Murder in the Marketplace (23 page)

“Drake, that would be.”

“Yes, that’s him. Well, he said they were just trying to eliminate extraneous people. He asked me about several others I didn’t know and had never seen, and then he asked about you—if you’d been hanging around after Jenifer’s death, if I’d seen you with Bill, if I’d seen Bill—you know the kind of stuff.”

“And had you?”

“Seen you?” He laughed again, a little uneasily. “Of course not. I told the detective I hadn’t seen anything at all.”

“Do they think Bill saw something, and that’s why he died?”

Curtis fidgeted with the tassel on the broad arm of the sofa. “Well,” he said in a burst of candor. “Bill had a tendency to want to cash in. He was always spying, you saw that.” I nodded. “Once he told me that he knew I was a faggot, and what was it worth to me for him to keep quiet.” Curtis giggled. “I had to tell him, absolutely nothing! I came out of the closet a long time ago. Now that I’m on disability, I don’t even have coworkers to shock. Bill was a little disappointed, I think. People like him really flourish in a closed society.”

“So he might have seen something, offered someone the same kind of deal, and ended up dead.” I shook my head. “I’m confused. I still can’t figure out what a girl like Jenifer Paston could know that would make her a murder victim.”

“Oh, any number of things,” Curtis said, surprisingly. “I’ve been thinking about this. Jenifer was going through a religious conversion, you know. I asked Clarice about it yesterday when she was here moving out, and she told me a little. Clarice is deeply into it. She got divorced, and had some kind of affair, and was pretty unhappy for a while, until she started seeing this guru-type guy. Sounded like a mixture of AA and TM to me. Anyway, she had to go around for a while telling everyone how they had wronged her and that she forgave them, and the bad things she’d done that they were supposed to forgive her for. It was boring, believe me.” Curtis sighed. “It turned out that I had wronged her by planting calla lilies in the planter box downstairs when she’d wanted to plant dahlias but hadn’t gotten around to it yet. And she’d had evil thoughts about my perversity.”

“How—daunting.” I drained my glass, but didn’t put it down anywhere. All the horizontal surfaces seemed too beautiful for a water glass to mar.

“So anyway, Jenifer was getting into this, too. We had a long talk at the mailbox a couple of weeks ago, and she told me how it was making such a difference to her, and she was really going to clear the negative things out of her life. She looked a little grim when she said that. I made some remark like you just did—that such a nice young girl couldn’t have that much to clear away, and she said, ‘You’d be surprised, Curtis. You’d be surprised.’ Just like that.” He shook his head. “Guess someone didn’t like whatever it was she was going to clear away.”

This seemed to me a much more nebulous motive than the jealousy propounded by Claudia.

“So what could Bill Aronson have seen?” I was really speaking to myself but Curtis answered.

“Oh, the car, I should think.”

“What car?” I gaped at him.

“The car of whoever killed Jenifer.” Curtis spoke simply, as if it must be self-evident. “Bill was kind of a crank about parking spaces. They’re assigned, you know. If anyone transgressed—if visitors parked in someone else’s space, he was livid. He didn’t even like it when people parked at the curb, because he used his assigned space for this old truck he was working on, so he wanted the curb space for his Chevette. He took pictures of any unfamiliar license plates. Once he even went so far as to find out from the DMV who was visiting me—hoping, I guess, to uncover some raging fag romance.” He grinned at me lopsidedly. “He was very frustrated to learn it was just my physical therapist. I would have told him if he’d asked, but he was so secretive. I figure he got the goods on Jenifer’s killer and applied some pressure.”

“The car.” I shook my head. “I was here that day, knocking on doors. He didn’t answer. How could he have seen any car if he wasn’t here?”

“Was that Wednesday?” Curtis leaned forward. “He was here, more than likely. He’s off—he was off on Wednesdays. Probably just didn’t answer the door. Also, he had some kind of camera rigged up to take pictures automatically—his bedroom overlooked the street, you know. The police took the camera away after I told them about it. Of course, Bill probably developed the film as soon as he heard about Jenifer’s death. He’d be tickled to think he could profit from something like that.”

“He wouldn’t have committed suicide?”

Curtis looked thoughtful. “I didn’t know him that well,” he said apologetically, as if this were a fault. “But I would have said no. A person like that doesn’t blame himself when things go wrong. And that’s what suicide is—taking it out on yourself instead of on other people. If something had been bad enough for Bill to want to kill himself over it, he probably wouldn’t have kept it a secret. Really,” Curtis said mildly, swirling the coffee in his cup, “it’s surprising he lived as long as he did, given his little hobby.”

I left Curtis’s place, kicking myself a little for coming. I had hoped to uncover something that wouldn’t mean anything to the police—something Curtis wouldn’t have thought of telling them. But Drake was good at getting that stuff out of people, and he’d obviously squeezed Curtis dry—plus getting actual physical evidence, if Bill Aronson had taken pictures. Sleuthing wasn’t my strength. All I could see was that if the “suicides” were actually murders, anyone could have done them—Jason, for instance, because he was enraged by what Jenifer had told his fiancée she’d “remembered.” I wondered if she could have been similarly influenced in some other direction. Perhaps she had “remembered” another episode—a rape, a crime—that would discredit someone else.

It wasn’t likely. I just couldn’t see anything compelling enough in Jenifer’s life to cause it to be snuffed out like that.

I had gotten through a few pages of the register before talking to Curtis; there was just one more block to go, and then I’d be finished. I didn’t want to go home. Amy was probably still downtown, and Renee would be raging around looking for prey to vent her spleen on. I drove past Rinconada on the way home, wishing I could swim, but the lap-swimming hours are curtailed on summer afternoons, and it was already too late. I could hear the kids yelling and splashing when I went by.

I wanted to get back to writing. I wanted to get on with the article for
Smithsonian.
I wanted to be free of sudden death and crime forever, though I’d settle for a few placid years.

Renee popped out of the house as soon as I drove up. “Where have you been?” She seemed more than usually agitated.

“Around.” I got out of the. bus, pushing past her.

“I need to call home. Why don’t you have a phone, anyway? What are you trying to hide?”

“I’m trying to avoid expense,” I said, remembering my vow to be civil, if possible. "There are pay phones downtown, Renee.”

“Impossible. Too much noise. You used a phone to call me. Where is it?”

She’d been through the living room, that was certain. The Hide-a-bed was still stretched out like a sleeping monster. My desk was disordered, the stacks of different projects askew on its scarred surface. The doors to the built-in bookcases next to the fireplace were swinging, and a couple of books had fallen to the floor.

Renee pushed in behind me. I turned and looked at her, and she took a step back.

“I—thought you must have a phone,” she stammered, glancing at the disorder. Then she drew herself up. “I looked everywhere for it, and then Amy finally told me on her way out to goodness knows where that you didn’t have one. Don’t worry, I’ll straighten your little place.”

“You pawed through my desk.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She glanced away, a spot of color on each cheek. “It’s been a mess since I got here.”

“It was my mess.” I still haven’t really adapted to having a computer. I had to print out each of my projects at every stage, instead of just doing the rewrite onscreen, like all the rest of the writers I know. That makes for a lot of paper, I admit; but I had developed a system for keeping track of each revision, and it was recycled micro-perf, anyway.

I sorted the pages of the article about spring perennials from the proposals I had been trying to finish for the last few days. Behind me, Renee huffed a little as she pushed the Hide-a-bed framework into its womb.

When I turned, she was putting the cushions on—with the zippers facing out, I noticed. Considering that I had spent three years living in a Volkswagen bus, I was kind of embarrassed about my territorial feelings for my house.

Renee mistook my smile for a sneer. “Look, I’d leave in an instant if I could get Amy to listen to me.” Her voice was loud, defensive. It was the tone of voice in which my family had always communicated; I supposed she learned it through seventeen years of close association. It made my soul wince.

“You said she’d do as she was told.”

Renee collapsed onto the sofa, ignoring the little gouge she got from the zipper tab. “She doesn’t understand,” she wailed. “I want what’s best for my daughter. How can she just walk away from me when I’m helping her for her own good?”

“Maybe she has her own ideas about her own good. Did she say when she’s coming back?” I’d dropped her downtown before lunch; it was after two. She must have met some of her new friends.

“I don’t know.” Tears led Renee’s mascara gently down her cheeks. She glanced around for a tissue. I handed her the box that was on my desk, and she clutched it, her shoulders shaking, wiping and blowing alternately. I turned away until the snuffling ended.

“You have to get this settled.” I spoke without turning back. Behind me, there was a last trumpeting nose-blow.

“I’m trying.” Renee’s voice was wobbly. “I just don’t know what else to do.”

“Leave her here.” I didn’t mean to say those words. Once they slipped out, though, I couldn’t call them back.

“I really do have to call home.” Renee touched me on the shoulder. She was subdued, now. But more tears and hysteria were doubtless on tap.

Drake’s car wasn’t in his parking spot. If Renee called collect, he might never know she’d used his phone. I felt delicate about letting people use his phone when they weren’t preapproved.

I sighed. “Okay. I’ll show you the phone. Collect or credit-card calls only. Keep it short. And you can’t use it again unless Drake’s there, and you get his permission.”

The key was in my pocket; I’d taken all the keys off the peg by the door when Renee had first arrived, in case her snooping led her into the few locked areas of my life.

The message light blinked rapidly on Drake’s answering machine. I thought of leaving it alone, but one of those messages might be for me.

“Wait in the living room,” I told Renee. “Don’t snoop around; Drake’s a cop, and he can tell when someone’s been at his stuff better than I can.”

She flushed. “What a rude thing to say.”

“Snooping’s a rude thing to do. Just have patience while I check the messages, and you can make your phone call.”

The first message was from Drake to me. “Liz. I want to talk to you. I’ll be back around two. Be there.”

I didn’t really want to talk to Drake, but he was using a tone of voice you can’t argue with.

The second message was just a name, phone number, and “I’ll call you back” for Drake. I made a note of it on the pad by the phone.

The third was a man’s voice, hesitant. “Uh, I’m looking for Liz Sullivan.” There was a weak cough. The man seemed to be whispering. “If you get this, Liz, it’s Ed. I’m in the hospital. I need to see you.” More hoarse coughing. “As soon as possible.”

The answering machine beeped and fell silent. I rewound it and looked at the note I’d jotted about Ed’s message.

Renee came in when she heard me punching the hospital’s phone number. “Hey, I’m supposed to get to call.”

“I’ll just take a minute.” The switchboard answered, and I asked for Ed Garfield’s room. The phone rang four times before the operator came back on.

“He must be there,” I told her. “He’s sick.”

“Maybe he’s in PT or X-ray or something.” She sounded bored. “I’ll give you the nurses’ station.”

The nurses’ station answered and put me on hold in one fell swoop. I waited. Renee waited, her fingers tapping impatiently on the little telephone table.

“This is ridiculous. How long are you going to wait?” Renee glanced at her watch. “Andy will be on the golf course pretty soon.”

I hung up. “Go ahead. Make it snappy.”

Turn about was fair play. I went in the living room to give her privacy. But that loud, defensive tone of voice was easy to hear. And Renee’s voice got louder as she spoke.

“I’m telling you, she won’t come! Short of handcuffing her, I don’t know what to do.” A pause. “Well, maybe you’d better just come on out and do it, then. I sure as hell won’t! You don’t know how stubborn she’s being.” Another pause. Her voice got lower, but I could still hear words.

“. . . . uncooperative . . .  refuses . . . shack, really . . .  can’t understand . . . rest of the summer?”

Another pause. “Well, that’s the best I can do,” Renee said angrily. “Maybe I’ll just stay here with her, and you can take care of yourself for a change!”

The phone crashed into its cradle. I went back in the kitchen as Renee stood up. Her mouth made a tight line, and her eyes were narrowed. I opened the back door. “Let’s go."

She stomped out, still mad at Andy. I hoped she’d forgotten to memorize Drake’s number. Our lives would be living hell if she had.

By the time I locked the back door she was halfway to my place. I let her get inside before I opened fire on my own.

“Amy will be home soon, most likely.” I glanced at the clock in my kitchen. “You have until I get back to settle this with her. I can’t stop you from staying in town, Renee. But you don’t stay here. I’m not running a boardinghouse for warring relatives.”

She tossed her head. “There are motels around, I’m sure. Apartments.”

“That’s right,” I said pleasantly. “They’re expensive, and around Stanford graduation, which is now, they’re really booked up. But you’ll probably find a place, although you may have to go to Redwood City.”