C is for Corpse (21 page)

“Blond wispy hair? Maybe forty-five?”

“I never saw her up close so I don't know about her
age, but the hair sounds right. She drives this Mercedes I see around now and then. Dark green with a beige interior. Looks like a 'fifty-five or 'fifty-six, but it's in great shape.”

I glanced through the address book again. Sufi's address and telephone number were listed under the D's.

Had he been having an affair with
her
? It seemed so unlikely. Bobby had been twenty-three years old and, as Gus said, a good-looking kid. Carrie St. Cloud had mentioned a blackmailing scheme, but if Sufi was being blackmailed by someone, why would she turn to him for help? Surely it wasn't a matter of her blackmailing
him
. Whatever it was, it gave me a lead and I was grateful for that. I tucked the book in my handbag and looked up. Gus was watching me with amusement.

“God, you should see your face. I could really watch the old wheels turn,” he said.

“Things are beginning to happen and I like that,” I said. “Listen, this has been a big help. I don't know what it means yet, but believe me, I'll figure it out.”

“I hope so. I'm just sorry I didn't speak up when you asked. If there's anything else I can do, just let me know.”

“Thanks,” I said. I shifted the cat off my lap and got up, shaking hands with him.

I went out to my car, brushing at my jeans, picking cat hair off my lip. It was now ten o'clock at night and I should have headed home, but I was feeling wired. The episode at Moza's and the sudden appearance of Bobby's address book were acting on me like a stimulant.
I wanted to talk to Sufi. Maybe I'd stop by her place. If she was up, we could have a little chat. She'd tried once to steer me away from this investigation and I wondered now what that was about.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I pulled into the shadows across the street from Sufi's place on Haughland Road in the heart of Santa Teresa. For the most part, the houses I had passed were two-story frame-and-stone on large lots complete with junipers and oaks. Many lawns sported the ubiquitous California crop of alarm-company signs, warning of silent surveillance and armed patrols.

Sufi's yard was darkened by the interlacing tree branches overhead, the property stretching back in a tangle of shrubs and surrounded by a picket fence with wide pales. The house was done in a dark shingle siding, possibly a muted brown or green, though it was hard to tell which at this hour of the night. The side porch was narrow and deeply recessed with no exterior light visible. A dark green Mercedes was parked in the drive to the left.

It was a quiet neighborhood. The sidewalks were deserted and there was no traffic. I got out of my car and crossed to the front of the house. Up close, I could see that the place was massive, the kind being converted
now to bed-and-breakfast establishments with odd names: The Gull and Satchel, The Blue Tern, The Quackery. They're all over town these days: renovated Victorian mansions impossibly quaint, where for ninety bucks a night, you can sleep in a bed with a fake brass frame and struggle, the next morning, with a freshly baked croissant that will drop pastry flakes in your lap like dandruff.

From the look of it, Sufi's was still a single-family dwelling, but it had a shabby air. Maybe, like many single women her age, she'd reached that point where the absence of a man translates out to dripping faucets and rain gutters in need of repair. A single woman my age would haul out a crescent wrench or shinny up the down spout, feeling that odd joyousness that comes with self-sufficiency. Sufi had let her property decline to a state of lingering disrepair and it made me wonder what she did with her salary. I thought surgical nurses made good money.

At the rear of the house, there was a glass-enclosed porch, the windows flickering with the blue/gray reflections of a television set. I fumbled my way up several crumbling concrete steps and tapped on the door. After a moment, the porch light came on and Sufi looked through the curtain.

“Hi, it's me,” I said. “Can I talk to you?”

She leaned closer to the glass, peering around, apparently checking to see whether I was accompanied by roving bands of thugs.

She opened the door in her robe and slippers, clutching the lapels together at her throat, one arm circling
her waist. “Oh my God, you scared me to death,” she said. “What are you doing here at this hour? Is something wrong?”

“Not at all. Sorry to alarm you. I was in the neighborhood and I needed to talk to you. Can I come in?”

“I was on my way to bed.”

“We can talk out here on the porch, then.”

She gave me a grudging look, stepping back reluctantly so I could enter. She was half a head shorter than I and her blond hair was so thin, I could see stretches of scalp underneath. I hadn't pegged her as the type who'd lounge around in a slinky peach satin wrapper and matching mules with dandelion fuzz across the instep. This was hotsy-totsy stuff. I wanted to say, “Hubba-hubba” but I was afraid she'd take offense.

Once inside, I took a quick mental picture and stored it away for future assessment. The room was cluttered, disorganized, and probably unclean judging from the used dishes piled here and there, the dead flowers in a vase, and the wastebasket spilling trash out onto the floor. The water in the bottom of the vase was cloudy with bacteria and probably smelled like the last stages of some disease. There was a crumpled cellophane packet on the arm of the easy chair and I saw that she'd been sneaking Ding Dongs. A
Reader's Digest
condensed book was open facedown on the ottoman. The place smelled like pepperoni pizza, some of which I spied sitting in a box on top of the television set. The heat from the circuitry was keeping it warm, the scent of oregano and mozzarella cheese
mingling with the odor of hot cardboard. God, I thought, when did I last eat?

“You live alone?” I asked.

She looked at me as if I were casing the joint. “What of it?”

“I've been assuming you were single. I just realized no one had ever really said as much.”

“It's very late to be doing a survey,” she said tartly. “What did you want?”

I find it so liberating when other people are rude. It makes me feel mild and lazy and mean. I smiled at her. “I found Bobby's address book.”

“Why tell me?”

“I was curious about your relationship with him.”

“I didn't have a relationship with him.”

“That's not what I hear.”

“Well, you heard wrong. Of course I
knew
him. He was Glen's only child and she and I are best friends and have been for years. Aside from that, Bobby and I didn't have that much to say to one another.”

“Why'd you need to meet him down at the beach, then?”

“I never ‘met' Bobby at the beach,” she snapped.

“Somebody saw you with him on more than one occasion.”

She hesitated. “Maybe I ran into him once or twice. What's wrong with that? I used to see him at the hospital, too.”

“I wondered what you talked about, that's all.”

“I'm sure we talked about lots of things,” she said. I
could see her shifting gears, trying another tack. Some of the huffiness dropped away. She'd apparently decided to roll out the charm. “God, I don't know what's the matter with me. I'm sorry if I sounded rude. As long as you're here, you might as well sit down. I have wine chilled if you want some.”

“I'd like that. Thanks.”

She left the room, probably grateful for the chance to stall while she figured out how to cover her tracks. For my part, I was delighted with the opportunity to nose around. I crossed in haste to the easy chair, checking the table beside it. The top was littered with things I didn't want to touch. I eased the drawer open. The interior looked like a catchall for household fallout. Batteries, candles, an extension cord, receipts, rubber bands, packets of matches, two buttons, a sewing kit, pencils, junk mail, a dinner fork, a stapler gun—all of it surrounded by accumulated grit. I ran a hand down along the chair cushion and came up with a nickel, which I left there. I heard the chirp of a wine cork in the kitchen and the tinkle of wineglasses as she removed them from a cabinet. The glass rims began to clink together as she moved back toward the TV room. I abandoned my search and perched myself casually on the arm of the couch.

I was trying to think of something nice to say about her house, but I was secretly worried about my tetanus shots being out of date. This was the kind of place if you had to use the john, you'd want to put paper down on the seat. “Quite a house,” I remarked.

Sufi made a face. “The cleaning lady comes tomorrow,”
she said. “Not that she does much. She worked for my parents for years and I don't have the heart to let her go.”

“Do they live with you?”

She shook her head. “Dead. Cancer.”

“Both of them?”

“That's the way it goes,” she said with a shrug.

So much for family sentiment.

She poured a glass of wine and handed it to me. I could tell from the label, it was the same ultra-crummy stuff I drank before I got into the boxed brand with the picture of a phony-looking vineyard on the front. Clearly, neither of us had the budget or the palate for anything decent.

She settled into the easy chair, wineglass in hand. The change in her manner was conspicuous. She must have come up with a good one while she was gone.

She took a sip of wine, staring at me over the rim of her glass. “Have you talked to Derek lately?” she asked.

“He stopped by my office this afternoon.”

“He moved out. When Glen got back from San Francisco this evening, she had the maid pack his bags and put them out in the driveway. Then she changed the locks.”

“My, my,” I said, “I wonder what brought that on.”

“You'd be smart to talk to him before you worry about me.”

“Why's that?”

“He had a motive for killing Bobby. I didn't, if that's what you're getting at.”

“What motive are you referring to?”

“Glen discovered he'd taken out a big life-insurance policy on Bobby eighteen months ago.”

“What?” My wineglass tipped and wine slopped out on my hand. I couldn't disguise the fact that I was startled, but I didn't like the smug look that crossed her face in response.

“Oh yes. The insurance company tracked her down to ask for a copy of the death certificate. I guess the agent read about Bobby in the paper and remembered the name. That's how Glen found out.”

“I thought you couldn't take out a policy on someone without their signature.”

“Technically, that's true, but it can be done.”

I busied myself wiping up spilled wine with a tissue. In the midst of the mop-up procedure, I realized, like a cartoon light bulb going on overhead, that she felt an intense dislike for. Derek. “What's the story?” I asked.

“Derek got caught with his pants down,” she said. “His claim is that he got the policy ages ago after Bobby'd totaled his car a couple of times. He thought Bobby would self-destruct. You know the type. One accident after another until the kid winds up dead. It becomes a socially acceptable form of suicide. Personally, I'm not sure Derek was that far off. Bobby drank like a fish and I'm sure he did drugs. He and Kitty were both a mess. Rich and spoiled and self-indulgent—”

“Be careful what you say here, Sufi. I liked Bobby Callahan. I think he had guts.”

“I think we're all aware of that,” she said. She was using that superior tone of voice that drove me mad, but I couldn't afford to react at this point. She crossed
her legs, swinging one foot. The dandelion fuzz on that slipper undulated as the air passed over it. “You may not like it, but it
is
the truth. And that's not all of it. Word has it that Derek took out a policy on Kitty too.”

“For how much?”

“Half a million bucks on each.”

“Come on, Sufi. That doesn't make any sense. Derek wouldn't kill his own daughter.”

“Kitty isn't dead, though, is she?”

“But why would he kill Bobby? He'd have to be nuts. The first thing the cops are going to do is turn around and look at him.”

“Kinsey,” she said patiently. “Nobody ever said Derek had brains. He's an idiot. A fool.”

“He's not that big a fool,” I said. “How could he hope to get away with it?”

“Nobody's got any proof that he did anything. There never was any evidence from the first accident and Jim Fraker seems to think this one came about because Bobby had a seizure first. How can they pin that on Derek?”

“But why would he do it? He's got money.”

“
Glen's
got money. Derek doesn't have a dime. He'd go for anything that would get him out from under her. Don't you know that?”

All I could do was stare at her, running the information through my mental computer. She took another sip of wine and smiled at me, loving the effect she'd produced.

Finally, I said, “I just don't believe it.”

“You can believe anything you like. All I'm saying is you better check that out before you do anything else.”

“You don't like Derek, do you?”

“Of course not. I think he's the biggest ass who ever lived. I don't know what Glen saw in him in the first place. He's poor. He's dumb. He's pompous. And those are his
good
qualities,” she said with energy. “Aside from all that, he's ruthless.”

“He doesn't seem ruthless to me,” I said.

“You haven't known him as long as I have. He's a man who'd do anything for money and I suspect he's got lots he's not anxious to discuss. Doesn't he strike you as a man with a past?”

“Like what?”

“I'm not sure. But I'd be willing to bet you his buffoonery is just a cover for something else.”