties. The house that we passed just before the wall began used to belong to the Institute; it was used for conference rooms and staff quarters. But after the murder fewer and fewer people wanted to live on the premises, so it was sold.”

“What was the reason for the staff living here in the first place?”

“Russell Eyestone wanted to keep his handpicked intellectuals cloistered in a little community where they could feed on one another's genius.”

“You sound cynical.”

“Well, I didn't come here all that often, but when I did I never heard anything remotely resembling lofty discourse.”

“What
did
you hear?”

“The same kind of cocktail-time chatter and gossip I herd at home. Money talk, plenty of it. Politics—they were as conservative as they come. And pretty vicious gossip. Academics can be some of the worst backbiters in existence.”

“Leonard Eyestone claims they don't have much sense of humor, either.”

“Leonard should know. He laughs only at other people's expense.”

“Tell me who and what did they gossip about?”

“People I didn't now. Things that didn't interest me.”

“And you say cocktail-time chatter. Did a lot of drinking go on?”

“Hard drinking. It was no secret that Vincent Benedict was a serious alcoholic, and the others usually managed to keep up with him. It's frightening to think that such people had so much influence on the country's public and defense policies.”

“The Institute's influence was that powerful?”

“Yes. I don't know exactly which contracts they've held of what studies they've conducted, but they're a premier think tank, on a par with RAND or Brookings. When the Institute speaks, the decision-makers listen.”

I made a mental note to remember to call Eyestone's secretary for the appointment to discuss the think tank.

A foghorn bellowed again up by the Gate—a plaintive cry, like that of a wandering soul searching for comfort.

Wingfield shivered, violently this time. “Let's go,” she said.

There was nothing to see here, but something held me. “Go back to the car,” I told her. “I'll be there in a couple of minutes.”

“Don't' take too long.” She hurried down the walk into the mist, hunching to light a cigarette.

I faced the house again, acutely aware of its silence, my eyes probing the darkness. I tried to picture what it would have been like with light in its many-paned windows and music and laughter drifting through then into the night. The image would not materialize.

I pivoted and looked to the north, where the waters of the bay became those of the sea. A wall of white blocked my view. Had it been foggy on the June night so many years before? Had Cordy McKittridge's killer used that fog as cover, moving stealthily through it to the dovecote? Had the fog also masked the murderer's bloody departure?

The questions smashed my mental dam, and images washed over me. A shadowy form of indeterminate sex gliding across the lawn and slipping through the foliage. Fingers of light spilling from inside the cote, briefly pulling the mist aside. And inside the cote: rough brick walls across which more shadows fell. Shadows in attitudes of anger, rage, violence. And the long blades of garden shears shining . . . slashing. Blood flowing . . . spattering.