Endgame--A Nameless Detective Novel Page 5

  There wasn’t much to see. Native-stone fireplace, the broad hearth raised some six inches above a not quite even plank floor covered here and there by colored rag rugs. Long, high-backed couch facing the fireplace, a few other pieces of furniture. Knotty pine–paneled walls adorned with the kind of standard hunting and fishing prints favored by non-sportsmen. Kitchenette and dining nook at the rear, a short hallway separating them from bedroom and bathroom on the other side.

  One of the rag rugs had been rolled up next to the fireplace. An effort had been made to sweep up the glass shards under the window, but small missed fragments glittered in the lamplight. Runyon glanced at the front door. Iron brackets were mounted on either side of it; the wooden crossbar, a plain redwood two-by-four, was propped against the wall below one of them.

  Patricia Dennison said, “Where did you find him? In this room?”

  Rittenhouse took off his hat. The band evidently irritated the patch of eczema; it looked redder and he rubbed at it. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Where?”

  “In front of the fireplace. He evidently slipped on the rug there, fell, and hit his head against the raised edge of the hearth.” She started over there, and Rittenhouse said quickly, “I wouldn’t look too closely, Mrs. Dennison—”

  She ignored him, bending to peer along the stones. Runyon could see visible bloodstains where her husband had struck his head, but if she noticed them, and she must have, she didn’t react. After a few seconds she straightened, eye-searched the room again.

  “The bedroom?”

  “Second door down the hall. I’m afraid it’s still … well, it hasn’t been tidied up.”

  “I don’t care about that.”

  She went into the hallway, opened the bedroom door, and left it open after stepping through. Runyon didn’t follow; neither did Rittenhouse.

  “Mind if I ask how long Mr. Dennison had been dead before the body was discovered?” Runyon asked.

  “Dr. Wolfe, our de facto coroner, estimates about twelve hours.”

  “Who found the body?”

  “Next-door neighbor, the cabin we passed coming here. Year-round resident named Joe Meeker.”

  “Making a business or social call?”

  “Business, I guess you’d say. Trying to drum it up. Joe’s a handyman. Just back from a hunting trip and noticed some loose shingles on the roof, and when he saw Dennison’s car he thought it might belong to the owner, Hansen. Knocked on the door, didn’t get an answer, went around to the side, and saw the body when he looked through the window. He tried to get in and, when he couldn’t, drove to the station and notified me right away.”

  “So he didn’t know Dennison at all.”

  “Never met him.”

  “Did anyone else in Eagle Lake have any contact with him?”

  “Just the glancing kind.”

  The answer struck Runyon as evasive. “He was here four days. He didn’t spend all his time alone here, did he?”

  “Went into the village to eat, buy groceries and liquor. Preferred his own company, I guess.” Evasive again.

  Patricia Dennison came out of the bedroom. She might have been a walking manikin—blank expression, nothing moving in her face, her eyes unblinking. “I’m ready to go now,” she said.

  They went out onto the porch and Rittenhouse relocked the door. On the way to the cruiser he said to her, “Excuse me for asking this, Mrs. Dennison, but … was it really worth it? Coming out here, looking around the cabin?”

  Some kind of bird cut loose with a raucous cry from one of the trees. It was the only answer Rittenhouse got.

  * * *

  Back in the village, the deputy drove them to a newish hillside building bearing a sign that identified it as Eagle Lake Clinic. They weren’t there long, either. Patricia Dennison formally identified her husband’s body with one quick, dispassionate look and a nod and spent less than ten minutes making the arrangements with Dr. Wolfe for transportation of the remains to San Francisco.

  At the substation Rittenhouse turned over an envelope containing Philip Dennison’s personal effects, provided the name and location of the garage where his Caddy had been stored. His suitcase and other belongings were locked in the trunk, the deputy said. He asked Mrs. Dennison if she intended to spend the night in Eagle Lake or head back home this afternoon. It was late and she was too tired to start driving now, she said, she’d stay over and leave in the morning. He recommended the largest of the inns, the Eagle Lake Lodge, as having the most comfortable accommodations.

  There were some papers to sign, and that was the end of it as far as Rittenhouse was concerned. Mrs. Dennison’s behavior seemed to have disconcerted him; his relief that their business was finished was almost palpable. It wasn’t finished, but he didn’t know that yet.

  Outside, as she and Runyon got into the Ford, she said in that abrupt way of hers, “Philip had a woman in that cabin, all right.”

  “Did you find something in the bedroom?”

  “No.”

  “Then how can you be sure?”

  “I could smell her in the bedroom, smell the sex.”

  After at least three days and nights? Runyon doubted that that was possible, unless she’d sniffed at the bedsheets. For all he knew that was what she’d done—she’d been alone in the bedroom long enough. In any event, he didn’t argue with her.

  “Before we go to the lodge,” he said, “do I have permission to look through your husband’s effects?”

  She handed him the envelope without comment. Expensive Bulova Accutron wristwatch, Ray-Ban aviator sunglasses in a leather case, tooled leather wallet, keys, cell phone, pocketknife and nail clippers on a chain, some small change. The wallet, as he’d expected, contained nothing of interest: driver’s license, half a dozen credit cards, sixty-three dollars in cash, a studio portrait of Mrs. Dennison. He put the wallet back into the envelope, removed the cell phone.

  “I’d like to keep this for a while,” he said, “return it to you later.”

  “You won’t find the woman that easily. Philip wouldn’t have her number in his address book—he was too careful for that. And even if he did and you got hold of her, how would you know she was the one? She’d just deny it.”

  “Suppose you let me worry about that. All right to hang on to the phone?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  The chalet-style lodge was larger than it looked from a distance, two storied, with two elongated wings and landscaped grounds that included a large pond probably used for skating in the winter. Inside, the lobby and what Runyon could see of a big bar lounge appeared to be undergoing a transition from winter to summer hotel. A handful of staff members were in the process of altering decorations and moving furniture around. There were plenty of rooms available; Runyon and Mrs. Dennison each took one on the ground floor, but in different wings.

  When they finished checking in, she asked him, “What are you going to do now?”

  “The job you asked me to do, if I can.”

  She didn’t ask him how he intended to proceed. All she said was, “Find her, whoever she is. Just find her.”

  * * *

  Deputy Rittenhouse was away from the substation again. He’d gone to the Lakefront Café just down the road, the dispatcher said. Runyon found him sitting alone in a blue leatherette booth, hunched over a piece of apple pie and a cup of coffee.

  “Late lunch, Deputy?”

  “That’s right. Eat when you can in my work.”

  “Mine, too. Mind if I join you?”

  Rittenhouse shrugged, made a sit-down gesture. Then, when Runyon slid in across from him, “Mrs. Dennison get settled all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about you? You staying over, too?”

  “At least for tonight.”

  “Why ‘at least’?”

  “I don’t know yet how long it’ll take to do the rest of my job.”

  “And just what would the rest of your job be?”

  “Finding ou
t why Philip Dennison came to Eagle Lake.”

  Rittenhouse started to say something, changed his mind, and forked a piece of pie into his mouth. A waitress came up while he was chewing—young, blond, chesty, with a bruise under one eye that a thick covering of makeup failed to hide. Runyon ordered a grilled-cheese sandwich and hot tea. One of the deputy’s eyebrows lifted at the tea order, but he made no comment.

  Runyon said, “I think you might be able to help me. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I got the impression you weren’t completely forthcoming with Mrs. Dennison.”

  That got him a hard look, but it smoothed off after three or four beats. “Meaning what, exactly?”

  “That maybe you have some idea of why her husband was here and wanted to spare her feelings.”

  The chief deputy finished his pie, pushed the plate away before he answered. “And you want me to tell you what that might be.”

  “I’m pretty good at what I do—I’ll find it out anyway. But I’d rather hear it from you.”

  “And then go straight to Mrs. Dennison and tell her.”

  “Not necessarily. Depends on the information.”

  “Well, Christ. She really wants to know, even though it’s going to hurt her?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right, then,” Rittenhouse said. “Dennison came here for a rendezvous with another woman. No surprise, huh?”

  “No surprise. Who is she?”

  “I don’t know. Nobody knows. She didn’t show up, at least not at the arranged time. Dennison was pretty pissed off. Did a fair amount of drinking at Eagle Lake Lodge and complained to the bartender about it.”

  “Not at the arranged time, you said. She came later?”

  “May have. I can’t say for sure.”

  “What makes you think she might have?”

  Rittenhouse sighed. “Dennison wasn’t alone at the cabin the entire time. Not unless he was into drunken self-gratification.”

  “That needs explaining.”

  “There were a couple of used condoms in the wastebasket in the bathroom. We bagged them up with the broken window glass and the rest of the trash. Nothing in any of that to point to the woman’s identity.” He started to rub his itchy scalp, stopped himself, and sighed again instead. “Good thing we did the bagging, or I wouldn’t have let his wife go poking around the cabin like she wanted to.”

  He shouldn’t have anyway. She hadn’t needed to see used condoms to tell that some kind of sexual activity had gone on there.

  “Anyhow,” Rittenhouse said, “if the woman did show up, she was gone by the time Dennison slipped on that rug and bashed his head in. Maybe they had a fight and she walked out on him and that’s why he got drunk. Anyhow, there wasn’t anything at the cabin or in his vehicle to identify her.”

  Runyon’s grilled cheese and tea arrived. Lipton’s, not his favorite brand, but at least it was hot. He let the bag steep.

  “Did Dennison say anything to the bartender at the inn about why she didn’t show as arranged?” he asked.

  “No. Just cursed women for being fickle and unpredictable.”

  “Give out any information about her, where she lived, how he knew her?”

  “No.” Rittenhouse paused and then said, “You might as well know the rest of it. This wasn’t the first time Dennison’s Sacramento buddy, Hansen, let him use the cabin.”

  “How many other times?”

  “Three or four, according to Hansen. He said Dennison told him he was divorced, so he didn’t see anything wrong in handing over the key.”

  Three or four. Patricia Dennison had alluded to two previous assignations. Could be there were others she didn’t know about. “Different women or the same one? Hansen have any idea?”

  “Not that he’d admit to.”

  “I’d like to talk to him. In person.”

  “And you want me to give you his phone number so you can set up a meeting.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you would. I’m a reputable investigator, Deputy. Check me out first if you like.”

  “I’ve already done that. After we got back to the substation.”

  Good law officer, Rittenhouse. Thorough. Good man, too; not every cop, small town or large city, cared enough to try to protect the feelings of a woman with a cheating husband.

  “So can I have Hansen’s phone number?”

  “I’ll give it to you when we’re done here.”

  “And the name of the bartender at the lodge Dennison blabbed to?”

  “Sam Granger. Works the four-till-closing shift.”

  “Okay if I use your name with him?”

  “Go ahead.” Rittenhouse watched Runyon take a bite of his grilled cheese, wash it down with a sip of tea. “Listen,” he said then. “Are you going to tell your client what we just talked about? The condoms and the rest of it?”

  “Not unless I find out who her husband came here to meet. That’s her primary interest, the woman’s name.”

  “She knows he was cheating on her, then?”

  “She knows. This wasn’t the first time.”

  “Figures. Then why is she so eager to know this woman’s name?”

  Runyon told him why.

  “I don’t know,” Rittenhouse said, “that sounds kind of iffy to me. Borderline obsessive. You don’t suppose she’s got some kind of payback idea in her head?”

  “Probably not the violent kind, but I don’t know her well enough to be sure. I told her the only way I’d give her the woman’s name was if I’m there when they meet.”

  “That’s no guarantee she won’t try something later.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Runyon admitted. “But at least it’d give me a better handle on her motives.”

  “Maybe you ought not to tell her at all. Or, better yet, drop your investigation completely.”

  “I can’t do that without cause. Besides, as determined as she is, she’d just hire somebody else.”

  “Well, it’s your call. But if anything bad does go down, it’ll be on your conscience.”

  “Yeah,” Runyon said, “I know it.”

  6

  Fran Woodward was a self-employed designer of jewelry. Earrings, necklaces, bracelets made of gold, silver, and copper inset with beads and such and semiprecious gemstones. Had begun doing it in college at UC Berkeley and become so successful that her creations were featured in a variety of galleries and shops throughout the Bay Area, as well as sold at craft fairs and online through her website. She owned a house that doubled as her studio in Berkeley, not far from the university, and could be found there most days, including weekends. All of this courtesy of James Cahill and Tamara, who called with some preliminary background info as I was leaving Lafayette.

  I probably should have gone to see Lieutenant Frank Kowalski, notify him that I had been hired by Cahill, but there was no urgency in that. Besides which, it was late afternoon by then and downtown Berkeley was more or less on my way back to San Francisco. I considered calling ahead to make sure Fran Woodward was at her studio, but it’s always better not to give a potentially uncooperative individual advance notice. For all I knew, Kendra Nesbitt had contacted the designer after I left and warned her about me. Cahill had told me she was “mostly sympathetic” to him, but that didn’t mean she would be receptive to an interview. It was worth the detour into Berkeley to find out if she was home and willing to talk.

  Her address was less than three blocks off Telegraph Avenue, Berkeley’s busiest and most multifarious street. At just about any hour except the middle of the night you’ll find it jammed with humanity. Most are college students, but as in the Haight in San Francisco, there are also numerous street vendors dispensing all sorts of crafts, shoppers at the few remaining bookstores and other small businesses, curious and adventuresome tourists, homeless people pushing carts or curled up on the sidewalks, panhandlers, potheads, meth heads, cokeheads, and a transient criminal element. The good, the bad, the strange, the lost. There is a lot of energy on Telegraph, positive and neg
ative. If you’re smart, you walk the street with a cautious eye even in broad daylight.

  Fran Woodward’s home was an old tan-colored two-story frame job set back from the street, in good condition though it could use a fresh coat of paint. A cracked path led in to a narrow porch, at the foot of which was a discreet sign that had the word Studio and an arrow pointing to the left. I followed a continuation of the path around on that side, to a door with a window set next to it. The door was of heavy reinforced metal with a one-way glass peephole, and the window, blinded on the inside, had a set of security bars across it. Two more windows on the floor above were also barred. Security-conscious, Ms. Woodward, a wise choice for a woman engaged in a profitable business and living alone at least part of the time. Fran Woodward had never married, according to Tamara’s research, instead maintaining a revolving-door relationship with a series of male companions.

  Behind the door, some sort of electric tool was making a grinding noise. I waited until it stopped, then rattled my knuckles on the metal, there being no bell to push. Pretty soon I heard steps inside, but I got a long scrutiny through the peephole before a woman’s voice, slightly annoyed, said, “Yes, what is it?”

  “Ms. Woodward?”

  “What do you want? I’m busy.”

  I told her my name and profession, holding my open license case up in front of the peephole to prove it. “I’d like to talk to you about Alice Cahill. I won’t take up much of your time.”

  Six-beat. “Who are you working for?”

  “James Cahill.”

  There was a little more silence; then a chain rattled and a dead bolt slid out of its casing and the door opened. Mrs. Cappicotti had described Fran Woodward as “kind of weird,” dressing “like some sort of New Age hippie” and dyeing her hair odd colors. Right on. Her hair, cut fairly short, was shoe-polish black with lavender streaks, she wore a fringed orange tunic over a pair of patched jeans, she was barefoot, and she fairly bristled with jewelry. Earrings, a nose ring, bracelets, rings of various types and sizes on eight of her fingers and four of her toes. A walking advertisement for her craft. In one hand she held a small soldering iron.