Deadfall nd-15 Page 11

  I watched her do her Marlene Dietrich number with the fresh coffin nail. “I understand he had the Hainelin box on his person,” I said, “and that it was lost when he fell.”

  “Yes. It wasn’t among his collection or anywhere else in the house when I looked for it later. And the pocket of his jacket was torn in the fall, the pocket he’d put the box in.”

  “Is there any chance he set the box down somewhere before he went outside? That it was picked up by one of the guests?”

  “You mean stolen? Good God, no. None of those people is a thief.”

  “Uh-huh. They’re all too civilized, right?”

  “Yes. Exactly.”

  “But some of them are also dealers and collectors,” I said. “And the box was worth a lot of money.”

  She was shaking her head. “No. Theft is out of the question.”

  Not as far as I was concerned, it wasn’t. But I said, “I don’t know much about that type of antique art. Do you mind if I have a look at the rest of your husband’s collection?”

  “I don’t mind, but I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  “I’ve had it unmounted and crated,” she said. “Antiques of that sort mean nothing at all to me; frankly I don’t even find them aesthetic. I intend to sell the entire collection as soon as Kenneth’s will clears probate.”

  “I see. Do you have a buyer yet?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  “It wouldn’t be Eldon Summerhayes, would it?”

  One of her finely penciled eyebrows formed an arch. She said slowly, “You’re quite a detective.”

  “I’ve been one a long time.”

  “Yes, well, Eldon is an old friend. He is also a dealer in that type of art… but then you already know that, I’m sure.”

  “May I ask how much he’s paying you?”

  “Really, that is none of your business.”

  “No, it isn’t. But I’m curious.”

  She ran her eyes over my face again in that same probing way, and then took one last drag off her cigarette and scrubbed out the butt. “It’s no secret,” she said. “Eldon is paying three hundred thousand for the collection.”

  “Cash on the barrelhead?”

  “We’ve arranged a deal,” she said noncommittally. “He has several buyers.”

  “Is Margaret Prine one of them?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know. Why do you ask about her?”

  “Curiosity again. Did you know your husband got quite a few pieces in the collection from Alex Ozimas?”

  The abrupt shift from Summerhayes to Margaret Prine hadn’t phased her; neither did the one from Prine to Ozimas. She said, “Yes, I knew that.”

  “The Hainelin box was one of them,” I said.

  “Was it? He didn’t mention where he’d got it, just that it had been a bargain. Kenneth could be close-mouthed at times.”

  “Also about his business dealings?”

  “Yes.”

  “What sort of business did your husband and Ozimas transact together? Other than antique art, I mean.”

  “Something to do with real estate. I was never particularly interested in the details of Kenneth’s business.”

  Nothing changed in her expression as she spoke, but I sensed she was lying. She knew exactly the sort of quasi-legal dealings her husband had been involved in-and hadn’t given a damn as long as the money kept rolling in.

  I asked her, “How well do you know Ozimas?”

  “Not well at all.”

  “I spoke to him earlier today. He indicated otherwise.”

  “Did he?”

  “He said you propositioned him once. At his penthouse.”

  Her smile, this time, was sardonic. “I’m not surprised,” she said.

  “Not surprised at what?”

  “That he would tell you a thing like that.”

  “Then it isn’t true?”

  “Of course it isn’t true. A man like Alex? Good God, I hope I never have to stoop that low!”

  “Why would he lie, Mrs. Purcell?”

  “Vanity. Ego. He considers himself irresistible to men and women both, no matter what he might say to the contrary. He’s really a disgusting little shit.”

  “Unlike Eldon Summerhayes?” I said.

  The eyebrow formed another arch. “What does that mean? Are you asking if I’ve had an affair with Eldon?”

  “Have you?”

  “If I have it’s none of your concern. My sex life and partners are my business, no one else’s.”

  “Ozimas says differently. So does your stepdaughter.”

  “Oh, I see, you’ve talked to her, too.” The coldness of last night was back in her voice; I had pushed her just a little too far. “Well, my stepdaughter is a selfish, nasty-minded little drug freak, and if you talk to her again you can tell her I said so.” She got to her feet and smoothed her skirt down over her thighs. “End of interview,” she said. “I have nothing more to say to you and I’ve things to do. Please show yourself out.”

  I stood too. “If you don’t mind, Mrs. Purcell, I’d like to take a look at where the accident happened.”

  “Go right ahead,” she said icily. “Stay there as long as you like. Once you leave you won’t be allowed back on my property again. Good morning.”

  I watched her walk out of the room. Funny thing about sexy women like her: their hips hardly sway at all when they’re angry. When she was gone I went to the sliding glass doors and let myself out that way. A short distance beyond the side porch, I could see the path angling away through the woods. I pointed myself in that direction.

  Some Alicia Purcell, I was thinking. I just didn’t know what to make of her. On the surface she had been open and frank with me about everything including her sexual freedom and her greed-a product of the permissive eighties, straightforward and up-front all the way. And yet there was something secretive and calculating about her, a kind of feral cunning that belied her candor and her casual seductiveness. Maybe she was both types of woman at once: one of those complex personalities made up of conflicting elements. I couldn’t shake the feeling that there were things she had concealed from me, but it could be that those things had nothing to do with her husband’s death or the murder of his brother.

  I simply could not get a proper handle on her. And it bothered me, made me uneasy, that I couldn’t.

  Chapter Twelve

  The path leading out to the cliffs was fairly wide, full of jogs, and littered with twigs and pine needles. The fir and cypress trees that hemmed it in grew close together, their branches interlacing high overhead to shut out all but random shafts of sunlight. It was gloomy enough now, during the day; at night it would be a vault of blackness. You’d have to know the path pretty well to want to come out here after dark. And even then-and especially if you’d been drinking heavily-you would have to be a damned fool to do it.

  After eighty or ninety yards the path curved and the trees thinned out, letting me see a patch of barren, sunlit ground and the ocean stretching away beyond. Another dozen yards and I was out of the trees, onto the barren patch. But I didn’t stay on it for long; it was no more than ten yards wide and the edge of the cliff was right there, no guard rail or any other protective barrier, just a more or less sheer drop-off. My stomach did a little flip-flop-I’ve never dealt well with heights-and I scooted sideways to where a gnarled old cypress grew from the cliff wall, bent backward by the force of high winds so that some of its branches extended well inland from the edge. I caught hold of one of the larger branches and hung on.

  The view from up here was impressive, if you liked that sort of high-lonesome perspective. To the south a slender, white-sand beach curved into a jutting peninsula a quarter of a mile away; a couple of houses had been built on high ground along the beach and a third was perched on the tip of the peninsula. To the north there was another, much longer stretch of beach and the Marine Reserve’s tidepools; I could see half a dozen people wandering amo
ng the low rocks, peering at the sea creatures that lived among their ribs and hollows. And down below, a hundred feet from where I stood, there was maybe twenty yards of sand and at the base of the cliff, a jumble of big jagged rocks. The tide was out now; when it was in, as it apparently had been on the night Kenneth took his dive into eternity, the beach would be covered and the surf would boil up over those rocks with considerable force. Even if he’d survived the fall itself, he’d have had nowhere to go. And the sea would have battered him to death within minutes.

  Looking down at the rocks made me shiver involuntarily and take a tighter grip on the cypress branch. I transferred my attention to the cliff wall. It was eroded sandstone and not completely sheer; there were little outcroppings out there, a ledge farther down with one live stunted cypress growing on it and the bony sun-bleached skeletons of a couple of others: a deadfall. If Kenneth had fallen over that way, he might have survived. But he must have fallen instead from the middle of the open patch of ground, straight down onto the rocks.

  You’d have to have a death wish, I thought, to stand out on this cliff on a dark, windy night. Or be so liquored up your judgment was impaired and you were oblivious to the danger. Kenneth’s death could easily enough have been an accident; you couldn’t fault the local authorities for calling it that way.

  There were kelp beds lying offshore and the smell of them was strong on the cool air. Ordinarily I don’t mind the odor of kelp; but now it only added to my feeling of discomfort. I decided I had had enough of the cliffs, thank you. I let go of the branch and backed away to the inner edge of the clearing. Briefly I thought of prowling around a little, checking the ground under the trees. But if there had been anything unusual to find, the San Mateo County cops would already have found it. Or else it had been removed before they were able to search the area. I turned onto the path and made my way back through the trees.

  When I got to the house there was no sign of Alicia Purcell, but over under the side portico the housekeeper was wrestling with the lid on a big metal garbage can. I walked over and put on one of my best smiles for the lady.

  “Help you with that?”

  No answering smile, but the look she gave me wasn’t hostile. “The lid’s stuck. Does that sometimes for no reason I can tell.”

  “Let’s see if I can unstick it.” I gave it a hefty yank and it came off in my hand. “There you go.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Glad to do it.”

  I stood holding the lid until she had emptied the contents of a kitchen garbage pail into the larger container; then I put the lid back on for her.

  “Push it down tight, even if it sticks,” she said. “Neighbor’s dog gets in here sometimes and forages.”

  I pushed the lid down tight and gave it a little twist. It stayed put when I tugged on it.

  “That’s fine,” she said. “I hate dogs.”

  “I’m not too crazy about them myself… Lina, is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Lina, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “Questions? About what?”

  “The night of Mr. Purcell’s accident. Mrs. Purcell said it was all right,” I lied. “Check with her, if you like.”

  She hesitated, looking dubious, and I thought she was going to call my little bluff. But she stood her ground; and pretty soon she said, “Ask your questions, then. But I don’t have much time. I’m a busy woman.”

  “I’m sure you are. I won’t keep you long. That afternoon, before the party, Mr. Purcell had visits from his business associate, Mr. Ozimas, and from his daughter.”

  Lina made a sniffing sound; I took it to mean she didn’t approve of either Ozimas or Melanie. “That’s right,” she said.

  “Were they the only two? Or did he have other callers?”

  “No. No one else came until the party started at seven.”

  “Mr. Ozimas left around five-thirty?”

  “Yes. Just as the girl arrived.”

  “Did he come back that night? While the party was going on?”

  “He did not.”

  “Do you have any idea what he and Mr. Purcell talked about during his visit?”

  “No,” she said, and glowered at me. “Eavesdropping is not part of my duties here.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply that it was.”

  “Well, I don’t know anything about Mr. Purcell’s business, or Mr. Ozimas’s business, or anybody’s business but my own. I have my duties and I see to them, that’s all. I know my place.”

  I smiled to show her I understood and that I had intended no offense. The smile got rid of her glower, but it didn’t do much to melt the layer of frost in her eyes. She had about as much good humor as a hanging judge.

  I said, “What time did Melanie leave?”

  “I don’t remember exactly. I didn’t see her go.”

  “Would you say it was around eight or so?”

  “I told you, I didn’t see her go.”

  “But she wasn’t here at nine-thirty, was she?”

  “No. I had the buffet ready at half past eight. She was gone by then.”

  “What was her mood that evening?”

  “Her mood? Same as always.”

  “And that is?”

  “Sassy,” Lina said, and let me have another sniff. “No respect for her elders, that girl. Mrs. Purcell won’t have her in the house anymore.”

  “They don’t get along, then?”

  “Never have. That girl would try a saint’s patience.”

  “Did she get along with her father?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “When he gave her money?”

  “I don’t know anything about that.”

  “Were she and Mr. Purcell getting along that night?”

  “Seemed to be. He was in a mood to get along with everyone.”

  The way she said that, I took it as a reference to the fact he’d been drinking. I said, “Do you remember what time you last saw him?”

  “About nine-thirty.”

  “Where was this?”

  “In the kitchen. I was fixing another tray of canapes.”

  “Were you alone?”

  “I was.”

  “Did he speak to you?”

  “No. He went right on outside.”

  “How did he seem? Was he steady on his feet?”

  “Well, he’d had quite a bit.” Another sniff. “But the way he stalked out, he was navigating all right.”

  “Why do you say ‘stalked out’?”

  “Because that’s what he did.”

  “You mean he was upset? Angry?”

  “Seemed like.”

  “Any idea why?”

  “No.”

  “Did you mention this to Mrs. Purcell?”

  “Not right away. Not until later.”

  “After he was found, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Said she couldn’t imagine what he’d been upset about. Unless it was just that he’d had too much. Things upset him easy when he took too much.”

  “After he went outside, did anyone else go out through the kitchen?”

  “Not that I saw. But I took the canapes in right afterward.”

  “How long were you gone from the kitchen?”

  “Couple of minutes.”

  “Then you came back.”

  “I did.”

  “Did you stay in the kitchen after that?”

  “Yes. Well, except for half a minute when I went to buzz open the front gate.”

  “Buzz open the-You mean someone else arrived between nine-thirty and ten?”

  “Just the deliveryman.”

  “What deliveryman?”

  “From Cabrillo Market. They stay open until eleven most nights and they deliver. We were almost out of champagne, so I-”

  “How long after Mr. Purcell went outside did this deliveryman arrive?”

  “Well… ten minutes or so.”

  “Did he b
ring the champagne around here, to this door?”

  “He did.”

  “But Mr. Purcell wasn’t anywhere around by then.”

  “I didn’t see him if he was.”

  “Did you tell anyone else about the deliveryman? The police when they were here?”

  “Don’t think so, no. I’d forgotten all about him until just now. I don’t see what a deliveryman-”

  “Do you know his name?”

  “Danny.”

  “His last name?”

  “No. He never said it.”

  “Does he still work for Cabrillo Market?”

  “He did the last time I called for a delivery.”

  “When was that?”

  “Three weeks ago.”

  “Would he be Latin, this Danny? Speaks with a slight accent?”

  “Why… yes. He’s Mexican. Now how did you know-?”

  “Thanks, Lina. Thanks very much.”

  I left her standing there with her mouth open. I didn’t rush around to the front gate, but then I didn’t take my time either. This was the first break I’d had, and it might just be a big one.

  What better candidate for Tom Washburn’s mysterious caller than a Mexican deliveryman nobody had seen except the forgetful Lina?

  What better witness to murder than an “invisible” man?

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Cabrillo Market was a fifth of a mile south on Highway 1, or Cabrillo Highway as it was called through here. It was a cavernous place with an old-fashioned oiled, black-wood floor — a combination market, deli, butcher shop, and liquor store. The woman behind the grocery check-out counter was busy with a line of customers; I didn’t want to incur anybody’s anger by interrupting, so I wandered into the back to the customerless deli counter.

  The guy behind the counter was about my age, lean and sinewy inside one of those white full-length aprons that look like bleached-out overalls. I asked him if Danny was working today and where I might find him.

  “Danny Martinez, you mean?”

  “If he’s the deliveryman here.”

  “Well, he used to be. Not any more.”

  “Oh? As of when?”

  “Two weeks ago. I had to let him go.” There was a note of regret in his voice. “I’m Gene Fuller, I own this place.”