Sleeping Beauty (13 page)

“The general idea was that she cared about you. I think she means to come back to you, if she can.”

“I hope she does.”

But he spoke without real hope. He sat on the bed with his legs dangling, like a man who had been invalided in combat with nightmares. I left him barely holding the ground he had won.

Gloria was waiting in the narrow hallway. I couldn’t help wondering if she hoped to inherit Tom, or if it might happen without her consciously wishing it. And I asked myself if my own unconscious wish might be to inherit Laurel.

We moved into the kitchen, where it had been easy to talk the night before.

“What happened to Tom’s mother, Gloria?”

She clasped her upper arms in her fingers and hugged herself as if she could feel a chill. “I don’t want to talk about it. Tom gets very upset when anybody talks about it.”

“He doesn’t have to know.”

“You expect me to talk behind his back?” she said unreasonably.

“Tom hired me to work for him, which probably means he trusts me.”

“Maybe he does. He trusts a lot of people. That doesn’t mean I should tell them the family secrets.”

“I think you better tell me, though. It could have some bearing on what happened to Laurel.”

“What
did
happen to Laurel?”

“I don’t know that either. Was Tom’s mother killed?”

“Yes, she was shot.” The young woman’s eyes were dark with feeling. “I don’t think Tom remembers except when he’s dreaming—he has these nightmares.”

“Does he have them often?”

“I don’t know how often. I don’t spend that much time here. I think he gets them in cycles, if you know what I mean. Whenever something comes up that sets him back.”

“Like Laurel’s taking off?”

She nodded. “And there was another thing that probably got him started. My mother brought up the subject of the killing again.”

“In front of Tom?”

She nodded. “I couldn’t stop her. Mother gets pretty emotional sometimes, and she still thinks if she could get Tom to remember the shooting,
really
remember it, she might find out who did it. She hasn’t given up hope of finding the murderer, even after all these years.”

“How many years?”

“Over twenty-five. It happened when I was just a tiny baby.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about this last night?”

“I couldn’t. We don’t even talk about it in the family, let alone outside the family.”

“Who shot her?”

“Nobody knows. The killer was never brought to justice, anyway. I don’t know why I’m telling you these things. Mother would
kill
me if she heard me.” She caught her breath. “I don’t really mean that. Mother wouldn’t hurt anybody, let alone me.
She’s her own worst enemy. She wouldn’t hurt a hair on anyone’s head.” Gloria stroked her damp hair absently.

“What was her relation to Tom’s mother?”

“They were sisters, almost the same age, and very close at one time. I used to wonder why Mother was always so sad, until I found out she had a reason.”

“Would she discuss it with me, do you think?”

“I doubt it. I certainly wouldn’t want to ask her.”

“Where is your mother?”

“I’m not going to tell you.” There was a sudden note of obstinacy in her voice which made me wonder what she was covering up.

“Aren’t you interested in what happened to your aunt? What was her name?”

“Aunt Allie. Alison Russo. Sure I’m interested. But I don’t want to put my mother through it again. She has enough on her mind.”

“So has Tom,” I said. “It might be a way of getting it off both their minds.”

She shook her head. “It wouldn’t work that way. I said the same thing to my boy friend when he got gung ho on the subject. In our family, the only way to do is let things lie, keep things quiet.”

“You can’t, though. Look at Tom. He’s having nightmares about his mother’s death.”

“It’s better than daymares.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve tried them both,” she said.

“Has Tom ever talked to a psychiatrist?”

“Of course not. There’s nothing the matter with his head.”

I looked at my watch. The morning was wasting, and I was due back in Seahorse Lane at noon. I thanked Gloria and started out. She followed me to the front door.

“I hope there’s no hard feelings because I wouldn’t tell you certain things.”

“No hard feelings,” I said. “Take care of Tom.”

I was out of the house before I realized that I hadn’t asked him to pay me anything more. Perhaps I didn’t want to take his money.

Topanga Court, where Martha Mungan lived, was a long step down from the Excalibur Arms. It was a collection of peeling stucco buildings huddled between the Pacific Coast Highway and the eroding cliff. An earth slide leaned against the cliff like sand in the bottom of an hourglass which had almost run out.

I parked in front of the central building. A sign offered family accommodations by the day or week, some with kitchen. A bell jingled over the door when I opened it.

Behind the archway which contained the desk there were television voices in a darkened room. A woman called out:

“Who is that?”

An empty registration card lay on the desk. Mentally I filled it in: Lew Archer, thief catcher, corpse finder, ear to anyone. I said:

“Do you know Joseph Sperling?”

“Joe? You bet I do. How are you, Joe?”

I didn’t answer her. I stood and listened to her slow footsteps as they approached the archway. Her face was closed and blind as she came through, a middle-aged woman wearing a harsh red wig and a kimono spilling colors down her front. She blinked against the light like a nocturnal animal.

“You’re not Joe Sperling. Who are you trying to kid?”

“I didn’t say I was.” I gave her my name. “Joe and I had a little talk this morning.”

“How is Joe, anyway? I haven’t seen him in years.”

“He seems to be all right. But I guess he’s getting older.”

“Aren’t we all?” Her eyes came up to mine, surprisingly bright in her drooping face. “You say you had a talk with Joe. About me?”

“About you and your husband.”

A sluggish ripple of alarm moved across her face, leaving wrinkles behind it. “I don’t have a husband—not any more.” She took a deep sighing breath. “Is Ralph Mungan in some kind of trouble?”

“He may be.”

“I’ve been wondering. He dropped out of sight so completely, it made me wonder if he’s in jail or something.”

“Something,” I said, to keep her interest alive.

A loose and empty smile took over the lower half of her face. She let it talk for her while her experienced eyes studied me. “Would you be a copsie-wopsie by any chancie-wancie?”

“A private one.”

“And you want some info on Ralph?”

I nodded. In the shadow world behind the archway, the daytime television voices were telling their obvious secrets. I’d love you but I have a fractured libido and nobody ever set it. I’d love you back but you resemble my father, who treated me rotten.

“Where is Ralph?”

“I don’t know,” I lied.

“What do you want him for?”

“Nothing very important. At least, I hope it isn’t important.”

She leaned across the counter, resting the burden of her breast on it. “Don’t play games with me, eh? I want to know what it’s all about. And what does Joe Sperling have to do with it?”

“Remember a tweed suit Joe made for Ralph’s birthday one year?”

Her eyes sharpened. “That was a long time ago. What about the suit?”

“It turned up in the ocean this morning.”

“So? It was just an old suit.”

“Have you seen it lately, Mrs. Mungan?”

“I don’t know. After Ralph left, I threw out most of his things. I’ve moved a lot since then.”

“So you don’t know who was wearing it?”

With her fingers clenched on the edge of the counter, she pushed herself upright. Something that looked like a wedding band was sunk in the flesh of the appropriate finger like a deep scar.

“Somebody was wearing it?” she said.

“A little old man with burn marks on his head and face. Do you know him, Mrs. Mungan?”

Her face went blank, as if the impact of my question had knocked all sentience from her head.

“I don’t know who it could be,” she said without force. “Did you say the tweed suit was in the ocean?”

“That’s right. I found it myself.”

“Right off here?” She gestured across the Coast Highway. “A few miles south of here, off Pacific Point.” She was silent, while slow thought worked at her face. “What about the man?” she said finally.

“The man?”

“The little man with the burn marks. The one you were just telling me about.”

“What about him?”

“Is he all right?”

“Why?” I said. “Do you know him?”

“I wouldn’t say I know him. But I may have given him that suit.”

“When?”

“Answer my question first,” she said sharply. “Is he all right?”

“I’m afraid not. He was in the suit when I found it in the water. And he was dead.”

I was watching her face for signs of shock or grief, or possibly remorse. But it seemed empty of feeling. Her eyes were the color of the low city skies under which she had moved a lot.

“How did you happen to give him the suit?” I said.

She was slow in answering. “I don’t remember too well. I do quite a lot of drinking, if you want the truth, and it washes everything out, if you know what I mean. He came to the door one day when I was slightly plastered. He was just an old bum, practically in rags. I wanted to give him something to keep him warm, and that old suit of Ralph Mungan’s was all I had.”

I studied her face, trying to decide among three main possibilities: either she was leveling, or she was one of those natural liars who lied more convincingly than they told the truth, or her story had been carefully prepared.

“He came here, did he, Mrs. Mungan?”

“That’s right. He was standing where you’re standing now.”

“Where did he come from?”

“He didn’t say. I guess he was working his way along the beach. The last I saw of him, he was heading south.”

“How long ago was this?”

“I don’t even remember.”

“You must have some idea, though.”

“A couple of weeks, maybe longer.”

“Did he have a younger man with him? A broad-shouldered man of thirty or so, about my height?”

“I didn’t see any younger man.” But her look was defensive, and her voice had a whine in it. “Why are you asking me all these questions? I was just being a good Samaritan to him. You can’t blame a woman for being a good Samaritan.”

“But you didn’t remember about it at first. You thought you threw the suit out with Ralph Mungan’s other things. And then you remembered that you gave it to the dead man.”

“That’s just the way my mind works. Anyway, he wasn’t dead when I gave it to him.”

“He’s dead now.”

“I know that.”

We faced each other across the counter. Behind her in the darkened room, the shadow voices went on telling the city’s parables: Daddy wasn’t the only one who treated me rotten. I know that, love, and my libido wasn’t my only fractured part.

The woman was long past her prime, her mind leached out by drinking, her body swollen. But I rather liked her. I didn’t think she was capable of murder. No doubt she was capable of covering for it, though, if she had a guilty lover or a son.

I left, intending to pay her another visit.

It was nearly noon when I got back to Pacific Point. The harbor was even blacker than it had been in the morning. Men wearing oilskins and hip boots were cleaning its rock walls with live steam.

Other workers in small skiffs were scattering straw on the floating oil, then picking up the oil-soaked straw with pitchforks. Hundreds of bales of fresh straw had been trucked in from somewhere and were piled on the beach like barriers against a possible invasion.

There were further changes on the wharf. A couple of dozen picketers were walking back and forth across its entrance. They carried homemade signs: “Do Not Patronize: Oil Facilities,”
“Oil Spoils,” “Pollution!” Most of the picketers were middle-aged, though there were several long-haired youths among them.

I recognized the hairy-faced young fisherman I had talked to the previous evening. He shook his sign at me—“Consider the Poor Fish”—and yelled good-naturedly as I drove past him onto the wharf.

Blanche was watching the picketers from the almost empty parking lot of her restaurant. She recognized me as a customer and raised her voice in complaint.

“They’re trying to put me out of business. I want to know, did they use any force on you? Or threaten you?”

“No, they didn’t.”

“Too bad.” She shook her frizzy head. “The police said unless they use force or threats it’s legal and there’s nothing I can do. But it doesn’t look legal to me. I’d like to toss ’em over the railing and give ’em a little taste of that oily water. They’ve got their nerve, trying to take over my wharf.”

“Is it really your wharf?”

“It is to all intents and purposes. I’ve got it on long-term lease, and it gives me the right to rent space to the oil company. I intend to make a personal appeal to the Governor.”

Blanche was flushed and breathing hard. She ran out of breath.

“I had dinner in your restaurant last night.”

“Sure, I remember. You didn’t finish your red snapper. I hope it was all right.”

“It was fine. I wasn’t too hungry. I noticed a couple of other customers while I was here—an older man with a young one. The old man was wearing a tweed suit, and he had burn scars on his head—”

“I remember them. What about them?”

“I’d like to get in touch with them. Do you have any idea where they belong?”

She shook her head. “I never saw them before. They didn’t come from these parts.”

“How do you know?”

“They asked me for directions. They wanted to know how to get to Seahorse Lane.” She pointed south along the beach in the direction of Sylvia Lennox’s house.

“Did they say who they wanted to visit on Seahorse Lane?”

“No, but I wondered at the time. It’s a very high-priced development, right on the beach. And they were strictly from hunger—at least the old one was. I mean literally. You should have seen him eat.”