Whispers (26 page)

Tony sighed. “Suit yourself.”

“Look, what I said last night at The Bolt Hole . . .”

“Yeah?”

“I wasn’t looking for sympathy.”

“Everybody needs some sympathy now and then.”

“I just wanted you to understand why I’ve been in such a foul mood.”

“And I do understand.”

“I didn’t mean to give you the impression that I’m a jerk, that I’m a sucker for the wrong kind of woman.”

“You didn’t give me that impression at all.”

“I’ve never broken down like that before.”

“I believe it.”

“I’ve never . . . cried like that.”

“I know.”

“I guess I was just tired.”

“Sure.”

“Maybe it was all that liquor.”

“Maybe.”

“I drank a lot last night.”

“Quite a lot.”

“The liquor made me sentimental.”

“Maybe.”

“But now I’m all right.”

“Who said you weren’t?”

“I can get my own dates, Tony.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

They concentrated on their cheese omelets.

There were several large office buildings nearby, and dozens of secretaries in bright dresses paraded past on the sidewalk, going to lunch.

Flowers ringed the restaurant terrace and perfumed the suncoppered air.

The noise on the street was typically that of L.A. It wasn’t the incessant barking of brakes and screaming of horns that you heard in New York or Chicago or most other cities. Just the hypnotic grumble of engines. And the air-cutting
whoosh
of passing cars. A lulling noise. Soothing. Like the tide on the beach. Made by machines but somehow natural, primal. Also subtly and inexpressibly erotic. Even the sounds of the traffic conformed to the city’s subconscious subtropical personality.

After a couple of minutes of silence, Frank said, “What’s her name?”

“Who?”

“Don’t be a smartass.”

“Janet Yamada.”

“Japanese?”

“Does she sound Italian?”

“What’s she like?”

“Intelligent, witty, good-looking.”

“What’s she do?”

“Works at city hall.”

“How old is she?”

“Thirty-six, thirty-seven.”

“Too young for me?”

“You’re only forty-five, for God’s sake.”

“How’d you come to know her?”

“We dated for a while,” Tony said.

“What went wrong?”

“Nothing. We just discovered we make better friends than lovers.”

“You think I’ll like her?”

“Positive.”

“And she’ll like me?”

“If you don’t pick your nose or eat with your hands.”

“Okay,” Frank said. “I’ll go out with her.”

“If it’s going to be an ordeal for you, maybe we should just forget it.”

“No. I’ll go. It’ll be okay.”

“You don’t have to do it just to please me.”

“Give me her phone number.”

“I don’t feel right about this,” Tony said. “I feel like I’ve forced you into something.”

“You haven’t forced me.”

“I think I should call her and cancel the arrangements,” Tony said.

“No, listen, I—”

“I shouldn’t try to be a matchmaker. I’m lousy at it.”

“Dammit, I
want
to go out with her!” Frank said.

Tony smiled broadly. “I know.”

“Have I just been manipulated?”

“You manipulated yourself.”

Frank tried to scowl, but couldn’t. He grinned instead. “Want to double-date Saturday night?”

“No way. You’ve got to stand on your own, my friend.”

“And besides,” Frank said knowingly, “you don’t want to share Hilary Thomas with anyone else.”

“Exactly.”

“You really think it can work with you two?”

“You make it sound like we’re planning to get married. It’s just a date.”

“But even for a date, won’t it be . . . awkward?”

“Why should it be?” Tony asked.

“Well, she’s got all that money.”

“That’s a male chauvinist remark if I ever heard one.”

“You don’t think that’ll make it difficult?”

“When a
man
has some money, does he have to limit his dating to women who have an equal amount of money?”

“That’s different.”

“When a king decides to marry a shopgirl, we think it’s too romantic for words. But when a queen wants to marry a shopboy, we think she’s letting herself be played for a fool. Classic double standard.”

“Well . . . good luck.”

“And to you as well.”

“Ready to go back to work?”

“Yeah,” Tony said. “Let’s find Bobby Valdez.”

“Judge Crater might be easier.”

“Or Amelia Earhart.”

“Or Jimmy Hoffa.”

 
Friday afternoon.

One o’clock.

The body lay on an embalming table at Angels’ Hill Mortuary in West Los Angeles. A tag wired to the big toe on the right foot identified the deceased as Bruno Gunther Frye.

A death technician prepared the body for shipment to Napa County. He swabbed it down with a long-lasting disinfectant. The intestines and other soft abdominal organs were pulled out of the dead man through the only available natural body opening and discarded. Because of the stab wounds and the autopsy that had taken place the previous night, there was not much unclotted blood or other fluids remaining in the corpse, but those last few dollops were forced out nonetheless; embalming fluid took their place.

The technician whistled a Donny and Marie Osmond hit while he labored over the dead man.

The Angels’ Hill Mortuary was not responsible for any cosmetic work on the corpse. That would be handled by the mortician in St. Helena. The Angels’ Hill technician merely tucked the sightless eyes shut forever and sewed up the lips with a series of tight interior stitches which froze the wide mouth in a vague eternal smile. It was a neat job; none of the sutures would be visible to the mourners—if there were any mourners.

Next, the deceased was wrapped in an opaque white shroud and put into a cheap aluminum coffin that met minimum construction and seal standards set by the state for the conveyance of a dead body by any and all means of public transportation. In St. Helena, it would be transferred to a more impressive casket, one that would be chosen by the family or friends of the loved one.

At 4:00 Friday afternoon, the body was taken to the Los Angeles International Airport and put into the cargo hold of a California Airways propjet destined for Monterey, Santa Rosa, and Sacramento. It would be taken off the plane at the second stop.

At 6:30 Friday evening, in Santa Rosa, there was no one from Bruno Frye’s family at the small airport. He had no relatives. He was the last of his line. His grandfather had brought only one child into the world, a lovely daughter named Katherine, and she had produced no children at all. Bruno was adopted. He never had married.

Three people waited on the Tarmac behind the small terminal, and two of them were from the Forever View Funeral Home. Mr. Avril Thomas Tannerton was the owner of Forever View, which served St. Helena and the surrounding communities in that part of the Napa Valley. He was forty-three, good-looking, slightly pudgy but not fat, with lots of reddish-blond hair, a scattering of freckles, lively eyes, and an easy warm smile that he had difficulty suppressing. He had come to Santa Rosa with his twenty-four-year-old assistant, Gary Olmstead, a slightly-built man who seldom talked more than the dead with whom he worked. Tannerton made you think of a choirboy, a veneer of genuine piety over a core of good-natured mischievousness; but Olmstead had a long, mournful, ascetic face perfectly suited to his profession.

The third man was Joshua Rhinehart, Bruno Frye’s local attorney and executor of the Frye estate. He was sixty-one years old, and he had the looks that would have contributed to a successful career as a diplomat or politician. His hair was thick and white, swept back from brow and temples, not chalk-white, not yellow-white, but a lustrous silver-white. A broad forehead. A long proud nose. A strong jaw and chin. His coffee-brown eyes were quick and clear.

The body of Bruno Frye was transferred from the aircraft to the hearse, then driven back to St. Helena. Joshua Rhinehart followed in his own car.

Neither business nor personal obligations had required Joshua to make this trip to Santa Rosa with Avril Tannerton. Over the years, he had done quite a lot of work for Shade Tree Vineyards, the company that had been wholly owned by the Frye family for three generations, but he had long ago ceased to need the income from that account, and in fact it had become considerably more trouble than it was worth. He continued to handle the Frye family’s affairs largely because he still remembered the time, thirty-five years ago, when he had been struggling to build a practice in rural Napa County and had been helped immeasurably by Katherine Frye’s decision to give him all the family’s legal business. Yesterday, when he heard that Bruno was dead, he hadn’t grieved at all. Neither Katherine nor her adopted son had ever inspired affection, and they most certainly had not encouraged the special emotional ties of friendship. Joshua accompanied Avril Tannerton to the Santa Rosa airport only because he wanted to be in a position to manage the arrival of the corpse in case any reporters showed up and tried to turn the event into a circus. Although Bruno had been an unstable man, a very sick man, perhaps even a profoundly evil man, Joshua was determined that the funeral would be carried out with dignity. He felt he owed the dead man that much. Besides, for most of his life, Joshua was a stalwart supporter and promoter of the Napa Valley, championing both its quality of life and its magnificent wine, and he did not want to see the fabric of the entire community stained by the criminal acts of one man.

Fortunately, there had not been a single reporter at the airport.

They drove back to St. Helena through creeping shadows and dying light, east from Santa Rosa, across the southern end of the Sonoma Valley, into the five-mile-wide Napa Valley, then north in the purple-yellow gloaming. As he followed the hearse, Joshua admired the countryside, something he had done with ever-increasing pleasure for the last thirty-five years. The looming mountain ridges were thick with pine and fir and birch, lighted only along their crests by the westering sun, already out of sight; those ridges were ramparts, Joshua thought, great walls keeping out the corrupting influences of a less civilized world than that which lay within. Below the mountains the rolling hills were studded with black-trunked oaks and covered with long dry grass that, in the daylight, looked as blond and soft as cornsilk; but now in the gathering dusk which leeched away its color, the grass shimmered in dark waves, awash in the ebb and glow of a gentle breeze. Beyond the boundaries of the small quaint towns, endless vineyards sprang up on some of the hills and on nearly all of the rich flatland. In 1880, Robert Louis Stevenson had written of the Napa Valley: “One corner of land after another is tried with one kind of grape after another. This is a failure; that is better; a third is best. So, bit by bit, they grope about for their Clos Vougeot and Lafite . . . and the wine is bottled poetry.” When Stevenson had been honeymooning in the valley and writing
Silverado Squatters
, there had been fewer than four thousand acres in vines. By the coming of the Great Plague—Prohibition—in 1920, there had been ten thousand acres producing viniferous grapes. Today, there were thirty thousand acres bringing forth grapes that were far sweeter and less acidic than those grown anywhere else in the world, as much productive land as in all of the Sonoma Valley, which was twice as large as the Napa. Tucked in among the vineyards were the great wineries and houses, some of them converted from abbeys and monasteries and Spanish-style missions, others built along clean modern lines. Thank God, Joshua thought, only a couple of the newer wineries had opted for the sterile factory look that was an insult to the eye and a blight upon the valley. Most of man’s handiwork either complemented or at least did not intrude upon the truly dazzling natural beauty of his unique and idyllic place. As he followed the hearse toward Forever View, Joshua saw lights come on in the windows of the houses, soft yellow lights that brought a sense of warmth and civilization to the encroaching night. The wine
is
bottled poetry, Joshua thought, and the land from which it comes is God’s greatest work of art; my land; my home; how lucky I am to be here when there are so many less charming, less pleasant places in which I might have wound up.

Like in an aluminum coffin, dead.

Forever View stood a hundred yards back from the two-lane highway, just south of St. Helena. It was a big white colonial-style house with a circular driveway, marked by a tasteful white and green hand-painted sign. As darkness fell, a single white spotlight came on automatically, softly illuminating the sign; and a low row of electric carriage lamps marked the circular driveway with a curve of amber light.

There were no reporters waiting at Forever View either. Joshua was pleased to see that the Napa County press evidently shared his strong aversion to unnecessary bad publicity.

Tannerton drove the hearse around to the rear of the huge white house. He and Olmstead slid the coffin onto a cart and wheeled it inside.

Joshua joined them in the mortician’s workroom.

An effort had been made to give the chamber an airy cheerful ambience. The ceiling was covered with prettily textured acoustical tile. The walls were painted pale blue, the blue of a robin’s egg, the blue of a baby’s blanket, the blue of new life. Tannerton touched a wall switch, and lilting music came from stereo speakers, bright soaring music, nothing somber, nothing heavy.

To Joshua, at least, the place reeked of death in spite of everything that Avril Tannerton had done to make it cosy. The air bore traces of the pungent fumes from embalming fluid, and there was a sweet cover-up aerosol scent of carnations that only reminded him of funeral bouquets. The floor was glossy white ceramic tile, freshly scrubbed, a bit slippery for anyone not wearing rubber-soled shoes; Tannerton and Gary Olmstead were wearing them, but Joshua was not. At first, the tile gave an impression of openness and cleanliness, but then Joshua realized the floor was grimly utilitarian; it had to have a stainproof surface that would resist the corroding effects of spilled blood and bile and other even more noxious substances.