The McCone Files (31 page)

“It's a man who's been leaving the flowers,” I said to Diana. “Gordon DeRosier, associate professor of art at S.F. State. Fifty-three years old. He owns a home on Ninth Avenue, up the hill from the park in the area near Golden Gate Heights. Lives alone; one marriage, ending in divorce eight years ago, no children. Drives a 1979 VW bug, has a good driving record. His credit's also good—he pays his bills in full, on time. A friend of mine who teaches photography at State says he's a likable enough guy, but hard to get to know. Shy, doesn't socialize. My friend hasn't heard of any romantic attachments.”

Diana slumped in her chair, biting her lower lip, her yellow eyes troubled. We were in my office at All Souls—a big room at the front of the second floor, with a bay window that overlooks the flat Outer Mission district. It had taken me all afternoon and used up quite a few favors to run the check on Gordon DeRosier; at five Diana had called wanting to know if I'd found anything, and I'd asked her to come there so I could report my findings in person.

Finally she said, “You, of course, are thinking what I am. Otherwise you wouldn't have asked your friend about this DeRosier's romantic attachments.”

I nodded, keeping my expression noncommittal.

“It's pretty obvious, isn't it?” she added. “A man wouldn't bring a woman's favorite flowers to her grave three weeks running if he hadn't felt strongly about her.”

“That's true.”

She frowned. “But why did he start doing it now? Why not right after her death?”

“I think I know the reason for that: he's probably done it all along, but on a different day. State's summer class schedule just began; DeRosier is probably free at different times than he was in the spring.”

“Of course.” She was silent a moment, then muttered, “So that's what it came to.”

“What do you mean?”

“My father's neglect. It forced her to turn to another man.” Her eyes clouded even more, and a flush began to stain her cheeks. When she continued, her voice shook with anger. “He left her alone most of the time, and when he was there he ignored or ridiculed her. She'd try so hard—at being a good conversationalist, a good hostess, an interesting person—and then he'd just laugh at her efforts. The bastard!”

“Are you planning to talk with Gordon DeRosier?” I asked, hoping to quell the rage I sensed building inside her.

“God, Sharon, I can't. You know how uncomfortable I felt about approaching a woman friend of Mom's. This…the
implications
of this make it impossible for me.”

“Forget it, then. Content yourself with the fact that someone loved her.”

“I can't do that, either. This DeRosier could tell me so much about her.”

“Then call him up and ask to talk.”

“I don't think … Sharon, would you—”

“Absolutely not.”

“But you know how to approach him tactfully, so he won't resent the intrusion. You're so good at things like that. Besides I'd pay a bonus.”

Her voice had taken on a wheedling, pleading tone that I remembered from the old days. I recalled one time she'd convinced me that I really
wanted
to get out of bed and drive her to Baskin-Robbins at midnight for a gallon of pistachio ice cream. And I don't even like ice cream much, especially pistachio.

“Diana—”

“It would mean so much to me.”

“Dammit—”

“
Please.
”

I sighed. “All right. But if he's willing to talk with you, you'd better follow up on it.”

“I will, I promise.”

Promises, I thought. I knew all about promises…

“We met when she took an art class from me at State,” Gordon DeRosier said. “An oil painting class. She wasn't very good. Afterwards we laughed about that. She said that she was always taking classes in things she wasn't good at, trying to measure up to her husband's expectations.”

“When was that?”

“Two years ago last April.”

Then it hadn't been a casual affair, I thought.

We were seated in the living room of DeRosier's small stucco house on Ninth Avenue. The house was situated at the bottom of a dip in the road, and the evening fog gathered there; the branches of an overgrown plane tree shifted in a strong wind and tapped at the front window. Inside, however, all was warm and cozy. A fire burned on the hearth, and DeRosier's paintings—abstracts done in reds and blues and golds—enhanced the comfortable feeling. He'd been quite pleasant when I'd shown up on his doorstop, although a little puzzled because he remembered seeing me at the Columbarium that morning. When I'd explained my mission, he'd agreed to talk with me and graciously offered me a glass of an excellent zinfandel.

I asked, “You saw her often after that?”

“Several times a week. Her husband seldom paid any attention to her comings and goings, and when he did she merely said she was pursing her art studies.”

“You must have cared a great deal about her.”

“I loved her,” he said simply.

“Then you won't mind talking with her daughter.”

“Of course not. Teresa spoke of Diana often. Knowing her will be a link to Teresa—something more tangible than the urn I visit every week.”

I found myself liking Gordon DeRosier. In spite of his ordinary appearance, there was an impressive dignity about the man, as well as a warmth and genuineness. Perhaps he could be a friend to Diana, someone who would make up in part for losing her mother before she really knew her.

He seemed to be thinking along the same lines, because he said, “It'll be good to finally meet Diana. All the time Teresa and I were together I'd wanted to, but she was afraid Diana wouldn't accept the situation. And then at the end, when she'd decided to divorce Carl, we both felt it was better to wait until everything was settled.”

“She was planning to leave Carl?”

He nodded. “She was going to tell him that weekend, in Cabo San Lucas, and move in here the first of the week. I expected her to call on Sunday night, but she didn't. And she didn't come over as she'd promised she would on Monday. On Tuesday, I opened the paper and found her obituary.”

“How awful for you!”

“It was pretty bad. And I felt so…shut out. I couldn't even go to her memorial service—it was private. I didn't even know how she had died—the obituary merely said, ‘suddenly.'”

“Why didn't you ask someone? A mutual friend? Or Diana?”

“We didn't have any mutual friends. Perhaps that was the bond between us; neither of us made friends easily. And Diana…I didn't see any reason for her ever to know about her mother and me. It might have caused her pain, colored her memories of Teresa.”

“That was extremely caring of you.”

He dismissed the compliment with a shrug and asked, “Do you know how she died? Will you tell me, please?”

I related the circumstances. As I spoke DeRosier shook his head as if in stunned denial.

When I finished, he said, “That's impossible.”

“Diana said something similar—how unlike her mother it was. I gather Teresa didn't drink much—”

“No, that's not what I mean.” He rose and began to pace, extremely agitated now. “Teresa did drink too much. It started during all those years when Carl alternately abused her and left her alone. She was learning to control it, but sometimes it would still control her.”

“Then I imagine that's what happened during that weekend down in Cabo. It would have been a particularly stressful time, what with having to tell Carl she was getting a divorce, and it's understandable that she might—”

“That much is understandable, yes. But Teresa would
not
have gotten into the hot tub—not willingly.”

I felt a prickly sense of foreboding. “Why not?”

“Teresa had eczema, a severe case, lesions on her wrists and knees and elbow. She'd suffered from it for years, but shortly before her death it had spread and become seriously aggravated. Water treated with chemicals, as it is in hot tubs and swimming pools, makes eczema worse and causes extreme pain.”

“I wonder why Diana didn't mention that.”

“I doubt she knew about it. Teresa was peculiar about illness—it stemmed from having been raised a Christian Scientist. Although she wasn't religious anymore, she felt physical imperfection was shameful and wouldn't talk about it.”

“I see. Well, about her getting into the hot tub—don't you think if she was drunk, she might have anyway?”

“No. We had a discussion about hot tubs once, because I was thinking of installing one here. She told me not to expect her to use it, that she had tried the one in Cabo just once. Not only had it aggravated her skin condition, but it had given her heart palpitations, made her feel she was suffocating. She hated that tub. If she really did drown in it, she was put in it against her will. Or after she passed out from too much alcohol.”

“If that was the case, I'd think the police would have caught on and investigated.”

DeRosier laughed bitterly. “In Mexico? When the victim is the wife of a wealthy foreigner with plenty of money to spread around, and plenty of influence?” He sat back down, pressed his hands over his face, as if to force back tears. “When I think of her there, all alone with him, at his mercy…I never should have let her go. But she said the weekend was planned, that after all the years she owed it to Carl to break the news gently.” His fist hit the arm of the chair. “
Why
didn't I stop her?”

“You couldn't know.” I hesitated trying to find a flaw in his logic. “Mr. DeRosier, why would Carl Richards kill his wife? I know he's a proud man, and conscious of his position in the business and social communities, but divorce really doesn't carry any stigma these days.”

“But a divorce would have denied him the use of Teresa's money. Carl had done well in business, and they lived comfortably. But the month before she died, Teresa inherited a substantial fortune from an uncle. The inheritance was what made her finally decide to leave Carl; she didn't want him to get his hands on it. And, as she told me in legalese, she hadn't commingled it with what she and Carl held jointly. If she divorced him immediately, it wouldn't fall under the community property laws.”

I was silent, reviewing what I knew about community property and inheritances. What Teresa had told him was valid—and it gave Carl Richards a motive for murder.

DeRosier was watching me. “We could go to the police. Have them investigate.”

I shook my head. “It happened on foreign soil; the police down there aren't going to admit they were bribed, or screwed up, or whatever happened. Besides, there's not hard evidence.”

“What about Teresa's doctor? He could substantiate that she had eczema and wouldn't have gotten into that tub voluntarily.”

“That's not enough. She was drunk; drunks do irrational things.”

“Teresa wasn't an irrational woman, drunk or sober. Anyone who knew her would agree with me.”

“I'm sure they would. But that's the point: you knew her; the police didn't.”

DeRosier leaned back, deflated and frustrated. “There's got to be some way to get the bastard.”

“Perhaps there is,” I said, “through some avenue other than the law.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, consider Carl Richards: he's very conscious of his social position, his business connections. He's big on control. What if all that fell apart—either because he came under suspicion of murder or if he began losing control because of psychological pressure?”

DeRosier nodded slowly. “He
is
big on control. He dominated Teresa for years, until she met me.”

“And he tried to dominate Diana. With her it didn't work so well.”

“Diana…” DeRosier half-rose from his chair.

“What about her?”

“Shouldn't we tell her what we suspect? Surely she'd want to avenge her mother somehow. And she knows her father and his weak points better than you or I.”

I hesitated, thinking of the rage Diana often displayed toward Carl Richards. And wondering if we wouldn't be playing a dangerous game by telling her. Would her reaction to our suspicions be a rational one? Or would she strike out at her father, do something crazy? Did she really need to know any of this? Or did she have a right to the knowledge? I was ambivalent: on the one hand, I wanted to see Carl Richards punished in some way; on the other, I wanted to protect my friend from possible ruinous consequences.

DeRosier's feelings were anything but ambivalent, however; he waited, staring at me with hard, glittering eyes. I knew he would embark on some campaign of vengeance, and there was nothing to stop him from contacting Diana if I refused to help. Together their rage at Richards might flare out of control, but if I exerted some sort of leavening influence…