Trouble in Rooster Paradise (21 page)

“
A sex fiend, eh?”

“
Siding with the hoi polloi, I see.
Doubtless a wise choice.”

“
Sex fiend is a pretty severe label,
don’t you think, Walter?”

“
Perhaps. But Mr. de Carter
is
a fiend of sorts, at least in the sense that his devotion
to sex is
excessive
. For him sex is like an opiate. He’s
running, running, constantly running—just like the caged Popeye on
his little wheel. An analyst might tell you that some childhood
need of Mr. de Carter’s went unfulfilled. Whatever the case, he’s
running from feelings like loneliness, bereavement, hurt. He’s on a
flight from a tormenting reality. He’s trying to flee his personal
hell.”

“
I get the picture.”

“
The tragic thing about it is that
Mr. de Carter probably is actually desirous of—is actually
seeking—a close, deep connection, but he never gets it, and he
never will. Not the way he’s currently going about it.”

He was silent for a long moment.

“
With each woman Mr. de Carter
sleeps with he makes things worse—he adds to the very mishmash of
troubled and tormenting feelings he’s running from. He’s on a
madman’s run. Again, he’s like Popeye on his little wheel. But when
you think about it, our hamster downstairs is really better
off.”

“
What do you mean,
Walter?”

He lifted the left side of his mouth in a
smile. “Because the lowly Popeye lives for the present moment. And
while Mr. de Carter does so as well, he’s also dogged by his
memories of the past, and uncomfortably aware of the approaching
future.”

I’d never seen Walter quite this passionate in
his comments on human behavior. As he sliced, diced, and shredded
de Carter’s ego, id, and superego, I have to admit I grew
increasingly uncomfortable.

“
My guess is that at some level he
can’t stand himself or what he does. But he keeps on doing it, over
and over and over again.”

My head swam with clear images of de Carter
bedding woman after woman like some sexual jackhammer.

“
You might say that women are Mr. de
Carter’s way of chastising an already injured psyche.”

“
You mean like
self-flagellation?”

“
In effect, but certainly minus any
religious aspect.”

“
Punishing himself with
sex
?”

“
Yes.”

“
Well, I suppose there’s worse
fates.”

Walter ignored me. “He’ll probably die a
pathetic, miserable, unmourned womanizer. It’s one of many ailments
in this life that few seek to cure.”

“
I get the idea,” I said quietly.
His verbal barrage got my own psyche running for cover. “Is it
possible that
self
-loathing could turn
outward
?”

“
You mean, could Mr. de Carter
objectify his feelings and violently turn on the women in his life?
Actually kill them?”

I nodded.

“
Anything’s possible. I’m sure it’s
happened before, old thing. That’s the construction some place on
those Jack the Ripper killings back around the turn of the century.
So yes, anything’s possible.”

“
Maybe he and Christine Johanson had
something going. He killed her. Then he framed the Engstrom kid.
Then he tried to kill me because he’s afraid I’ll figure it out and
expose him.”

“
It sounds a little too pat, Gunnar.
It doesn’t account for his trying to kill Mr. Darcy, if indeed that
was also his handiwork.”

I told him about getting Milland to hunt up
registrations for Packards.

Walter nodded his approval.

“
I’d be interested in any match
Detective Milland might come up with. It may just be the puzzle
piece you’re looking for. And by all means, please let me know if
you learn anything more from Miss Meredith Lane.”

Mrs. Berger’s social life was just a trigger. I
empathized with Walter. I had my own triggers. I also knew the kind
of soul-piercing pain that gets a man looking for his own brand of
mind-numbing relief.

So I felt a little guilty when I got up to
leave. Walter would probably have enjoyed the company. I know I
would have. But I just couldn’t bring myself to cancel on Britt
Anderson. I had my own frailties to consider. As I shut Walter’s
door I watched him pour another shot of “the Scotch with
character.” Or so the advertisements claimed.

V
ista Court Apartments was a
misnomer in at least two ways. First, it wasn’t really a court at
all. More like a long hairpin. Secondly, though situated on a hill,
there was no vista. To my mind the only gorgeous view was the
tenant I was there to see.

I parked on Queen Anne Avenue. I hadn’t been
tailed, but I still looked around to be sure before leaving the
Chevy.

I entered one end of the hairpin and was
flanked by nicely maintained adobe-style bungalows connected one to
the next. They looked to have been built in the early ’30s. Each
was terraced in ascending progression to conform to the slope they
were built on. So I didn’t exactly gambol along. I’d say it was
more like a brisk climb.

Britt’s apartment sat on the outside of the
bend in the hairpin, affording a little more privacy than most of
her neighbors’. Given where she lived on the grade, I had to scale
two sets of concrete steps to get to her porch. The porch was a
small, enclosed affair decorated with several hanging flower
baskets. Most contained blooming fuchsias that gave her doorway a
cheery appearance. They went with the peppy music that was playing
inside.

I looked at my Longines. It was 6:40. I was
early. All right, I was shamefully ahead of schedule. I knocked
anyway.

The music stopped.

When the door swung open I surveyed a stunning
but stunned Britt Anderson. She’d pulled her hair back with a
headband, her face was a bit flushed, and she wore a glossy blue
leotard from her throat to her bare feet.

“
You’re early,” she said, sounding a
little winded. She wasn’t angry, but she wasn’t exactly happy
either.

Gunnar the Ill-Timed.

“
Sorry. I was hoping for a
before-dinner drink. Someone tried to kill me again.”

It was a cheap trick, but it had the desired
effect. Her eyes immediately showed the concern I’d seen earlier in
the day.

She took my brown fedora and ushered me in. The
shiny parquetry floor of her living room was fully exposed. An
Oriental rug sat rolled up over to one side.

I quickly gave her a two-sentence report of
what happened.

“
That’s dreadful,” she said with a
small shudder. “How distressing for you.” Her voice practically
reached out and hugged me.

I stole Rikard Lundeen’s line. “It looks like a
tiger’s getting beaten out of the brush.”

“
It truly does. It’s just
horrible.”

Britt daubed her face with a towel. Residual
makeup and perfume fragrances were now blended with another scent,
not at all unpleasing—the feral brininess of vigorous
exertion.

“
I’ll want more details, of course.
But let me get cleaned up first.” Then, feeling an apparent need to
explain, she said, “My aunt got me interested in dancing when I was
younger. I never pursued it, but I still keep up with the exercises
to keep fit and limber. It also helps me to unwind. These tights
are my aunt’s. I have several pair just like these. You’ll have to
excuse my appearance. I must look frightful.”

“
Not at all,” I said, meaning every
word. I told her she could model the other pairs for me anytime.
She smiled.

She looked phenomenal in this particular glassy
outfit. The material gave a metallic polish to her figure. She
resembled one of those curvaceous girls you see in Buck Rogers.
Only this was no paper doll. Not by a long shot.

I gawked. I tried not to, but Britt had her
back to me now so it was an epic struggle. Her form-fitting tights
showed off capital-looking legs—the sinewy but shapely kind
possessed by female dancers and trapeze artists. They seemed to go
on forever. But where they finally did leave off, the solid
roundness of a gymnast’s rump took over. She seemed unaware of her
sensuality, so frankly exhibited in the way she was standing—her
full round hips tilting indifferently.

“
While you wait, please make
yourself a drink. There’s wine, beer, and glasses in the kitchen.
Or if you’d prefer,” she pointed to a small dining nook off the
living room, “you’ll find something stronger in the
credenza.”

I brazenly ogled as she scurried off to her
shower. If I were the delicate sort, I’d have fainted dead away
from the experience. Luckily I was never so dainty.

Before shutting the bathroom door she called
back, “Be a dear and roll out the rug for me, will you?”

I covered up Britt’s makeshift dance floor and
pulled a couple of pieces of furniture back where they seemed to
belong. With her no longer distracting me, I was able to take in
the tasteful surroundings. It was cozy. The facing of the credenza
was decorated with ornate marquetry. It was doubtless an heirloom,
as probably were the dining room table and chairs. But the
furnishings in the living room were all recent acquisitions. She
owned a television set. A 16-inch Philco. One of those consolette
ensembles I’d seen advertised in the paper. All in all, I’d say the
head honcho lady seemed to be doing all right for
herself.

I could hear the shower was still going
strong.

I found ice cubes for my tumbler in the
refrigerator freezer. The mouth-slavering aroma of roasting chicken
wafted up at me from the oven. As I poured myself some Scotch from
the credenza I heard the shower go off.

I busied myself by finding plates and
silverware. I set them on her small dining room table where she’d
already spread a cloth. I couldn’t find the butter plate, but I put
out salt and pepper shakers. I also discovered some decorative
napkins in the top drawer of the credenza.

Feeling pleased with myself, I took my drink
back to the living room and planted my body in a club chair with
big balloon cushions. It was the perfect spot for when she watched
the television.

I parked my drink on the coffee table in front
of me. What looked like a small family gallery took up one corner.
I picked up two of the pictures that particularly caught my
eye.

The first was of Blanche Arnot and a teenage
version of Britt standing next to a woman maybe ten years Britt’s
senior. This had to be the Aunt Alexis she’d told me about. She too
was a looker. The other photo was one I’d seen at Blanche Arnot’s.
It was a studio portrait of Aunt Alexis alone that had been
oil-painted. She was fair-haired like her niece, but a strawberry
blonde.

“
She was beautiful, don’t you
think?” Britt asked from behind me.

“
Definitely,” I said.

I turned and saw my hostess just come from a
showdown with her dressing table and wardrobe. She was the clear
victor. Summer hadn’t officially begun, but it had at Britt’s
place. She’d put a bow in her hair and wore a bolero dress with a
texture that resembled a waffle-iron mold. She was wearing a smart
pair of toeless sandals with wedge heels, but no nylons. The whole
getup from head to foot was the color of ripe peaches and gave me a
powerful yen for peach cobbler.

She headed for the kitchen.

I got up and followed her.

She poured herself a glass of wine and we
talked while she prepared dinner. I finished my Scotch and replaced
it with a bottle of Rainier Extra Pale.

I said that I liked her apartment.

“
Do you? I’m glad. It was my aunt’s
place originally. It’s been home since I came to Seattle. The rent
has only been raised once. I’ve been lucky that way.”

I told her in detail what had happened to
Addison Darcy and me. I held back on my theories, but did tell her
I was pretty confident that Len and his Packard weren’t the
culprits.

“
That’s a relief,” she said,
“although I was pretty sure that’s what you’d determine. Which
reminds me. So far none of the girls know a man who drives a newer
Packard. But it’s as you thought—they don’t know automobiles very
well. However, Peggy did explain her comment from earlier. She said
she believed Christine might have been seeing someone other than
Dirk, but that it didn’t seem to be a serious relationship. One of
the other girls had a similar feeling. I’ll keep at it.”

I thanked her for her efforts.

By the time we sat down to dinner I’d switched
to wine. We ate roast game hen, stringed beans sautéed in butter,
and leftover potato salad. It was excellent and I said so several
times.

I told her a bit about myself. My upbringing by
my grandparents in a little whistle stop upstate called Conway. I
talked about my old partner Lou and our work at the Bristol Agency.
At Britt’s request, I made a few comments about the war. I stuck to
humorous incidents. I usually revisited the horrific experiences
only in my dreams. She told me a little about life growing up among
the apple-growers of Wenatchee and her business
schooling.