Savages: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Novels) (17 page)

“No? Why not?”

“Just didn’t. Fast. One look at her, you knew she’d spread her legs for anybody that asked.”

“John.”

He shut up again.

Runyon asked, “Why did Jerry break up with her?”

“He wouldn’t say,” Mrs. Belsize said. “Just said he found out some things and she wasn’t the girl he thought she was and he didn’t want nothing more to do with her.”

“He was real angry about it, too,” Belsize said. “So if he was scared enough to hide from Kelso, how come he went to the Parnell girl instead of us? Why’d he put his trust back in her all of a sudden?”

P
hilomena Ruiz lived in East Palo Alto, on a shabby street a block and a half from Highway 101. Mixed neighborhood, Hispanic and black. Small, old, close-packed houses with tiny yards, many of them barren except for scatters of kids’ toys. When I got out of the car I could hear the constant thrum of freeway traffic, smell the faint stink of exhaust emissions and diesel fumes.

A youth about sixteen sporting a sparse patch of chin whiskers opened the door to the Ruiz house. The suspicious look he gave me didn’t go away when I asked for Mrs. Ruiz.

“Ma ain’t here,” he said. “She’s working.”

“When will she be home?”

“Six thirty, seven.”

“I’ll stop by again around seven thirty.”

“Nah. Seven thirty’s when we eat.”

“I’ll make it around seven then.” I handed him one of
my business cards. He looked at it as if he’d been presented with a small dead animal of unknown origin. “Tell her it’s about Mrs. Mathias.”

“Who?”

“Mrs. Nancy Mathias. One of her employers.”

“Yeah,” he said, and shut the door in my face.

I drove back across the freeway into Palo Alto. It was like crossing a thin line of demarcation between poverty and affluence. Over here there were stately homes on large lots. Wide lawns, gardens, plenty of shade trees; fences, and locked gates. No wonder East Palo Alto was a simmering pot of anger and resentment and despair that now and then spilled over into violence. You couldn’t blame the mostly poor residents, living as close as they did to all the things they could never have, the lives they could never lead. All those hungry faces pressed against an invisible glass wall peppered with invisible signs: Look, but don’t touch. Keep out except by daylight invitation.

The Mathias home was on a long block strung with venerable old elms that gave it a parklike atmosphere. Mediterranean style, two stories, decorative wrought-iron balconies, fronted by a barbered lawn surrounded by six-foot privet hedges. The circular driveway was empty; so was the extension of it alongside that led back to a two-car garage. No sign of life on the property; too soon for Mathias to be home. If he spent much time here at all these days. For all I knew he slept in his office at RingTech, to make it easier to manage his pressing and oh-so-stressful business affairs.

I parked under one of the curbside elms and set out to canvass the neighbors. There were five houses on the south side of the block, four on the north side with the Mathias pile in the middle; I started with the ones flanking it and then moved across the street. No answers at two places, one of them occupied—lights glowing faintly behind drawn curtains, a car sitting in the drive. Only a little after five thirty, broad daylight, and the people still hid themselves behind closed and no doubt locked doors. Fear of strangers, even a sixty-two-year-old man wearing a conservative suit and tie, fear of home invasion, fear of solicitors after their money, just plain fear. Not a good way to live, even in these parlous times.

One of those who did answer their doors wouldn’t talk to me, looked at me with the same sort of suspicion as the Ruiz kid and then brushed me off with an “I’m busy right now” excuse. Another demanded to know why he was being bothered with “old business.” A third gave me a couple of minutes to ask my questions but had nothing to tell me about Nancy Mathias or the night she died. Hardly knew her, kept to herself, used to be friendly until she remarried; didn’t see anything, didn’t hear anything, don’t know anything.

Then, on the sixth try, I got lucky.

It was the next to last house on the south side, a larger than average bungalow surrounded by neatly tended formal gardens. It had a deep front porch covered by the kind of motor-driven Plexiglas awning that can be lowered in bad weather and furnished with a couple of old,
comfortable armchairs. A frail-looking woman in her late seventies sat in one of the armchairs, a robe over her lap and a tortoiseshell cat curled up on it. She was more than willing to talk. She introduced herself—Mrs. Mary Conti—invited me to sit down, asked if I’d like something to drink, commented on the nice late-summer weather. At first I thought she was the garrulous type, but that wasn’t it at all.

“I’m a widow,” she said. “I lost my husband, Adam, last October. Heart trouble; he was bedridden for nearly a year before he finally passed on. We were married fiftytwo years, he was a wonderful man. We used to sit out here together on summer evenings before he became ill. My daughter keeps after me to sell the house and move in with her, but I can’t bring myself to do that. I’ve lived here for forty years, both my children were born here. How can I sell all those wonderful memories?”

Lonely. Sad and lonely.

Gently I steered the conversation around to the Mathiases. Oh yes, she said, she knew poor Nancy. Not well, hadn’t seen much of her in recent years, but she was a good neighbor, always had a kind word. Her new husband? Mrs. Conti had waved to him once or twice, but he hadn’t waved back. He seemed a very dour sort of man, she said, but then she really didn’t know him.

Nothing in any of that. But when I asked her about the night Nancy Mathias had died, I got some of what I was looking for.

“Oh yes, I remember that night,” she said. “It was very warm, a beautiful night, so many stars. Just the kind of night Adam would have loved. Big Girl and I sat out here until quite late—this is Big Girl, my tortie; she’s a terrible slug, isn’t she?”

“A beauty, though. How late did you sit out that night, Mrs. Conti?”

“Oh, it must have been almost eleven before I went in. Yes, almost eleven.”

“Did you happen to see or hear anything unusual?”

“Unusual?”

“At or near the Mathias house. Someone entering the property.”

“Well, you know, I did see someone, but I’m not sure if he went to the Mathiases’ or one of the other houses. The elms throw out heavy shadows, and my vision isn’t what it used to be.”

“Man or woman?”

“A man. Yes, I’m sure it was.”

“What time was that?”

“Oh, it must have been about ten o’clock. It seemed odd to me because it was late for visitors and because of where he parked his car. The people who live on our block all park in their driveways or garages, not at the curb.”

“Where did this man park?”

“Right across the street.”

“And he walked from there to the Mathias house?”

“In that direction, yes, he did.”

I looked across toward the Mathias house. The privet hedges blocked any view of the front entrance. “Could he have turned in at their gate?”

“He may have. I’m just not sure.”

“Did any lights come on in the Mathias house?”

“. . . No. None that weren’t already on.”

“Which lights were already on?”

“The night-light over the door. It’s always on after dark. Some sort of timer, I believe. And a light in the room above. Mrs. Mathias’s study.”

“How do you know that’s her study?”

“Oh, I’ve seen her working in there many times. Adam and I used to take evening walks around the neighborhood. Sometimes she would wave to us. That was when she was married to Mr. Ring.”

“Did you see the man again, the one who parked across the street?”

“Not for some time.”

“How much time?”

“It must have been half an hour or more.”

“Could you tell where he came from?”

“No. He was just there when I glanced up, in the shadows. He seemed to be in a hurry, now that I think of it. Very long strides. Adam used to walk that way—long, swinging strides. I had to practically run to keep up with him.”

“What kind of car did he have?”

“Adam?”

“No, ma’am. The man, the stranger.”

“I don’t know very much about cars, I’m afraid.”

“Small, large? Two-door, four-door?”

“Well, it was small. Sort of . . . what’s the phrase? Low-slung?”

“Yes. A sports car?”

“That’s right. A sports car.”

“Dark or light colored?”

“Light colored. There was a bit of moon and its hood and top gleamed and I remember it made me think of quicksilver.”

“So it could have been silver.”

“Yes. Yes, it could.”

“About the man himself. Did you get a clear look at him?”

“Not very clear, I’m afraid. His coat collar was pulled up.”

“Did you have an impression of height, weight? Big, small, thin, fat?”

Mrs. Conti worked her memory, one hand stroking the old cat on her lap until Big Girl made a burbling sound like water boiling. “Well, he wasn’t fat. Tall? No, not really. But not short, either. . . . I’m sorry, the only image I have in my mind is of a moving shape.”

“Could you estimate his age?”

“No . . . except that he seemed young to me. He moved the way a young man does, if you know what I mean.”

“Yes, ma’am. Did you tell the police about him?”

“The police? Why, no. No one from the police came to see me.”

No surprise there. A woman dies from a fall inside a locked house, with no signs of forced entry. Verdict from the beginning: accident. None of the investigators had seen a need to canvass the neighbors, so they hadn’t bothered.

Mrs. Conti said, “Should I call and tell them?”

“No, that isn’t necessary.”

“But if you believe that man had something to do with poor Mrs. Mathias’s accident . . . That is why you’re investigating, isn’t it?”

“It’s part of my investigation, yes. If I find out that the man you saw was responsible, I’ll contact the police myself.” Before I got to my feet I reached over and rubbed the tortoiseshell’s ears. “Thanks so much, Mrs. Conti. You’ve been a huge help.”

“Have I? I’m so glad. I don’t have much opportunity to be helpful to anyone since Adam passed on. My children don’t need me anymore. It’s I who need them. Isn’t that sad?”

Very sad.

And very lonely.

G
aunt. Overworked. Nervous. Those were the three descriptive adjectives that came to mind on my first look at Philomena Ruiz. She was not much more than forty, but her black hair was already streaked with gray and the lines in her face were etched deep. She hadn’t been home long when I got there a couple of minutes past seven; she still wore work shoes and a twinged expression when she
moved, as though her legs bothered her and she hadn’t had a chance to sit down yet.

In the doorway, after I explained that I was working for Celeste Ogden, she said, “I told everything I know to the police. And to Mrs. Ogden when she came to see me.”

“I’m sure you did. I just have a few questions—I won’t take up much of your time.”

She let me come in, with a certain amount of resignation, and conducted me into a tidy living room packed with old, well-used furniture. The chin-whiskered teenager hovered around us, but not in a protective way. When Mrs. Ruiz and I were seated, the kid said rudely,
“No te pases tanto tiempo con ese anglo viejo y gordo. Tengo hambre y quiero mi comida.”

My Spanish is rusty, but not that rusty. What I said to him came out pretty quick, if not particularly fluid:
“Ciudado con lo que dices, jovencito. Deberias mostrar mas respector a tus mayors.”

He blinked at me, openmouthed. Mrs. Ruiz seemed to be trying to hide a smile behind a raised hand. In sharper terms she told him the same as I had, to show some respect for his elders, and also to go fetch his own dinner for a change. He beat it out of there in a hurry. When he was gone she used more formal language to apologize for his rudeness and to say, politely, that I spoke Spanish very well. I thanked her; but my command wasn’t all that good, I said, and would she mind if we had our conversation in English.

“What is it you wish to know?”

“Well, to begin with, how long did you work for Mrs. Mathias?”

“Nine years. One full day, one half day, every week.”

“Was she usually home when you were there?”

“Not when she was married to Mr. Ring. She was very busy at that time—she had many friends, many activities.”

“And after she married Mr. Mathias?”

“Then she was home often when I came.”

“What did the two of you talk about?”

“My work.”

“Personal matters? Did she confide in you?”

“No. Never. We spoke only of my work and things of no importance.”

“She never said anything about her relationship with Mr. Mathias?”

“No. Never.”

“What’s your opinion of the man?”

“I do not know him. I met him only a few times.”

“How did he treat you?”

No response.

“Mrs. Ruiz?”

“As some men treat their servants,” she said. She said it without inflection, but there was an undercurrent of bitterness in the words. “As if only he was a child of God.”

“Did he treat Mrs. Mathias as a man should treat his wife—as a friend, an equal?”

“No. I do not think so.”

“Yet she never complained about him.”

“She was a woman in love. Women in love do not complain to those who work for them.”

“Do you think she was still in love with him at the time of her death?”

Long pause before Mrs. Ruiz said, “Perhaps not.”

“Do you have any idea what happened to change her feelings toward her husband?”

“No.”

“The last few times you saw her,” I said. “Did she seem different to you, as if something was weighing heavily on her mind?”

“Yes. I thought so.”

“Do you have any idea what it was?”

“No. But her headaches seemed worse . . . you know she have bad headaches?”

“Migraines, yes.”

“She suffered very much from them.”