Double Read online

  “Yes, a rock that an old boyfriend picked up and gave to me at the beach. And a piece of coral from a trip to Hawaii.”

  “McCone the romantic.”

  “I guess I am sort of sentimental. Anyway, who the hell wants some dumb cop looking at her piece of coral? I mean, it’s embarrassing.”

  Wolf was grinning.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Once, when I was first seeing Kerry, I fumbled around in her purse, looking for this little bottle opener she carries. And she yelled at me, told me to keep my hands out of there.”

  “Of course. Maybe she hauls rocks around too.”

  Wolf looked thoughtful, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “She lets me rummage in her purse any time I want now,” he said. “That’s a good sign, huh?”

  “Very good.” Before he could bring the conversation back to the subject of my future plans, I opened the door and got out of the car. Leaning in, I said, “Wolf, for someone your age, you really don’t understand women very well.”

  “Yeah, I know,” he said ruefully. “I never have.”

  I thanked him again for helping me out, shut the door, and went to my car. Then I took out Elaine’s address book. I would check the two men called Rich, as well as the one called Rick, on the off chance that Wolf had misheard the name.

  I figured when I found the right one, I’d know him by those funny eyes.

  14 “WOLF”

  It was after seven when I got back to the Casa del Rey. The talk with McCone had cheered me somewhat; now that I had additional confirmation that peculiar things were going on at the hotel, I would call Tom Knowles, tell him about Timmy and his mother, and then quit worrying and try to enjoy what was left of this so-called mini-vacation. I wished McCone would do the same thing. She was too stubborn and headstrong for her own good—and too young to respect the letter of the law as much as she should. But she’d learn eventually. The hard way, if she kept on creating and compounding felonies whenever it suited her.

  There was a different clerk on the desk now, older and not quite as spiffily dressed as the other one. Along with my key, he delivered a couple of messages. One was from Charley Valdene; he wanted me to call him about our movie date tomorrow afternoon. The other one was from somebody I had never heard of, June Paxton. It said: Can we talk about Elaine Picard? I’ll be on the terrace bar for a while. Chubby woman, mid-fifties, dressed in black. Below that was her name and the time the note had been written: 6:15.

  I asked the clerk, “Would you know a woman named June Paxton?”

  “Yes, sir,” he said. “Ms. Paxton is an officer of the Professional Women’s Forum.”

  “What’s that?”

  He gave me an arch look and said patiently, as if explaining something obvious to an idiot, “An organization of professional women. They meet here regularly.”

  “What sort of profession is Ms. Paxton in?”

  “She is a certified public accountant, I believe.”

  “Was she a friend of Elaine Picard’s?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Too bad about Ms. Picard, isn’t it?”

  A pained look this time, but it was more professional than genuine. “A terrible accident,” he said in a voice like a bad actor playing an undertaker. “Terrible.”

  “Yeah. All that bad publicity.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Never mind.”

  I left him looking puzzled and went through the Cantina Sin Nombre and out onto the terrace bar. It was moderately crowded with conventioneers, Japanese tourists, and other people who liked fresh air, ocean views, and sunsets. Especially sunsets. There was an elegant one brewing out over the Pacific—dark reds, oranges, a little shading of lemon yellow, and some cloud wisps that were blackening at the edges like pieces of paper that had just been set afire.

  June Paxton wasn’t hard to find. She was sitting by herself off to one side, and she was the only person there who was wearing mourning black. Chubby was a good word to describe her; another was homely, and a third was sad. At some other time, she might have resembled a graying Betty Boop. Now, hunched over something in a pineapple shell with two straws sticking out of it, she looked exactly like what she was: somebody who had just lost a close friend.

  I stopped at her table and said, “Ms. Paxton?” and she looked up at me out of blue eyes that had a glazed sheen, like pottery fresh from baking in a kiln. Whatever the pineapple-shell concoction was, she’d had more than one of them. I told her who I was, and she nodded bleakly and said, “Sit down,” and then proceeded to study me while I got myself into the chair across from her.

  Pretty soon she said, “You don’t know who I am, I guess. I mean, we’ve never met. I’d remember you if we had.”

  “Would you?”

  “Oh, sure. Big men are my weakness. Always have been.”

  “Well, the desk clerk told me who you are.”

  “Him,” she said. “He’s a faggot. Not that I’ve got anything against faggots, you understand, unless they’re obnoxious like that one. One of Elaine’s and my best friends is bisexual.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Karyn Sugarman. You know Karyn?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  A waiter came by and I told him I’d have a Miller Lite. June Paxton ordered another of the pineapple things; then she rummaged around in a fat black purse and got out some cigarettes and lit one awkwardly. Out over the ocean, the sunset colors had begun to shift and blend together, and the cloud wisps were darker at the edges and backlit as if by flames.

  “I quit smoking four years ago,” she said. “Not a single goddamn coffin nail until this afternoon. As soon as I heard ... I wanted a cigarette. Isn’t that funny? One of your best friends dies and all of a sudden you start craving nicotine.”

  I didn’t say anything. What can you say?

  She said, “I’m getting drunk. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Stop calling me ma‘am. Do I look like a ma’am? My name is June.” She blew smoke toward the beach, and her lower lip quivered, and I thought for a moment she might burst into tears. But she held her control and said, “Damn,” in an empty little voice. Then she said, “You saw it happen. That’s what they said on the TV newscast I heard.”

  “I saw it. I wish I hadn’t.”

  “They said it was an apparent accident. ‘Apparent.’ What’s that mean? Was it an accident or wasn’t it? That’s why I want to talk to you.”

  “Do you think it might have been something else?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I wasn’t there, I didn’t see it happen. Was it an accident?”

  “It might have been. But the way she came over the railing ... well, she could have jumped. She could even have been pushed.”

  “Damn,” June Paxton said in that same empty little voice. She scrubbed out her cigarette in a clamshell ashtray and immediately lit another. “She killed herself. That’s what happened, she threw herself out of that tower.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “She wasn’t herself lately. Just wasn’t the same.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Moody. Unhappy. And she hadn’t been sleeping—you can tell when a person’s not sleeping. Kept to herself, wouldn’t socialize much. She was always private, you know, never said much about her personal life, but lately ... if anyone asked her a personal question she’d just close up.”

  “How long had this been going on?”

  “Weeks. A long time.”

  “Any idea what was bothering her?”

  “A man, I suppose. Isn’t it always a man?”

  “Not always. Sometimes it’s other things—like a job.”

  “No, not with Elaine. She liked her job.”

  “She got along with Lloyd Beddoes, then?”

  “More or less. He’s a hunk, but ... who knows? I’ve never seen him with a woman. Maybe he’s a faggot too.”

  “Did she ge
t along with Victor Ibarcena?”

  “Definitely a faggot, that one. And a twerp. ‘Yes, sir, no, sir.’ A twerpy faggot. Whole place is probably full of ’em.”

  “So there was no trouble between Elaine and either Beddoes or Ibarcena?”

  “Doesn’t matter, does it? She killed herself.”

  “And you think it might have been over a man.”

  “Sure. Always a damned man.”

  “Any particular man?”

  June Paxton frowned, and you could see her thinking it over. The waiter came back with my Miller Lite and another of the pineapple things for her. I tried to pay him, but she wouldn’t have any of it; she shoved a twenty-dollar bill at the waiter and shooed him away. Then she took a slug of her drink, shuddered, and went after her cigarette again.

  “Rich, maybe,” she said. “God knows why.”

  “Rich who?”

  “Don’t know his last name. But I don’t like him.”

  “Boyfriend of Elaine’s?”

  “What else? She wouldn’t talk about him.”

  “Young guy, wavy hair, odd blue eyes?”

  “That’s him. You know him?”

  “I met him yesterday,” I said. “Why wouldn’t Elaine talk about him?”

  She shrugged. “Ashamed because he was so much younger than her, I suppose. Twenty years’ difference in their ages.”

  “How long had she been seeing him?”

  Another shrug. “I only saw them together once.”

  “Where was that?”

  “Borrego Springs. Casa del Zorro, six weeks ago.” I gave her a blank look and she said, “Borrego Springs is a town out in the desert. Casa del Zorro’s their fanciest spa. Lady friend and I went out there for the weekend, ran into Elaine and Rich having dinner.”

  “Did you talk to them?”

  “You bet. I went right up and said hello. Elaine was embarrassed—she didn’t say ten words to me. Him neither. Just sat there looking like a fox in the henhouse.”

  “You said you didn’t like him. Why?”

  “His eyes. Kind that made you feel crawly.”

  “Did Elaine ever tell you anything about him?”

  “No. I asked her later, but she wouldn’t talk. As much as told me to mind my own business.”

  “Is there anybody else she might have confided in?”

  “Well, Karyn—Karyn Sugarman. But if she did, Karyn wouldn’t say. So it had to be professionally.”

  “Professionally?”

  “Karyn’s a shrink. Elaine did the couch trip a few times. Don’t know why. Nobody tells me anything anymore.”

  “So you don’t have any idea what this Rich does for a living?”

  “Probably a damned gigolo. God, that’s the kind if I ever saw one—kind makes a woman do crazy things. He’d be the one she’d kill herself over. Not somebody like Henry.”

  “Who would Henry be?”

  “Henry Nyland. Been after her to marry him for months.”

  Henry Nyland. That was the name of the guy Charley Valdene and I had had the brief run-in with in the parking lot Friday night. I said, “Is he the politician, the one running in the special election for city councilman?”

  She nodded. “Retired admiral with plenty of money, inherited it from his wife when she died five years ago. Good-looking too. Not a bad catch, but Elaine didn’t see it that way.”

  “How come?”

  “Who knows? Didn’t love him, I guess.”

  “Was Nyland upset by her rejection?”

  She said “Who knows?” again, and then belted down some more of her pineapple drink. She squinted at me over the straw, using it like a gunsight. “I guess you’re married, huh?” she asked.

  “Uh, no. No, I’m not.”

  “Got a lady friend, though?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sure. Figures. I’m too fat anyway. Too fat and too old and too drunk.”

  Uh-oh, I thought, she’s going to get sloppy and maudlin. But she wasn’t that kind at all. She pushed the drink away, saying, “No more for me. Any more and I’ll fall on my face. Or wrap my car around a pole somewhere. One death today’s enough.” She squinted at me again. “Thanks for talking to me. I wish it’d been an accident.”

  “So do I, June.”

  She put the cigarettes into her purse and hoisted herself out of her chair. She was a little unsteady, but it didn’t look as though she were in any danger of falling over. I said, “You want me to walk you out?” and she said, “No, I’m okay. Just need to be alone for a while. Walk on the beach’ll sober me up.” She patted my hand, gave me a melancholy smile, and went away across the terrace to a gate in the side wall, moving carefully and with dignity.

  I stayed where I was, watching her waddle through the white sand toward the water. The angle of her passage made it look as if she were walking off into that elegant sunset—walking straight into the dying fire of the sun.

  15 McCONE

  The first person in Elaine’s address book I tried to call was her lawyer, Alan Thorburn. I reached an answering service, and the operator told me Mr. Thorburn was out of town until Monday morning. Was there any way I could reach him? I asked. Well, he was out on his boat, but due to call in sometime this evening, or perhaps tomorrow.... I left my name and my parents’ number, hoping Counselor Thorburn would indeed check with his service.

  Then I examined the addresses for Rich Woodall, Rich James, and the man listed only as Rick. Rich James’s was the closest to the shopping area near Elaine’s house where my phone booth was located, but his telephone had been disconnected. I decided to drive over and see if he was home.

  The address turned out to be a decaying apartment house right on Imperial Beach, south of the Silver Strand. Built in the garish architecture of the fifties, it had a gigantic pink-and-turquoise mosaic peacock on the end wall by the parking area. A number of the tiles had fallen away, including those that formed the bird’s left eye, so he appeared to be a molting old peacock with a cataract.

  I left my car in the lot and went around to the beach side of the building. Although it was late—close to seven o’clock—the heat had not let up and the sand was still crowded. The sun was low, and flame-like color spread across the water, reducing the people who strolled in the surf to purple-gray silhouettes. Here and there a barbecue fire sent smoke skyward, and a few diehard athletes tossed Frisbees and volleyballs around.

  The apartment building was two-tiered, with iron balconies over which a number of beach towels were draped. I went up a concrete stairway at one end and along the top floor, avoiding a tricycle, a surf board, and an assortment of sand toys, to the apartment number that had been noted in Elaine’s book. Already I’d begun to doubt that Rich James was the man Wolf had seen with my friend in the Cantina Sin Nombre. This place had a seedy air that didn’t match the sharp dresser he’d described.

  The door to the apartment stood open, and from inside I could hear the dull beat of rock music. I pounded on the doorframe and a few seconds later, a young man with a fluffy blond beard appeared. He wore cutoff jeans and had a dishtowel tucked into his belt.

  “I’m looking for Rich James,” I said.

  “Sure. Hi. That’s me.”

  Disappointed, I said, “I’m Sharon McCone, a friend of Elaine Picard’s —”

  “Oh, yeah, Elaine. Look, can you come in?” Without waiting for my answer he turned and disappeared into the gloom beyond the door.

  I followed him into a sparsely furnished living room. The drapes were pulled against the sunset’s glare and two little boys, around six or seven, sat on a lumpy rattan couch watching a TV program whose sound competed with the stereo. Newspapers were scattered on the threadbare carpeting, and pop and beer cans sat on every available surface. When the little boys saw me, they stared for a moment, then exchanged a solemn, knowing look. One of them said, “Daddy, we’re hungry.”

  “Supper’s coming up any minute now. It’s just got to heat.” To me, he added, “Come on out to the kit
chen. I’m cooking. Weekend father, you know.”

  I followed him into the kitchen, a tiny, airless room at the rear of the apartment, on the side that faced the street. He picked up a can and dumped its contents into a pot on the stove. “Franco-American spaghetti,” he said, holding up the can. “It’s not much, but I never learned to cook. Mama didn’t tell me it would be like this.”

  I glanced around, noting the dirty dishes and the trash that overflowed the wastebasket. A pizza box sat on the counter, full of gnawed crusts. Mama hadn’t taught him to clean up, either. Mentally I shuddered, thinking of my brother John. Would it be like this when he got his own place and took the kids on weekends? What if, by some strange quirk, he managed to get permanent custody of them? Would they live like this all the time?

  “So you’re a friend of Elaine’s?” Rich James asked, extending a beer can toward me.

  “Yes.” I took the can, eyeing it suspiciously and wishing there were a polite way of wiping off its top before drinking from it.

  “What’s wrong this time—the water heater?”

  “Huh?”

  “Well, the last time she called, it was on the fritz. I replaced the pressure valve, but you never know with these cheapo things they’re installing these days.”

  I frowned, beginning to understand.

  “She did send you about something for me to fix around the house, didn’t she? I told her I’d had the phone taken out.” He smiled disarmingly. “I’m a compulsive caller, especially when I’ve had a few. And everybody I want to call seems to be long-distance. So I had the thing disconnected.”

  “You’re Elaine’s handyman,” I said.

  “Yeah.” Now it was his turn to frown. “Who’d you think I was?”

  “I take it you haven’t seen the news.”

  “Nope. The kids like to watch reruns of Cannon and Quincy on Saturday. That station doesn’t have news until seven. What about it?”

  “Elaine’s dead. She fell from one of the towers at the Casa del Rey this morning.”

  His face went slack with surprise. “Jesus, that’s terrible!”

  “Yes, it is. I’m locating her friends, trying to find one in particular, named Rich. Your name was in her address book.”