Muller, Marcia - [09] There's Something In A Sunday [v 1.0] (htm) (50 page)

"I guess that's why he finally tried to force the information out of Rudy."

"You think he killed Rudy?"

"Yes."

That assumption interested me. "How could he have connected the two of you?"

"I've been thinking about that, and the only thing I've come up with is my letters. I left the Burning Oak in such a hurry that I couldn't take my mementos with me or destroy them. There were letters, birthday and Christmas cards from Rudy in a trunk in the attic of the ranchhouse."

"How could Frank have gotten his hands on them?"

"If he wanted to, he'd have found a way. He must have gone to Rudy's flat on that Monday and tried to make him tell where I was. Frank has such a violent temper—"

"Irene, Frank didn't kill Rudy."

"What?"

"He was at work on the ranch at the time Rudy died."

"Then who… ?"

"I don't know."

"Oh God, this makes it even worse—"

A childish voice shouted our names. I looked toward the lake and saw Lindy and Betsy waving from their red and white paddleboat.

"We'd better start back," Irene said.

I remained seated, wanting to talk more, to ask her about Gerry Cushman and the affair Vicky thought they were having. But she suddenly seemed eager to be out of my company, and I didn't want to destroy what fragile rapport we had. Irene could be useful to me—but only if she thought I was on her side.

I stood and helped her carry the stroller down the steps of the pavilion. As we started along the path toward the waterfall, I said, "Maybe Bob Choteau
did
kill Rudy."

"I don't think so."

"Me either. Irene, do you know where Bob is hiding?"

"No. The paper said he might be in the park, but that was days ago."

"Well, he
is
here, and someone's been taking him food— someone from your household, I think."

She stopped at the edge of the stone blocks below the waterfall and faced me. "Why do you think that?"

I explained about the shopping bag full of provisions, omitting where I'd seen it. When I finished, Irene put her right sleeve to her forehead and swiped at it; whether the moisture there had blown from the falls or was nervous perspiration, I couldn't tell.

I said, "I need you to help me find out who took the bag of food to Bob—"

"I can barely help myself."

"You'll
be
helping yourself—and Susan."

She looked down at the stroller. The little girl had gone to sleep, her head lolling over onto one shoulder. "All right," she said.

"I'm pretty sure it was Vicky," I told her, "but I need to know for certain."

Irene shivered and glanced upward, where a bridge crossed the lower tier of the falls. For a moment the fear in her eyes made me think someone was there; I looked in that direction myself but saw no one. What she was experiencing, I supposed, was that free-floating, indefinable dread that comes over people when they feel menace but can't identify it.

"Will you do it?" I asked.

"Yes. I have to. Otherwise I won't be able to sleep another night inside those walls."

I spent the evening at home, waiting to hear from either Irene or Rae. Neither called.

Jack Stuart phoned around eight. I filled him in on what I'd been doing, and he said I should give the information to the police. I explained about Gallagher's tunnel vision, but he still thought I was making a mistake. I told him I'd assume responsibility for it. I wanted to give myself twenty-four hours more; by then I was sure I'd have something solid enough to force even as a single-minded a cop as Gallagher into changing his tack.

At nine-thirty I phoned Jane Wilkonson. No, she said, Frank hadn't returned or contacted her. She sounded badly on edge, even angry, and clearly in no shape to carry on a conversation. In the background I could hear a child screaming. I told her I'd be in touch the next day. Then I took a long hot shower and went to bed.

I was in the office at eight-thirty the next morning, hoping Irene might have gotten mixed up and left a message for me there rather than calling my home number. There was nothing from her, but a slip that someone had placed in the middle of my desk said Rae had called at eight and would be home until ten. I dialed her number quickly. Her "Hello" sounded strained.

"How's Doug?" I asked.

"Not so good. I guess you suspect what really happened. Ted does, and he's such a blabbermouth."

"I have a pretty good idea. Why did he do it?"

"Who knows? He claims it was an accident, that he couldn't sleep because he was worrying over whether to take the terminal M.A., and just took too many sleeping pills. But you don't take that many pills by mistake."

"How are you doing?"

"Not so good either. You know the worst thing?" She lowered her voice, in spite of Doug still being in the hospital where he couldn't hear her. "I can't feel sorry for him. All I can feel is mad, that he'd do such a thing to himself and to me. Isn't that awful?"

"No. It's perfectly natural."

There was a long silence. Then Rae said, "Look, Sharon, I don't think that I can go on working for you."

"Why not?"

"I think my job is part of Doug's problem. If I give it my all, I can't pay him enough attention. Look what he did as soon as I started taking on more responsibility."

For Rae's sake I didn't voice my opinion of Doug's tactics.

She added, "What if next time he succeeds?"

I took my time before I spoke, choosing my words carefully. "A lot of suicide attempts are simply cries for attention. You know that from your psychology courses. I'm not saying you should take what Doug did lightly—any self-destructive act, no matter what the reason behind it, has to be viewed seriously. But I do think you shouldn't be making any decisions about the job until you know more about his mental state. Have they finished evaluating him yet?"

"I'm supposed to talk with the shrinks this afternoon."

"Well, wait and see what they say. They'll probably recommend some sort of therapy program, maybe even one you can participate in. That could make a great deal of difference in what you decide."

"But in the meantime I'm letting you down—"

"Don't worry about me. I handled all the investigative work here for years before you came along. I'll survive for a while longer." As I said it, I nervously eyed the stack of folders on my desk, knowing there were more, plus a dozen or so documents to be filed, downstairs in Rae's IN box.

"Thanks."

"No problem. Just don't make any snap decisions."

The morning progressed slowly as I worked on reports and correspondence. I kept glancing at my watch, wondering why Irene hadn't called. Every time the button on my phone flashed, I hoped it would be her. But all the calls were routine, most of them easily disposed of. When Hank buzzed me shortly after eleven, I advised him of Rae's situation and asked if he could get one of the junior partners to help out with delivering or filing documents. He said he would or, if necessary, take care of it himself. Then he said wistfully, "I suppose because of this you're too busy to have lunch with me."

I hesitated, looking at my remaining paperwork.

"Seems we never get to talk anymore," he added.

I pushed back my chair and swiveled around so I couldn't see the desk. "I'm not too busy. But let's get out of here—I've been spending too much time in this damned place lately."

My reckless decision had left me in a holiday mood, and Hank seemed to share it. We decided to make an occasion of lunch by driving out into the Avenues to one of our favorite Italian restaurants, the Gold Mirror. Once there, we ordered the eggplant parmigiana and a carafe of red wine. After discussing Rae's dilemma for a while but coming to no helpful conclusions, Hank segued into a description of a divorce case he'd just handled. It involved a provision for cat support; a dispute over a hundred-dollar picnic basket listed as a major asset; and a harrowing battle over which party would take— rather than
get
—custody of the couple's teenaged son, who was into what he called "heavy-metal science fiction" and claimed to be building a "nuclear death device" in the garage.

The story would have been howlingly funny in the old days, but the way Hank told it was tinged with melancholy. He became more animated as he talked, but he drank more than he ate, and I managed to snag a good portion of his eggplant. When they cleared our plates, he suggested we have more wine, rather than coffee. I said okay, sensing that he might be getting ready to discuss what was really bothering him. We adjourned to the bar, where he told two more divorce stories, which weren't nearly as funny. I realized he was skating around the issue, getting closer, but unwilling to address it.

I was sure that part of his reluctance stemmed from my own close friendship with Anne-Marie. Another part came from the fact he'd always viewed me as a sort of substitute little sister, to be chided and guided but never leaned upon. What I said now could tip the balance of our future relationship.

So, craven coward that I am, I said nothing. After two more glasses of wine, we drove back to All Souls in my MG, Hank clutching the edge of the seat and looking around warily, the way he always does when I'm the one at the wheel.

When we stepped into the front hall, Ted said, "Oh, wait a minute—she just came in," and held out the receiver of his phone to me.

Hank said, "Tough luck," and wandered down the hall toward his office. I'd been complaining all the way back about how I really should have gone to the bathroom at the restaurant; I didn't need this delay.

I took the receiver from Ted and said, "Sharon McCone."

"Sharon, Walt Griscom. From the tavern—"

"Of course, Walt. How are you?"

"I've just heard some news over the police band. It made me think of you, so I dug out your card. Frank Wilkonson's dead."

That sobered me up fast—and made me forget my bathroom problems too. I sat down on the edge of Ted's desk. "How? Where?"

"Couple of hikers came across his body this morning, near the San Luis Reservoir. He'd been shot in the head. Looks like a dump job."

"Where is the reservoir?"

"State recreation area forty-some miles northeast of here."

"Any idea how long he's been dead?"

"No, that's all I've got now. Apparently he'd been missing a couple of days."

"What about the weapon?"

"You mean was there one at the scene? No. But from what I heard over the radio, I'd say it was a small caliber, probably a .22."

The homeowner's gun of choice. Also favored for plinking and varmint shooting on ranches. "And that's all you've heard?"

"So far. You planning to come down here?"

"It doesn't seem worth the trip. I've got no official status. You, on the other hand…"

"Ms. McCone, I'm retired."

"Mr. Griscom, I bet you have plenty of friends in the sheriff's department. And it's obvious that you like to keep your hand in at your former profession."

"Yeah. I'll see what I can find out. Will you be at this number?"

I thought of where I'd last seen Frank Wilkonson. "No. Will you be at the tavern?"

"Up until closing."

"Then I'll call you there."

The western perimeter of Golden Gate Park was relatively unpopulated at four o'clock that afternoon, in spite of the continuing clear weather. A few wayward tourists stopped to gaze at the Murphy Windmill, but they didn't venture too close. They wouldn't have noticed me anyway, tucked into the hidey hole I'd occupied a couple of days before, during those hours that are neither properly Saturday night nor Sunday morning.

I was suitably attired now, in dark clothing that blended in with the discarded lumber and rusty corrugated iron. I'd brought sandwiches and fruit and a thermos of strong coffee. After a while I began to regret the wine Hank and I had drunk at midday; I was dehydrated and had a mild hangover.

Disgraceful behavior, McCone, I scolded myself. This is the age of sensibility and moderation. What's wrong with you?

Sensibility and moderation are boring, my rebellious inner voice replied. I'll take wine and eggplant parmigiana over Calistoga water and health food any day.

Time passed slowly. The shadows in the surrounding thicket deepened; the checkerboard pattern of missing shingles on the windmill changed with the shifting light. The whine of traffic on the Great Highway stepped up as rush hour got underway. At about half past five a skinny man with shaggy reddish hair and tattered clothing came along the path from the west. He paused to look around, then skirted the mill on the far side, out of my line of sight. A few seconds later I heard the windmill's door grate open and closed.

I poured coffee into the thermos's plastic cup and sipped it as I waited. I wasn't sure exactly what I was waiting for, but I felt a growing expectancy, a sense that something was about to happen.

Darkness was falling quickly now. Birds began homing to the open windows of the mill. The temperature dropped, grew chill; the air seemed more moist and smelled strongly of the sea.

The grate of the windmill's door alerted me. I set my coffee down and leaned forward, peering through the dusk. A shaft of flickering light briefly extended over the concrete entryway; before it was blocked by the closing door, I saw two figures emerge. They came up the declivity toward my hiding place. I drew back as they passed the debris pile.

It was the man I'd seen earlier and an older, heavier man with white hair. They carried burlap sacks, like the scavengers who picked through the trash bins behind my former apartment building. I waited until I was sure they were gone, then poked my head out of the hiding place and studied the mill.

When I'd inspected it the other day there had been evidence of three people living there. The flickering light I'd seen indicated one was still inside—very possibly the one I wanted to see. At any rate, it was a number I could handle.

I reached into my bag for my .38. Then I crawled through the opening in the debris and slid down the slope to the windmill's entryway.