Crazybone (6 page)

The woman hopped to her feet, smiling and eager, as if I were the first potential customer in a long while. She had sea-green eyes, and when I looked into them I felt a little sad. No there there. Like so many individuals you encounter these days, of all types and dispositions. Genetic pod people capable of superficial thought and basic emotions, existing in personal spaces that were dimly lit and mostly empty. The dumbing down of America not only continues, it seems to be approaching epidemic proportions.

She was not Anita Purcell, of course; her name was Gretchen Kiley, she was Ms. Purcell’s niece, and she was minding the store while her aunt was away at an auction in Los Angeles. She knew Sheila Hunter, oh, yes, but not very well, and wasn’t it a terrible thing about her husband? She guessed Mrs. Hunter and her aunt were friends, and no, she didn’t know any of Mrs. Hunter’s other friends. Why was I asking? I told her I was conducting a routine investigation on behalf of Jack Hunter’s insurance company. Then I took a small dyer because I’d run out of direct questions.

“Does your aunt have any friends, artists, customers named Karen?” I asked.

“Karen?” Blank look. “Uh, why do you want to know that?”

“It pertains to my investigation.”

“Oh, it does? Well, I can’t think of anyone. I don’t know that I should— Oh, wait. Someone named Karen that Mrs. Hunter knows, too, is that what you mean?”

“That’s right.”

Ms. Kiley gnawed at a well-shaped upper lip. “About a year ago I overheard Aunt Anita and Mrs. Hunter talking about different kinds of art. I mean, I wasn’t eavesdropping or anything, I just happened to be here while they were talking. Aunt Anita said she wished she could get some really good stained glass and Mrs. Hunter said she knew someone who made some. A stained-glass artist.”

“Someone named Karen.”

“I think so. I think that was the name.”

“Did she mention a last name?”

Ms. Kiley cudgeled her memory; the effort made her frown and chew on her lip again. “No, I don’t think so. Anyway, I can’t remember if she did.”

“Did she happen to say where Karen lives?”

“Up the coast. That’s right, she said ‘Karen has a studio up the coast.’ ”

“Is that all? No town or specific area?”

“No. She stopped right after she said that.”

“How do you mean, stopped?”

“All of a sudden. You know, the way you do when somebody interrupts you.”

Or the way you do when you’re sorry you let something slip. “Did she say anything else about Karen? That she was related to her, for instance?”

“Related? No, I’d remember that.”

“Did your aunt seem interested in seeing some of Karen’s stained glass?”

“Yes, she did. Mrs. Hunter said Karen was very busy and had outlets for all her work, but she’d tell her and maybe she’d send some things down for Aunt Anita to look at.”

“Did Karen ever follow through?”

“Send anything, you mean? I guess not, because we don’t have any stained glass, at least I haven’t seen any. You’ll have to ask my aunt.”

“I’ll do that,” I said. “When will she be back?”

“On Sunday.” Ms. Kiley’s sunny smile reappeared. “Is there anything I can show you before you leave? We have some really nice pieces of Mrs. Hunter’s if you’re into pottery.”

“No, thanks. I couldn’t afford it.”

“Well,” she said, “do you want me to tell Aunt Anita you stopped by?”

“Not necessary. I’ll surprise her.”

Ms. Kiley nodded, smiling. She was still standing there, still smiling, when I went out.

The Emerald Hills Country Club was just what you’d expect to find in an affluent enclave like Greenwood. Walled, pillared, gated, manicured, tree-shaded, and overlain with a mossy patina of rustic charm, snooty exclusivity, and very old money. A long drive flanked by poplars led in from a road that ran along the base of the hills. None of the cars in the two-tiered parking area where the drive ended was older than five years or cost much less than I made in a year. Mercedes and BMWs predominated; I spotted a Ferrari, an Aston-Martin, even a Rolls. The scattering of Detroit products seemed almost out of place. Nobody around here paid much attention to the Buy American slogans, it seemed.

The main building was of native stone; I judged its age to be close to the century mark. It had an English manor house look, though some turrets and ramparts and maybe a tower or two were all it would’ve needed for a castle effect. Behind it to the right I could see outbuildings and some of the greens and fairways, ponds and sandtraps, of the golf course. The grass out there was of such a dazzlingly bright and healthy hue, the grounds keepers might have been giving it daily injections of chlorophyll.

I found a place to park in the designated visitors area on the lower tier. From force of habit I locked the car when I got out, and then smiled wryly to myself when I realized it. Nobody here was going to steal anything out of an old bolt-bucket like mine. If any of the staff or patrons even looked at it twice, it would be to wonder what Emerald Hills was coming to, letting such shoddy merchandise clutter up the grounds.

Well-worn stone steps led up to a wraparound veranda and a double-door entrance. Inside was a security desk with a discreet placard on it requesting that all members and visitors sign in. A beefy guy in a white polo shirt with
Emerald Hills
stitched over the pocket looked me over and asked with perfect grammar and diction whom I was there to see. He knew I wasn’t a member and didn’t belong in such a rarified atmosphere, and it showed in his face; employees in places like this can be even bigger elitists than the patrons. Snobs by association. But I was respectable enough in my suit and tie not to be either an anarchist or a tree-hugging rabble-rouser, so when I gave him Trevor Smith’s name he nodded and said, “Would you please sign the visitor’s book, sir,” with the faintest emphasis on the last word. I was tempted to put down somebody else’s name — Harry Bridges, for instance, a true rabble-rouser in his day — but I resisted the impulse. It would’ve been a feeble and petty joke, and he wouldn’t have gotten it anyway. Bridges was long dead and so were his longshoremen who’d taken part in the Bloody Thursday labor-management riots in ’34, and people nowadays have no sense of history. Except for musty relics like me a stone’s throw from being history ourselves.

I walked through the lobby, past entrances to bar and restaurant, a sign that said Ballroom, people in golf outfits and expensive casual wear, older couples in dresses and suits. All the faces were WASP; the only ethnics you were likely to find at Emerald Hills were behind-the-scenes staff members. It was like walking through a small, fancy resort hotel fifty years ago. And I felt as out of place there as a puckered old hound in a kennel full of groomed and pampered show dogs.

Another arrow sign pointed the way to the pro shop. It led me outside to the rear, past a crowded terrace overlooking the links and a bank of tennis courts. Nobody was on the courts and not many were driving or putting or riding around in awninged carts: it was the early cocktail hour, the one time of day that was likely to be more important to the country club set than their sport. The pro shop was part of a smaller stone building nearby, in the center of a pair of wings that would house the men’s and women’s locker rooms.

Inside I found careful displays of clubs and bags and balls, clothing and other items — and a thin middle-aged woman in golf togs who was studying a packaged wristband with a puzzled expression, as if the writing on the package was runic symbols instead of English. Another There-challenged individual, maybe. I waited quietly for a couple of minutes. Nobody else put in an appearance, so I asked the woman if Trevor Smith was around. She barely glanced at me as she said, “He’ll be back soon, I’m sure.” The wristband package was clearly an object of much greater interest to her than a craggy stranger in an off-the-rack suit.

I wandered over and looked at a rack of expensive irons and woods. Golf is one of those games that inspire grand passion or grand indifference, and I was firmly in the latter group. I could understand its appeal on an intellectual level, but I never could connect with it emotionally — maybe because I’m not coordinated enough to be any good at the game. The one time I’d let somebody talk me into trying to learn it, it had taken me a week to get over the damage to my ego.

Another couple of minutes, and the little tinkly bell over the door sounded again. But it wasn’t Trevor Smith; it was a second middle-aged woman, obviously a friend of die wristband lady because she said, “There you are, Patty.” She likewise paid no attention to me, beyond the same kind of cursory glance I’d gotten from the other one.

“I can’t decide if I should buy this band or not,” Patty said. “It’s supposed to be the best, but it gave Ellen Conway a rash. What do you think, Joan?”

“Why don’t you ask Trevor?”

“I intend to, if he ever gets back.”

“I thought you’d gone up to the Greens Room. You did say you were thirsty.”

“I am, God knows. Are the others still there?”

“Waiting for us. Guess who else is still there, staked out at the bar.”

“Who? Oh, you mean Dale.”

“Drowning herself in gin, as usual. She hasn’t drawn a sober breath since the accident. You’d think she’d have come to terms with it by now.”

“You’d think so.”

“I mean, it was terrible what happened to poor Jack Hunter, but their little affair hadn’t been going on very long, and anyway it didn’t seem that serious. Did you think it was that serious?”

They might have forgotten about me, if my presence had ever really registered on either of them, or maybe they were the kind of catty gossips who didn’t care who happened to overhear them. In any event, they had my full attention now.

“No,” Patty said. “Just another of her flings, that’s what everyone thought.”

“My God, do you suppose she was in love with him?”

“If she was, it was strictly one-sided. Jack would never have left Sheila, no matter how much
she
played around.”

“I don’t see Dale leaving Frank, either, do you? As much as money and position mean to her.”

“No, but if she knows what’s good for her, she’ll stop all this public lushing and get a grip. Frank’s no fool. Word will get back to him, if it hasn’t already, and he can add two and two as easily as anyone else. You know him — he won’t put up with any sort of obvious nonsense.”

“Do you think we should talk to her? Would it do any good?”

“The only person Dale Cooney listens to is herself. If you ask me, the thing to do...”

I didn’t hear what Patty thought was the thing to do. I didn’t much care, for one thing, and for another I was on my way out the door. Trevor Smith could wait. Right now Dale Cooney seemed a potentially better bet.

The Greens Room was dominated by a massive native stone fireplace and a wall of sectioned windows that provided a sweeping view of the terrace and tennis courts and golf course. A gas-log fire threw pulsing light over a collection of tables and dark leather booths, about three-quarters of them filled even though it was still a few minutes shy of five o’clock. Most of the ladder-backed stools at the bar were occupied as well. The drinkers there, with one exception, were all men or couples in animated conversation. You didn’t need to be much of a detective to figure out that the woman sitting rigidly on the stool near the entrance was in her cups and would answer to the name of Dale Cooney.

I sidled over that way to get a better look at her. Mid-to-late thirties, with the kind of dark, burnished red hair that gleams as black as blood in shadowy bar light. Big-boned body in a cream-colored pants suit. Nice profile, or it would have been if she were sober; at the moment her face and neck had a saggy appearance. Her attention was on the empty martini glass in front of her. Red-nailed fingers tapped a toothpicked olive against the rim, as if she were keeping time to music only she could hear.

A barman in a red jacket came down her way. She raised her head and said, “Charles,” not too loudly. “Charles, I believe I’ll have one for the road.” There was no slur to the words; if anything, her diction was too precise.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Mrs. Cooney.”

“You don’t? Really?”

“No, ma’am.”

“And why not?”

“Six Bombay martinis,” he said gently.

“Oh, and such lovely martinis they were. I am a connoisseur of martinis, Charles, did you know that? Well, I am, and yours are the best of all. Almost perfect.”

“Yes, ma’am, thank you. But if you don’t mind my saying so, I think six is your limit.”

“I don’t mind at all. Perhaps you’re right. Mustn’t make a spectacle of myself, must I?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Well, then. If you’ll bring the check, please.”

He went away and came back with it. She studied the strip of paper with a myopic squint, then signed her name at the bottom. Slowly and carefully, the way a child does.

Charles said, “Would you like me to call a taxi for you?”

“I don’t believe that will be necessary.”

“Are you sure you’re able to drive?”

“Quite sure. I haven’t exceeded my limit, thanks to your perspicacity. You know what that word means, Charles? Perspicacity?”

“Yes, ma’am. But you don’t want to have any trouble getting home.”

“I won’t have any trouble,” she said. “It’s only a mile, you know. Exactly one mile from Emerald Hills Country Club to my lovely home. Isn’t that interesting?”

“Yes, ma’am. About that taxi...”

“Your concern is touching, Charles, it truly is.” She maneuvered herself off the stool and onto her feet. No stagger, no unsteadiness — showing the barman that she really was quite all right. She wished him a good evening, turned for the lobby before he could say anything else.

I followed her. She walked as slowly and carefully as she seemed to do everything else, looking straight ahead, her back rigor-mortis stiff. On her dignity, the way some polite, well-bred boozers get when they reach a certain stage of drunkenness. Mustn’t make a spectacle of herself.