Muller, Marcia - [McCone 02] - Ask the Cards a Question 3S(v1)(html) (21 page)

It was four o’clock when I returned to All Souls, where I could use the phone for free before business hours were over. I called the state Department of Health in Sacramento and, after being put on hold six times, finally reached the woman who had information on the Sunrise Blind Center.

My dear Uncle Jim, I explained—with mental apologies to that gentleman—had been blinded in an accident. His doctor had referred him to the Center. I had toured it and spoken with the director this afternoon, but I still had reservations. What could she tell me about the place?

Again on hold, I waited for her to fetch a file. I doubted I would learn anything revealing, but the possibility was worth the long-distance charge.

The woman came back on the line. Sunrise Blind Center had had an outstanding rehabilitation rate in the three years since its present director, Mr. Herbert Clemente, had taken over. The average period of time in which a resident returned to the community was less than a year. Both state and federal grants for the Center had recently been renewed.

And Mr. Clemente? I asked. What were his qualifications?

A rattling of paper. Mr. Clemente had a distinguished record of community service work. His B.A. in psychology was from California State University at Long Beach. He had served as a prison guard for five years, then run a halfway house for ex-convicts, and finally headed up a job-training and counseling program for parolees.

I wrote the word “parolees” on my legal pad and doodled a box around it as she talked. “The uncertainty of the length of time my Uncle Jim would have to remain at the Center disturbs me,” I said stuffily when she had finished. “It’s all well and good to speak of averages, but I know for a fact there’s one man at the Center who’s been in residence since Mr. Clemente became director.”

A pause. “I don’t have information on the individual patients, ma’am.”

“Well, from your experience with this—and similar—programs, wouldn’t you say that’s an awfully long time?”

“Is the man severely handicapped?”

“Mr. Clemente described him as a very able worker.”

“Perhaps, then, there’s some problem that isn’t readily observable. I suggest you take it up with Mr. Clemente.”

I thanked her for the information and hung up.

“Parolees.”

I stared down at the word, then went to Hank’s office and stuck my head in the door.

“What’s the name of your friend at the Department of Corrections?”

Hank looked up, owlish behind his thick glasses. “Dave Gardner. Why? What’re you doing here? I thought you were investigating that murder.”

“I am. Thanks.”

Back in my office, I dialed the Department of Corrections and got Dave Gardner on the line. He’d done Hank many a favor in the past, and was glad to look up Jeffrey Neverman’s record for me.

“It’s not bad, as they go,” he commented when he returned to the phone. “A couple of minor jail terms for D and D about ten years ago. Just brawls at a tavern over a waitress. Then the big one, grand theft. He drew three-to-five on that, was released two years ago September, and he’s been a good boy ever since.”

“What are the specifics on his offense?”

“He was caught ripping off merchandise from the truck line he drove for. It’s a common practice, but the company decided to make an example of Neverman and prosecuted to the fullest. Your boy’s just not lucky.”

That was what Neverman thought too. I thanked Dave for his help, and he asked me to tell Hank he’d stop by sometime next week.

“I hope you’ll be around the office, too,” he added. “After all I’ve heard, I’d like to meet you.”

What had Hank told him? Afraid to ask, I merely said I’d like to meet him too.

Now for Sebastian. His long stay at the Blind Center puzzled me. Clemente had said the brush man had been blinded in an explosion at an oil refinery. There were a number of those dotting the shores of the Bay near Richmond and the Carquinez Straits, and a personnel department could tell me…

I stopped, chagrined. I didn’t know Sebastian’s last name.

Who would know? Who could I call without tipping off Clemente that I was prying into the Center’s business?

I called the Albatross Superette. Mr. Moe answered, sounding rushed. Sebastian’s last name was Hetzer. H-e-t-z-e-r. Why did I need to know?

“I have to write him a check for some brushes. Thanks.” I hung up before he could ask why I didn’t make it out to the Blind Center.

Fifteen minutes later, after only one wasted call, the personnel supervisor of Standard Oil in Point Richmond cautiously asked if he could call me back. I agreed, glad I had anticipated his precaution of ascertaining that All Souls Legal Cooperative really had a Ms. McCone who was checking Hetzer’s references for possible employment under their program to hire the handicapped. I rushed down the hall to tip Ted that we momentarily had a personnel director and sat back to await the call.

Sebastian Hetzer had worked in maintenance at the refinery since his discharge from the Army after Korea, the personnel man told me. The explosion and fire three years ago had been due to Hetzer’s negligence, but the company had given him a settlement. He had immediately entered the burn-care unit of Letterman Army Hospital in San Francisco, and six months later had been referred to the Sunrise Blind Center.

What kind of worker was Hetzer?

Capable. He did have a tendency to let personal problems interfere with his work. At the time of his accident, he’d been preoccupied with financial troubles.

“What kind of financial troubles?”

The personnel man chuckled. Hetzer liked to play the ponies. He often had to borrow to make up for his losses at Golden Gate Fields. It was a common failing.

What about future employment with Standard Oil? I asked. What if Hetzer should regain his sight?

A pause. “Obviously you haven’t seen the man yet. His loss of sight was total, and there is no chance he could regain it. And, of course, he was very unpleasantly disfigured.”

My calls completed, I cleared my desk and got ready to leave. The stories I’d gotten from Clemente, Neverman and Sebastian might check out, but there was one that didn’t. It was what Mr. Moe had told me yesterday morning. I’d drive back home and confront him about it now.

At six-thirty, I arrived at the Albatross Superette. The store was empty once again, but I heard sounds out in the stockroom. I pushed the swinging door and looked in.

Mr. Moe stood with his back to me, lifting a squat green bottle from a carton. The harsh light of a bare bulb illuminated crates that held lettuce, oranges and canned goods.

I knocked on the doorframe. “Mr. Moe, can I talk to you a minute?”

The grocer started, and he dropped the bottle. It smashed on the concrete floor. A puddle of liquid ran toward my feet, and I smelled the sharp odor of gin.

“I’m sorry I startled you!” I exclaimed.

Mr. Moe waved me away from the encroaching tide. “It is all right. But, please, it is dirty back here. Come out front. I will take care of this mess later.” He shooed me into the store, latching the door of the stockroom.

“There was no difficulty about the check for Sebastian?” he asked. “The name I gave you was correct?”

“The check…” I’d almost forgotten the story I’d told him on the phone. “No, no difficulty.”

“Good.” He folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the counter. In spite of his polite expression, I sensed he was jumpy and anxious to be rid of me.

“Mr. Moe, I need to talk to you privately. Can you…” I gestured at the door.

“It is the dinner hour. I will lose customers if I close now.” As if to emphasize his point, a man entered and asked for a carton of cigarettes. I waited while the grocer rang them up.

“All right, we can talk between customers,” I said. “You see, I’ve discovered that you didn’t tell me—or the police—the truth about the night before last.”

He frowned elaborately. “I do not understand.”

“I think you do. When I identified Molly’s body, I saw her groceries on the floor, the groceries from this store.”

“So you have said.” Mr. Moe glanced nervously as a woman came in and headed for the produce aisle.

“There were eggs, oranges, and frozen lima beans.” I paused. “The lima beans were still frozen. They had melted some, but not all that much.”

Mr. Moe’s eyes flickered and narrowed.

“You told me—and the police—that Molly bought those groceries around seven o’clock.”

“That is true.”

“No it isn’t. I believed you, initially. It fit, almost exactly, with the established time of death.”

The woman came out of the produce aisle with a head of lettuce. Mr. Moe rung it up, taking his time. When she had left, he turned to me. “I do not understand what is wrong, then.”

“Molly could have come in here at seven and returned home to surprise her killer—except for one thing.”

“And that is?”

“The lima beans. They would have melted more if they’d been lying there on the floor since a little after seven.”

He glanced at his watch. “Really, Miss McCone, I do not see what frozen vegetables have to do with this tragedy.”

“Let me explain, then.” I sat down on the wooden stool, smiling, as if this were a friendly visit.

His head moved toward the street entrance and then to the stockroom door. Obviously he was waiting for someone he didn’t want me to see.

“The lima beans,” I said, “should have melted more.”

He frowned nervously. “Why?”

“Because I bought some here last night and tested how long it took them to defrost. In four hours, they were mushy, not firm like the ones in Molly’s hall. Those had to have arrived at her apartment much later than you said.”

Again, the agitated glance at his watch.

I pressed my advantage. “Well, Mr. Moe?”

“Perhaps I was mistaken about the time. It was a very busy night.” He paused again and then udded with growing conviction, “Yes, I am certain it was just before I closed, at ten.”

A man came in. Mr. Moe jerked his head toward him, then relaxed. The man began looking over a rack of pipe tobacco.

I had the upper hand now. The grocer would tell me the truth, if only to be rid of me. “No, Mr. Moe. It couldn’t have been. By the time you closed, Molly had been dead nearly two hours. The police have established that scientifically.”

His mouth twitched. The man came up with a packet of tobacco and Mr. Moe rung it up, his hands shaking.

“Well?” I demanded.

He watched the man leave, then turned to me. What I could see of his eyes through the slits of his lids calculated rapidly. “All right, Miss McCone. I lied. I suppose you will report me to the police now.”

“Not if you tell the truth this time.”

He fingered the cash register keys. “That is fair. I will tell you. Mrs. Antonio called me with the grocery order. I often deliver to old ladies who are afraid to go out at night.”

“When was this?”

“She called at seven o’clock. I did not lie about the time. I told her I would deliver the order after I closed and swept up.”

“And you got there when?”

“Possibly ten thirty.”

“How did you get in?”

“Someone had left the front door open, and also the door to Mrs. Antonio’s apartment. At first, when she did not answer my knock, I thought she might have taken the garbage down or gone somewhere else in the building.”

“And?”

He spread his hands, which trembled more now. “I went in, and she was lying on the floor. I do not remember crying out, but I set the groceries down by the telephone. I must have knocked them over. I do not remember anything more until I arrived home, upstairs.” He motioned toward the ceiling. “All night I sat there in my front window. I saw Gus return from Ellen T’s. I saw the police arrive. The ambulance leave. I sat and watched the empty street until morning, when I had to open the store.”

“Did you see anyone else while you were in the building?”

“No.”

“And you didn’t touch anything at her apartment—search for anything?”

He frowned. “Of course not.”

“Why didn’t you tell the police?”

“I was afraid.” He bowed his head. “Now I am ashamed.”

“Afraid of what?”

“Miss McCone, you will not understand.”

“Try me.”

“You have no idea what it is to be an Arab in this city. There are many of us; for the most part we are in trade, with small shops and grocery stores. Every year many of us are robbed, and some are killed. The robbers are never caught, the killers never brought to justice. The police have no respect for us; they do not try to give protection. So we have contempt for the police—and fear.”

It was true that Arab shopkeepers had been frequent targets of violence. Less prosperous ethnic groups within the city disliked and distrusted them. But Mr. Moe’s paranoid little speech sounded strangely hollow. I watched him silently, wondering at his real reason for failing to report Molly’s death.

Under my gaze, he shifted restlessly. “I have told you the truth. You will keep your part of the bargain?”

“Yes, I’ll keep my part.” I watched him a moment more, unable to gauge his truthfulness. Mr. Moe turned away.

“I have work to do now, Miss McCone. Please go.”

I could have hung around outside to see who Mr. Moe was waiting for, but, in light of this new information, it seemed relatively unimportant. Instead, I went home—to check on Linnea’s latest trauma.

When I opened the door to the apartment, the stereo blasted at me. Inside, I stepped on something and groped for the light switch. A box of chocolate creams had been overturned on the floor, a toilet brush incongruously lying among the candies. I stared in disgust at the gooey mess on my shoe.

“Oh, Jesus,” I muttered. The brush I had ordered from Sebastian the day before, but the chocolates could only mean Greg had been here. Had he questioned Linnea about the murder? Was that what had upset her?

I slipped out of my shoes and apprehensively went down the hall. The loud stereo meant my friend was drunk, at only seven in the evening.

She sat on the floor of the main room, crosslegged in front of the turntable. Her hair straggled from the childish braids, and a half-full fifth of Scotch stood on the floor beside her. The cat, terrified of the noise, cowered behind one of the chairs while Linnea swayed and cried to the Rolling Stones.

The Stones had been at the peak of their popularity during Linnea’s courtship and early marriage. It didn’t matter that their music wasn’t particularly heart-wrenching. When Linnea sank into depression, she turned to their records, and to the bottle.

I went over and snapped the stereo off. Linnea raised her tear-streaked face. It was drawn into lines of suffering, but a self-satisfied light glowed in her eyes. I was taken aback: Was it possible she actually
enjoyed
her misery?

“Why’re you doing that, for Christ’s sake?” she demanded. Her tone was vague, and she glanced distractedly at the on-off switch.

I took a deep breath, telling myself: Don’t let her make you feel guilty. This is not your fault.

“I turned it off because I want to talk to you. I can’t do that with it on.”

“Talk to me? That’s just fine!
Now
you want to talk to me, after I’ve been calling and calling all day.” She reached for the switch.

“Leave it off!” I spoke more sharply than I’d intended. Modulating my voice, I went on. “I’m sorry you couldn’t reach me, but I’ve been busy. I’m free now, though, and we need to talk.”

I sat down in one of the easy chairs, trying not to look too closely at the drink stains and cigarette burn on one arm. “Come over here so I don’t have to shout.”

She came, dragging the bottle and a smudged glass. She set them on the table between us and began to pour.

“No more Scotch, Linnea.”

She looked up, eyes wide. “Christ, what is this? I need a drink, Sharon. I called you and left messages, but you didn’t…”

“Listen, Linnea.” Impatience wore my voice ragged. “I’m not your mother. Or your husband. Or some kind of keeper. I have a job to do, and I can’t come running every time you get upset.”

“Upset? You bet I’m upset!” Defiantly, she poured the Scotch. “What did you think you were doing, sending that guy over here to ask me questions?”

I thought of Greg’s chocolate, and alarm flashed through me. “I didn’t send him.”

“Oh, sure you didn’t! Oh, sure! It was a cute excuse, but I saw right through it.” She gulped her drink. “He came in here like he owned the place. The creep!”

It
was
crummy of Greg to use the excuse of bringing chocolate to interrogate my friend! “What did he ask you?”

“Now you’re interested, are you? After I called all day, now Ms. Big Shot Detective is interested.”

I felt like slapping her, so I laced my fingers tightly together. “I asked, what did he want?”

My tone quelled her sarcasm. “He kept saying Molly had left something with me for safekeeping. He insisted I give it to him. But I didn’t know what he was talking about. I told him I didn’t, but he wouldn’t believe me.” Her voice descended to a childish whine. “Why wouldn’t he believe me?”

“I don’t know,” I said absently. Why
did
Greg think Molly had left something with Linnea? Was it possible she had secreted away some clue that would provide the answer to her death? After all, her apartment had been searched. I asked, “What happened then?”

“He kept on at me. I got scared. I took the chocolate and threw it at him. I screamed that I would call the cops. He just laughed at me.”

I could imagine Greg’s amusement. “And then?”

“He left. He just took off.”

Fury bubbled up to replace my anxiety. This time Greg had gone one step too far. He had presumed on our friendship, counting on me not to file a complaint. Well, he’d soon learn differently.

“Okay, Linnea,” I said. “It’s over, and I’ll see it doesn’t happen again.” Controlling my anger, I turned Greg’s strange idea over in my mind. The something Molly had wanted kept safe must be a new lead. Greg had probably learned of Linnea’s presence from one of the other tenants and—if he had also learned that Molly had been with her late on the day of the murder—he might have supposed Linnea was the one safeguarding the mysterious object. But why the insistence when she denied it?

I
believed her—because I thought I knew who the real guardian was.

I got up and reached for my bag.

“Where are you going?” Linnea demanded.

“Out. I have to see someone.”

“After what I’ve been through, you’re going to leave me alone again?” Her hand hovered over her half-empty glass.

“As I explained before, I’m not your keeper. I have work to do. Why don’t you take a nice, long bath and…”

“Some friend you are! It’s just like when I called Herb, when I realized you weren’t going to return my calls. He didn’t even care about me. He said he didn’t understand why I was so upset.”

“Maybe he didn’t understand what you were trying to tell him,” I said, remembering the half of the phone conversation I’d overheard.

“Well, he should have! I needed him!”

“Lin, you can’t always depend on other people. You have to take care of yourself.”

“The hell you say! Oh, sure, you put on this big, independent act. That’s only because you’ve never cared for anybody, and you never will!” Linnea reached for the bottle and began to pour. She missed the glass entirely, and Scotch ran all over the table, soaking a pile of magazines I hadn’t had a chance to read yet.

The mess in the hall flashed before my eyes. I looked from the soaked magazines to a heap of clothing at the foot of the bed, and then to the cat, who still cowered behind the chair. With a sweeping gesture, I stepped forward, snatched the bottle, and hurled it against the opposite wall.

The bottle shattered. The cat shot under the bed. Liquor dribbled down to the baseboard.

Linnea’s eyes grew wide, and her mouth opened soundlessly.

“Look, you bitch,” I said in a low, furious voice, “I have absolutely had it with your whining and your crying. And your drinking. And your filthy habits.”

“Sharon, I’m upset! My husband left me, and I don’t have enough money, and…”

“Oh, Linnea, cut it out and grow up! Your problems aren’t worth all this drama!”

“How can you say that? I’ve been through a tragedy!”

“Tragedy?” I exclaimed. “Look, Linnea, two nights ago I saw Molly lying up there with the life choked out of her. That’s tragedy—not your petty little problems!”

She shrank back in the chair, lips parted.

“From now on, don’t give me any more crap about how bad off you are and how lousy your life’s turned out,” I went on. “At least you’ve got life. If you want to throw it away, that’s your business. But don’t expect any more sympathy from me, because I’ve given you all I’ve got!”

I picked up my bag, put on another pair of shoes, and walked out.

In the lobby, I leaned my head against the wall, breathing hard. I hadn’t done Linnea any good. She’d only reach for another bottle. And I hadn’t done myself any good, either. All I’d done was lose my battle against the death of friendship.

A door slammed upstairs, and slow footsteps descended. Gus’s voice spoke.

“Miss McCone! What’s wrong?”

I faced the little gray man. “I had an argument with Linnea, that’s all.”

He nodded knowingly. “She drunk again?”

“Yes.” I was too distraught to cover up for her.

Gus peered anxiously at my face. “You look terrible. Maybe you could use a drink yourself.”

“I probably could.”

“Look, why don’t you go upstairs to my… to Molly’s place? Sebastian’s up there, and he’d enjoy the company. I’ve got to go to the funeral parlor to make the arrangements for Molly, and I’ll be gone an hour or two.”

“Are you sure he wouldn’t mind?”

“Positive.”

“I’ll do it then.” I gave his arm a grateful squeeze and started upstairs.

Sebastian’s voice answered my knock. The door was unlatched, and I let myself in. I would have been more careful in an apartment where a murder had recently taken place, but maybe the brush man subscribed to the theory of the already-stolen horse. He certainly seemed relaxed, in Molly’s favorite chair, listening to classical music on her FM.

I explained why I was there, and Sebastian nodded sympathetically. “There’s a bottle of brandy in the kitchen. Help yourself. And get me a little more while you’re at it, would you?”

The glass he held out was one of Molly’s best crystal set. As I poured the liquor—an excellent brand that she probably had been saving for a special occasion—I reflected that Gus and Sebastian had slipped into a very confident attitude of possession toward Molly’s things. When I returned to the living room, I said, a little bitchily:

“Well, you two seem all settled in.”

A smile distorted Sebastian’s scarred face. “Gus invited me for dinner—Kentucky Fried Chicken. Somebody’s gonna have to teach him to cook. Anyway, I said I’d wait here until he got back from the undertaker, to save him the trip to the Center until afterwards.”

I was glad he couldn’t see the dubious look on my face. I sat down on the couch and asked, “How’s Gus holding up?”

“As well as you could expect. He moped around here all day, and I was surprised he didn’t want me to go along to the undertaker, but he said he should do it alone.”

“You haven’t been working, then.”

“No, but we got to make rounds tomorrow. The racks’ll be getting low, and Mr. Clemente hates to have them that way.”

“Speaking of him, he gave me a tour of the Center today. I hung around there for a while afterwards. You should really be more careful who’s watching when you eavesdrop.”

His lips quivered. “You saw me, in the bushes?”

“I sure did.”

“Was anybody else there?”

“Nope. Your guilty secret is safe with me. What was going on in Clemente’s office?”

Nervously, he stroked the front of his yellow sweater. “Just a bunch of talk about Neverman’s woman problems.”

“It must have been interesting; you listened long enough.”

“Miss McCone, let me explain. I kind of like to keep an ear to the ground at the Center. You never know what’s happening there, and I was worried about whether the new grants had been approved. When it’s the only home you’ve got, you like to know what’s going on, but nobody ever tells us anything.”

“Well, just don’t get caught.”

“I never figured anybody would see me in a place where almost everybody’s blind. I’ll take more care in the future.”

Sebastian continued to stroke his sweater. It looked like cashmere, silky and soft to the touch. I recalled that he had another like it, a red one. To a blind person, tactile pleasure was important, but it seemed an expensive way to enjoy oneself. The oil company personnel man had commented on Sebastian’s fondness for betting on horses. Perhaps that was now transformed into a liking for luxury.

I asked, “How come you still live at the Center, Sebastian? Herb tells me you were there when he arrived, and most residents leave within a year of being admitted.”

“I came a little after Mr. Clemente did. The reason I stay is I’ve got no place to go. Most of the others have resources or family, but I’m alone in the world.”

“You don’t have any money? Surely your former company must have made you some sort of settlement.”

“They did.” He sipped his brandy, licking his lips appreciatively. “Sixty thousand dollars worth. It was a nice nest-egg, but some of it I spent and the rest I made a bad investment with. I lost it all. Never was very lucky with money.”

“What kind of investment?”

“Oh, one of those get-rich-quick schemes. I don’t want to talk about it. It depresses me.”

He’d probably invested in Arizona desert land or a Ponzi scheme. I finished my brandy. It was time I got on with my search for whatever Molly had hidden away.

“Thanks for the drink, Sebastian,” I said. “I have to be going now.”

“So soon?”

“Duty calls.”

“You working tonight?”

“Yes.”

“You’re an ambitious young lady.”

But it wasn’t ambition that drove me right now. It was curiosity, coupled with a strong desire to see justice done.