Trouble in Rooster Paradise (33 page)

Sunday morning I strolled into the kitchen long
after everyone else had breakfasted. Mrs. Berger and Walter were at
the table.

Mrs. Berger was saying, “Then we’ll have the
big fella say to Penny, ‘That’s a colossal lookin’ run you got in
your hose, girlie-girl.’ ”

Like a dutiful stenographer, Walter scrawled
the banal drivel in his tablet stuffed with notes.

“
Then Penny gives him a bugged look
that as good as tells him, ‘What’s it to you, bub?’ But then the
guy says next, ‘I know just the place to have that run fixed for
free, darlin’.’ So now Penny’s sort of curious. Her face has gone
from being bugged to a look that says maybe this man knows
something about stockings that I don’t. Do you know what I mean,
Walter?”

Walter nodded and continued to write
furiously.

It sounded to me like they were revising the
act about the white slavers. I went over to the stove and poured
myself a cup of coffee just as Mrs. Berger said, “Well, look what
the cat in her pity drug in.”

When I realized she was talking to me I smiled
and asked, “Was it a billiards or church Sunday for the young and
perplexed?”

“
Sten decided on church, judging by
his costume,” said Mrs. Berger.

At least twice a month Sten attended a Lutheran
church over on Twentieth. He was the only churchgoer in the house.
But I don’t think it was because he was particularly devout. He
told me once it just gave him a good feeling when he went. The only
religion I ever heard Mrs. Berger spout was Fletcherism. Walter was
a deist in the manner of Thomas Jefferson. As for me, I’d been a
non-practicing Lutheran since my teens. Before the war, while holed
up alone at a friend’s beach house in Nelscott, Oregon, I came
across a stack of old newspapers dating back to the 1910s. To kill
time I read some sermons by a popular syndicated preacher. He had a
rational and lucid style that I liked and that forever spoiled me
when it came to religious discourse.

I sipped my coffee and tuned out the
conversation between Walter and Mrs. Berger. It had something to do
with Penny having trouble reading a street guide of San Francisco.
Walter busily jotted down whatever was deemed pertinent for later
use at his typewriter keys. I was just glad to see him happily back
at it. I knew he’d spend part of the day in his room, going over
his notes, writing, editing and rewriting—thoroughly engrossed in
his labor of love. We all have our ways of offsetting hysteria and
dulling pain.

I washed and rinsed my cup and put it back in
its spot on the drain board. Turning toward the pantry, I swear I
caught a glimpse of Mrs. Berger kneading Walter’s instep with the
toes of her right foot. But when I did a double take both of Mrs.
Berger’s feet were sheathed in their pink fuzzy slippers and
reposed under her chair.

Footsie
. On a Sunday no less.
Mrs.
Berger and Walter
. I went upstairs wondering if I really knew
these people. After a shave and a fresh change of clothes, I
telephoned Rikard Lundeen.

I apologized for not calling sooner, but he
told me he’d already learned quite a few of the details. It was no
surprise, what with his city hall connections and his tie to the
Engstroms and their attorney.

We talked for a few minutes, and I agreed to
visit him the next day in the afternoon to submit my full report
and my bill. I wasn’t looking forward to it.

After we hung up I went back to bed and slept
till 3:00 p.m.

When I entered the Hanstad Building Monday
morning, I went straight to Olga Peterson’s shop.

Miss Peterson gave me the curious and approving
look all saleswomen give a man when he buys flowers. I think she
was also tickled to finally know the exact nature of one of my
purchases without having to ask. Still, there was a
quiz.

“
Has a particular young woman caught
your fancy, Mr. Vance?” she asked. Her eyes sparkled but she
sounded like she was auditioning for a spot on a parole
board.

“
My office needs a little
cheering.”

My answer disappointed, but it didn’t stop her
from giving me an accompanying card or from wishing me good luck as
I edged away from her.

“
I’m glad to see your jungle fever
isn’t bothering you, Mr. Vance. Did you remember about the
molasses?” she called after me.

“
Every night. Two tablespoons.
Heaping
,” I said over my shoulder.

“
And, by the way, did you happen to
pass my greeting on to Mr. Pangborn?”

“
Western Union couldn’t have done
better.”

My Longines told me it was a little after 9:00,
but the door to Dag’s suite was locked. I was more than happy to
postpone my encounter with Cissy Paget. I opened the card Miss
Peterson had given me, and wrote, “With apologies to Sweet Knees.”
I tucked the card in the flowers and set them in front of the
doorsill.

The maintenance man must have made an emergency
weekend stop because the frosted glass in my door had been
replaced. Cissy’s thoughtfulness further indicted me.

A solitary letter was nestled in my mail slot.
The name of the sender gave it the dreadful attraction of a
telegram in wartime. It was missing both stamp and postmark, which
meant Britt probably delivered it herself when the building
opened.

The door to the inner pigeonhole was also
repaired and I noticed fresh plaster on the back wall. I left the
inner door open and sat down to open my letter.

Britt’s handwriting was beautiful. The message
was short but definitely not sweet.

Dear Gunnar,

Recent events have made me realize that I’m in
need of a big change in my life. I’ve decided to move to New York
City and see about finding that “throne” of my own that we talked
about.

If I don’t get a chance to see you before I
leave, please know that I enjoyed our brief time together and hope
to keep in touch.

It was signed “Yours Always, Britt.”

Yours,
what
? Always,
how
?

“
Ah, that’s sad, Gunnar,” Kirsti
said in a feeble voice. Her eyes actually had tears in them, and
she was gingerly dabbing at them with a Kleenex.

“
Yeah. A dimwitted lout just might
fail to pick up on her unwritten ‘I’ll call you; don’t call
me.’ ”

After a few seconds of calf eyes and parted
lips, Kirsti said, “I’m sure it was hard for her to do. It’s not
easy for a girl to break things off, you know. It can be a …
challenge.”

“
At the moment, Blue Eyes, I wasn’t
exactly thinking of the challenge I posed. However, I did try and
figure Britt out. On our drive over to Addison Darcy’s, I’d picked
up a few pieces of the puzzle from her.”

“
What do you mean?”

“
Well, that first day we’d met, when
she’d buttonholed Meredith, it had been out of genuine
concern.”

“
I thought so. Sure,” Kirsti
said.

“
And Britt had honestly been
interested in my investigation all along.”

“
She liked you, silly. Women get men
to talk about what they do if they like them. You men fall for it
every time.”

“
Uh-huh. Well, come to find out,
Britt had been on the phone that night I was in her bed. Blanche
Arnot had called her on some pretext, probably trying to find out
my whereabouts from Britt, while de Carter paid his deadly visit to
Meredith. According to Britt, she and Blanche talked on the phone
all the time. Britt had unwittingly passed on my every move to de
Carter through Blanche.”

She nodded. “So, why did she go to New
York?”

“
Times were different. Britt was a
gifted businesswoman with a truckload of promise and the ambition
for far more. Not to mention she was stellar in the looks
department. But a talented and attractive woman still had it tough
in those days. The achievements of the feminist movement were yet
to come. She probably saw New York as a city where she stood a
better chance of advancing herself.”

“
Is that the only reason she took
off, do you think?”

“
Britt was only human. For a long
time, Blanche Arnot had been part of her life—probably more a part
than I realized. Blanche had nurtured both Britt and Alexis. And
while their roles had reversed in many respects, I’m sure Blanche
had been a kind of respected role model to Britt. But none of that
mattered now. Not anymore. Not ever again.”

Kirsti remained quiet.

“
You understand, Kirsti, I was
mainly left with my guesses as to Britt’s feelings. Finding out
she’d misjudged Blanche and misplaced her confidence in members of
her sales staff had to have been a painful shock.”

“
It probably blew her
away!”

“
Yeah. I could see when I took her
home that night she was having a rough time of it. Some people are
unable to love and trust in the same way after an experience like
that. I hoped better for Britt. But I didn’t think I’d ever know.
She didn’t want to talk about it. At least not with me.”

I reread Britt’s note three times. I read
between lines, stayed alert for loaded words, hunted for ambiguity,
and tried to sniff out any hidden implications. It was pointless.
Its plain message bit and twisted my heart in a way I couldn’t
define.

No matter how much I might have wanted to be
Britt’s shoulder to cry on, or fix the hurt she felt, I wouldn’t be
able to make it better overnight—if ever. Maybe that’s what she
believed. That’s one of my guesses anyway.

Everyone uses somebody. Sometimes several
somebodies. The trouble is getting somebody to use you when you
want to be used.

I carefully put the note back in the envelope
and sailed it into the spilth receptacle just as someone rapped on
the outer door.

The rap was too forceful to be Cissy Paget’s,
no matter how mad at me she might be, and the cloudy figure through
the frosted glass was definitely too large. I told my caller to
enter.

It was Dirk Engstrom.

He shook my hand and I told him to take a seat.
He wore a sheepish grin as he studied me and then my
office.

“
I … I wanted to thank you for
clearing me, Mr. Nilson,” he said. His crisp dark suit told me he
was dressed to sell jewelry.

“
Glad I could help,
Dirk.”

“
I … I want to pay you for your
time.”

“
That’s not necessary. Rikard
Lundeen’s footing the bill.”

“
Still—”

“
It’s not necessary.”

I would have liked for him to insist one more
time. If he had, I’d have let him pay me something. But he didn’t.
He was of that budding post-war generation with its
ever-diminishing list of ought-to-dos.

He cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably
in his chair. His unruly lock was slicked in place, and all traces
of belligerence seemed to have evaporated. I wondered if he’d been
told about Christine’s part in the blackmail racket. He didn’t
leave me hanging.

“
I feel … like such a …
jackass,” he said looking at the floor.

I didn’t disagree. I didn’t say
anything.

“
I … I loved her. At least I
thought I did. Now I … I don’t know what to think.”

I still didn’t say anything. It’s easy to do
when a person isn’t looking at you.

Dirk raised his eyes from the linoleum to me. I
saw tears. Now I had to say something.

“
It was what it was. It just wasn’t
what you thought it was. There’s a lot of that in life, kid. The
earlier you learn it the better.”

“
I … I suppose so. It’s just so
hard to accept that she used me.”

“
We’re all users, kid. You both used
each other. It’s a primordial instinct. That’s the way it
is.”

He gave me a grim smile and slowly nodded. Then
he looked at the floor again so I gladly returned to being mute.
But I couldn’t maintain it.

“
If it means anything to you, at
least Christine tried in her way to warn you off.”

“
Wha … what do you mean?” he
asked looking at me again.

“
You said she bawled her head off
when you talked marriage. She
did
tell you she wasn’t good
enough for you. A guy might take that to mean that at heart she
really cared for him.”

Dirk was dumbstruck. I actually believed what
I’d just told him. But I didn’t believe what I said
next.

“
It looked like she was being
coerced somehow to do what she did.”

“
You mean like a white slavery
racket?”

“
Something like that. Who knows? If
she hadn’t gotten killed she might have worked up the courage to
ask for your help.”

He liked the sound of that. He thought in
silence for a while, recharting his mental and emotional map.
Suddenly he stood up and reached over to shake my hand once more.
This time he did so more heartily.