Muller, Marcia - [McCone 02] - Ask the Cards a Question 3S(v1)(html)

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For Sue Dunlap

I circled the block in my noisy old MG, senses alert and ready for action. Nothing.

Another block, and still another. My frustration deepened. I’d give anything for… a parking space!

With a clash of gears, the car and I hurtled backwards into the spot. At last, after five hours overtime and a twenty-five minute search for this space, I was free to walk four and a half blocks through the darkness to my apartment.

Still, it wasn’t a bad night for a walk. San Francisco weather was unpredictable in April, but this year we had had sun-washed days and mild evenings. I strolled toward Guerrero Street, the breeze banishing my aggravation.

Around the corner, red lights pulsated, their waves shattering the darkness. I stopped outside their range. Police cars. Crowds of onlookers. In front of my building. Panic shot through me, and I ran.

Linnea, I thought. Linnea. Shouldn’t have left her alone so long. Talked about suicide… a lot… since the divorce… all her drinking… God knows what kind of pills… my best friend… comes to me for help… I leave her alone… in there… drinking… day after day.

The crowd seemed a solid mass. I pushed through.

“Hey, lady, don’t shove!”

“What’s happened in there? What’s happened?”

“Somebody died.”

“Dead body.”

“Oh, my God!”

“Hey, quit shoving!”

Sternly, a young patrolman barred my way. “Sorry, ma’am. You can’t go in there.”

I sidestepped, but he blocked me.

“Sorry, ma’am,” he repeated.

“I
live
here, dammit!”

Confused, he hesitated. I ran up the steps to the lobby.

A crowd of residents milled about, two more uniformed officers holding them at bay from the stairway. Immediately I glanced at the door of my first-floor rear apartment. It was closed, and no light shone through the pebbled-glass panes.

A bulky figure loomed in front of the table near the stairway. Tim O’Riley, the building manager. In the dim rays of the lobby chandelier, Tim’s normally ruddy face was ashen, and his mouth hung slack. His thick fingers, unaccustomed to being without a can of beer, played nervously with the heap of advertising circulars and junk mail on the table.

I put my hand on his arm.

“Tim, what’s going on?”

He started. “Oh, it’s you. Jeez, Sharon, something awful’s happened.”

“I know. Someone died. Who?”

“Mrs. Antonio.” His puffy face twisted with grief.

So my friend was all right! And this was death of natural causes. Molly Antonio, one of the second-floor tenants, was in her sixties and had a history of heart trouble. “Heart attack, huh?”

Tim shook his head and passed a hand over his bloodshot eyes. “Worse. Lots worse. Somebody killed her.”

“Good Lord!” I spun around, almost colliding with one of the patrolmen. “Who’s in charge here?” I demanded.

He stared impassively at me. Older and more seasoned than the first officer, he was not about to let a pushy woman bother him. “We’ll get to you people in a while.”

“Terrific.” I turned back to Tim and, lowering my voice, asked, “Have you seen Linnea?”

“Not for a few hours.” He looked at his watch. “Last I saw her, she was lugging this big jug of wine into your apartment. That was maybe around five. Then the stereo started playing real loud—you know how she’ll do that—but it’s been quiet for probably an hour. She must be stinko by now.”

“Thank God.”

Tim looked shocked. I had to admit it was an odd reaction to my friend drinking herself into oblivion.

“What I mean is that she’s been spared all this.” I gestured around the lobby. “Molly Antonio was particularly kind to her. Linnea’s going to take her death hard.”

Tim nodded sagely. “And if she was conscious, she’d be having hysterics all over the place.”

I didn’t want to talk about my friend’s nervous breakdown just now. “One thing you can do for me, Tim.”

“Sure.”

“Unless the police ask, don’t tell them she’s staying with me. They’d insist on waking her up, and…”

“I get it.”

“Thanks.” I pressed his arm and turned back, determined to find out who was in charge.

Again the patrolman blocked me, looking more bored than annoyed. “Ma’am, you will just have to wait.”

I was formulating a statement that would produce results when a big man in a tan trenchcoat appeared on the stairway. Lieutenant Greg Marcus, of the SFPD Homicide Squad. He loped down the steps, casually brushing his blond hair from his forehead.

“Greg,” I called.

He didn’t hear me.

“Gregory!”

The patrolman’s eyes widened. Normal citizens didn’t screech in such a manner at Homicide detectives.

Greg whirled. “Sharon!” He hurried over and slipped his arm around my shoulders. The patrolman sighed resignedly and turned away.

“I’m ashamed of you,” Greg said. “A murder happens in your very own building, and when I arrive on the scene, you’re not even home. You did just get here, right?”

I nodded.

“Well, that’s pretty slipshod of you. A truly dedicated private eye would have found the body herself.”

I smiled weakly, feeling drained.

“Hey, what’s happened to the old McCone bravado?” Greg asked. “You’re not letting a little murder and mayhem shake you?”

I knew the men on Homicide were hardened characters and that jokes were not uncommon at the crime scene, but such behavior didn’t fit with my conception of Greg. My face must have reflected the thought, because he sobered instantly.

“Sorry. It’s the only way I can keep the job from getting to me,” he said. “Was the victim a friend of yours?”

“You could say she was a friend to everyone who lives here.” It was true. In this highly transient and impersonal building in the Mission District, Molly was the one who baked cookies at Christmas, watered plants for vacationing tenants, and took in packages from the postman so they wouldn’t be stolen. She, along with a handful of others, brought warmth to an urban life that was too often chilled by indifference, hostility, and crime. I would miss her.

“Well, right now I can use your help.” Greg’s arm tightened around my shoulders, and he led me toward the stairs.

“Wait a minute. Where are we going?”

“I need an ID on the body from someone who’s reasonably sane and sober. The husband’s hysterical, the manager’s a boozer, and most of your fellow tenants don’t look any too straight either. So, papoose, it’s up to you.”

“Oh, great.” I grimaced—both at the nickname, which was Greg’s tribute to my one-eighth American Indian ancestry, and at the task ahead. We started for the stairs. “Did Gus find her?”

“The husband? Yes. Around eleven, when he came back from playing dominoes at the corner bar.”

“Ellen T’s,” I said mechanically.

“Right. He fell apart, and we had to call a doctor—they’re in the manager’s apartment.” Greg stopped on the landing and leaned against the wall. His dark-blond eyebrows were drawn together in displeasure, and the shadows elongated his face. “Sharon, there’s something strange about this setup.”

“What do you mean?”

“The husband—Gus—keeps raving about how he always comes here for coffee and cake—
before
going home.”

“Oh.” I nodded. “I guess it would sound odd if you didn’t know them. Gus is—was—married to Molly, but she couldn’t stand to live with him. So, for the past five years, he’s had his own place up the hill on Twenty-second Street, but he eats all his meals with Molly and comes over every night for a snack when he finishes his domino game.”

Greg frowned. “Sharon, why do you live in such a weird building?”

“No, listen. Molly claimed it was a perfectly sensible arrangement. She said a wife has a duty to cook for her man and keep his clothes clean, but that there was no reason to be driven completely crazy on account of him. She may have had a point.”

Greg continued up the stairs. “I’m glad I didn’t marry someone like Molly,” he said over his shoulder. “And remind me to quit pursuing you, if that’s your way of thinking.” At the top, he added, “Not that I’ve had much luck with my pursuit lately.”

“No, you haven’t.”

He turned to face me, frowning. “Sharon, isn’t it time we made peace?”

I felt all my defenses rise against him. “Right now we have other things to think about.” As I spoke, I glanced at the stairway to the third floor, where yet another officer held back a group of residents. On the top step stood a gaunt, hatchet-faced woman with gray-streaked black hair pulled back in a bun. Mrs. Neverman, a close friend of Molly’s. Her dark eyes were wet and shimmering in the light of the orange bulb on the landing.

Greg’s gaze had followed mine. He dropped a hand onto my shoulder. “Shall we go in?”

The door to the second-floor front apartment stood open, a shaft of light falling across the turquoise carpet in the hall. A hum of voices came from within. I hung back. Greg guided me forward, and reluctantly, I stepped over the threshold.

Just inside, on the little telephone stand that Molly had found at a garage sale and lovingly refinished, lay a bag of groceries, its contents spilling over onto the floor. The phone had been knocked off the hook. I stepped around a package of frozen lima beans and went into the living room, where lab technicians were at work.

Molly’s sheeted figure lay in the center of the room, on a blue rug. Greg went over and lifted a corner of the covering. Her face, beneath her coif of white hair, was deeply purpled. I could see the mark where something—a wire? a fine cord?—had bitten into her throat.

I nodded and turned away. “It’s Molly.”

Greg came up behind me. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. Was it robbery, do you know?” My voice was thick and shook slightly.

“A very strange robbery, if that.”

“How so?”

“I’ll show you.” He led me to the bedroom. The drawers of the dresser had been pulled out, lingerie and stockings scattered on the floor. “Whoever it was went through the closet and the kitchen drawers, too,” Greg said, “but he didn’t touch the jewelry box or the TV, or a metal lockbox sitting right out in plain sight on the desk.”

“A robbery with a specific purpose, then.”

“Very specific.”

We went back to the living room. “Did you find the murder weapon?” I asked.

Greg picked up a plastic evidence bag from the end table. I started when I saw the coiled length of white drapery cord. It looked like the extra segment I had cut off when I’d threaded the rod for my new curtains just the other day. Of course, all pieces of cord looked alike. Mine was probably still lying on the coffee table where I’d left it. Or was it? And if not…

Greg frowned. “Papoose, are you all right?”

“Yes. No. Oh, this whole thing is so…” I gestured helplessly and started for the door. In the hall of the apartment, a sudden rush of tears stung my eyes and, to cover it, I knelt to examine the spilled groceries.

“Looks like she came in from shopping and surprised her killer,” Greg said.

A cash register receipt bearing the imprint of the Albatross Superette lay among the apples and oranges and cracked eggs. I pointed to it. “That’s the ma and pa store down the block. Their prices are high, so I don’t shop there much, just for things I forget to pick up at Safeway. But Molly didn’t have a car, and I suppose she had to buy most of her groceries there.”

Greg grunted. “That’s the plight of the urban poor. Forced to pay rip-off prices for the sake of convenience.”

“Well, I don’t suppose your average neighborhood grocer’s volume is high enough that he can afford to charge less either.” Gingerly, I poked the frozen lima beans. The package was beaded with moisture but still firm.

“You know the time of death yet?” I stood up.

“Just a range. After six, before ten. We’ll have a better idea after the postmortem.”

“Will you let me know?”

“Sure. But why the interest?”

“Let’s just say this hits pretty close to home.”

“I understand. Why don’t you give me a call tomorrow afternoon.” With a wicked gleam in his eye, he added, “It’ll give me a chance to continue my pursuit of you.”

I made a face at him and started out. His voice stopped me.

“What’s that noise?”

A faint growling, obscured until now by the activity around us, came from the living room.

“Oh, Lord!” I exclaimed. “It’s Watney!”

“Watney?”

“Molly’s cat.” I went back and dragged the fat black-and-white cat from under the sofa, receiving a long scratch for my efforts. Once out, the creature burrowed into my arms, head tucked into the crook of my elbow. “I’d better take him down to my place.”

Greg nodded. “Talk to you later.”

I carried the cowering animal downstairs and through the dwindling crowd, hefting him with difficulty while I fished out my keys and opened the door. Inside, I released him, and he made a beeline for the main room.

I followed, turning on a table lamp as I entered. In the bed by the window of my combination living room and bedroom was a woman-sized lump with a shock of wheat-colored hair. My friend, Linnea Carraway. A wine jug stood empty on the floor beside her, the sweet odor of sauterne permeating the air. Linnea exuded its aroma.

Not only had she passed out, but she’d done so in my bed.

With a flash of annoyance, I put my hand on her shoulder and shook her. She didn’t respond.

Alarmed, I felt for her pulse. It was steady. Linnea was merely suffering the effects of drinking over half a gallon of cheap wine.

I let go of her arm, resisting the impulse to pinch her. The stereo was still on, faint crackling noises coming from its speakers. I flipped the switch off and eyed Watney, who was inspecting the sleeping bag on the floor, where Linnea should have been.

Conscious of my stare, the cat flattened himself and disappeared under the bed. I decided to leave him there and get some sleep. As I slipped into the bag, telling myself I should pretend I was on a fun camping trip, a sudden thought hit me. I got back up and went over to the coffee table between the matching easy chairs.

The length of white drapery cord was gone.