Seven Kinds of Death (17 page)

“You were telling me about finding Victoria’s body,” he said when he sat down across from her. She told him about it again.

The storm seemed very far away now. No lightning flash penetrated the lounge, and the thunder was muted, the wind vanquished by masonry and steel. In a while someone opened a door out front, and another one in the back, and a breeze flowed through.

“Think back to the elevator ride up,” Charlie said, gazing past her with a faraway look. “When Max found the roses, did Tootles admit she had sent them?”

After a moment Constance shook her head. Tootles had looked embarrassed, she remembered.

“Right. And she told you that Johnny ordered them in her name. Everywhere we’ve turned, we keep running smack dab into Tootles and her lies, don’t we? Why would she lie about that?”

Constance felt her throat tighten painfully. “What are you thinking?”

“We both came here believing she wouldn’t murder anyone. I think she’s counting on that more than she’d admit. But she would, you know, given the right incentive, the right circumstances. Look at her, an aging, nearly penniless woman, a failed artist who is running a school that could be put out of business any day, and along comes a rich man who is crazy about her. She hooks him and she’d do anything to keep him, even destroy her own life’s work. Then, suppose one day Max comes home in a state of shock. Musselman’s found out something, they argued, Musselman got shoved off the balcony, and Max will go to prison. Protecting Max would be incentive enough, I believe.” He paused, as if considering his own words.

“You’re making the state’s case,” Constance said in a low voice.

He nodded, still looking beyond her. “Everywhere, the roadblocks we run into are hers,” he said. “She threw everyone off the track by messing up her own work. She ordered the flowers, and then denied it because she has to maintain the attitude that she doesn’t give a damn about the condos, or anything to do with them. A lie. Of course, she cares desperately. Max is her financial freedom and first Musselman and then Victoria Leeds threatened to strip it from her. And,” he added soberly, “she could have slipped an extra key to the condos to Victoria Leeds, told her to go up there and wait for her so they could talk. When Johnny’s group arrived, it would have been a simple thing for Victoria to keep out of sight.” He drew in a breath and shook his head sadly. “And it was Tootles, remember, who invited Paul, believing he was still Victoria’s lover. Invite one, get both.”

“But she claims that Johnny insisted on asking Paul.”

“The problem,” he said thoughtfully, “is that she says a lot of things, and you have to root around them like a pig after truffles trying to decide which is true, which is a blatant lie.”

“You’re scaring me, Charlie. You really are.”

He pulled his gaze back from that distant horizon and focused on her. “About that party you intend to throw, the séance, let’s discuss it.”

“I won’t let you talk me out of it,” she said hotly.

Charlie started to say something, but the lights came back on; they both blinked after the dimness. A group of people entered the lounge, laughing, talking. “Let’s go up,” he said, reaching for her hand across the table. “There’s a lot to discuss. You know, we should use candles more often, travel with them, use them every evening.”

His face had turned soft, his eyes seemed to glow. Absurdly she felt a touch of warmth on her cheeks. Then her indignation at his betrayal of Tootles flooded in and she would have withdrawn her hand, but his grasp tightened and they stood and walked from the lounge hand in hand.

When Constance got up the next morning, she found Charlie in their sitting room with a tray that contained a large pot of coffee, sweet rolls, a doughnut, juice, and half a grapefruit. The grapefruit was for her, she knew. He was sprawled on the sofa, the telephone at his ear, another doughnut in his hand, grinning like a kid completing his baseball card collection. She blew him a kiss and went back for her shower, and to dress.

“Well,” she asked, rejoining him a few minutes later, toweling her hair.

“Well indeed. This is the way. Push a button and it’s breakfast. Why don’t we ever have doughnuts at our house? Push another button and the sheriff says, yes sir, I’ll get right on it. Push another button and a beautiful blonde strolls through.”

She picked up a pillow and threw it at him. He ducked, laughing. She left to comb her hair.

“What did you tell the sheriff?” she asked, when she came back this time and poured herself coffee.

“Not a thing yet. We’re to meet him at five, compare notes, here in the lounge. Funny thing is the sheriff can investigate Musselman’s death all he wants, but not the Leeds murder. That’s state territory. Tough. Anyway, that leaves us a whole day to get our act together. Just so we get back by five. What’d I’d like to do is meet Debra Saltzman and her friends.”

She tasted the grapefruit. It was so acidic, so green she felt her whole body cringe; Charlie laughed. “I told you they’re bad for you. Have a doughnut.”

When they went down to the lobby they found two messages in their box, one for each of them. Charlie read his first:
I can tell you something about the crates that were opened. I’ll be in my office at the school from eleven to twelve. Meet me then.
It was signed Claud Palance.

Constance read hers aloud:
You have to come to the retreat at eleven thirty. I have to talk to you. Don’t bring Ch. Come alone. T.

Charlie nodded gravely, thanked the desk clerk, took Constance’s arm and they walked out into the day that had been remarkably freshened by the storm. “Divide and conquer,” he murmured as they walked to the car. “Get me out of the way and work on you. God only knows what ammunition she planned to use.”

“Both of them?” she asked. “You really think so?”

“Don’t you?”

After a moment she nodded. Tootles’s work; she really was getting desperate.

“Now, let’s see,” he said behind the wheel a moment later. “Out that way, turn left, five, six miles to the shopping mall. Right?”

She knew he did not need any confirmation. They drove directly to the mall and went into a discount store where he bought some paint thinner, turpentine, a sponge, a large bunch of hideous plastic flowers, and a bottle of cologne. He surveyed his purchases thoughtfully, then nodded, and they paid for them and left. It was ten thirty.

The day was starting to warm up and would become very warm before dark, he felt certain, but now it was nice. Sparkling clean after the rain; a few trees had blown down here and there, but there was no drastic damage. A good cleansing storm.

“It’s about an hour in to Washington,” she said, thinking about it. “We’ve never been to the Space Museum, you know. We could do that.” They had an appointment to see Debra Saltzman and Sunny Door at three thirty.

“Righto,” he said and turned the key.

The day had been designed to make him feel humble and small, he decided late in the afternoon. First the Space Museum had achieved this nicely, putting him out there where he was of less importance than a single raindrop in the ocean. Lunch had been in a restaurant where the head-waiter was pseudo-French, the worst kind, and regarded Charlie as a tourist from Nebraska or worse. And then Debra Saltzman’s apartment, penthouse apartment, he corrected himself. It seemed that her father was
the
Saltzman, heir to one of the great fortunes—his daddy had invented one of the dry soup mixes and had gone on to dry salad dressing mixes, dry juice mixes… . It was enough to make Charlie’s head ache. Debra was dressed in a silk pantsuit with a halter under the jacket; Sunny was in a running outfit with a green stripe down the leg. Both looked exceedingly rich.

“What I’d like,” he said to them, “is just a straight account of exactly what you saw and heard when Johnny Buell took you to the condo that night. Okay?”

“You think the killer and Victoria Leeds were already there, don’t you? The papers said that’s one of the theories,” Sunny said, leaning forward in her chair, her eyes gleaming. Two spots of red flared on her cheeks, then faded, leaving a beautiful, controlled apricot tan.

Charlie thought of it that way, a controlled tan, done to a turn, ripe for the picking… gravely he nodded. “That’s exactly what I think. And I think there’s a good chance that something you saw, or didn’t see, something you heard, or didn’t hear, might provide just what we need to wrap it up.”

“See?” Sunny said to Debra with a toss of her head. Her hair flowed like brushed silk with every movement she made.

“The point is we didn’t see or hear anything,” Debra said coolly.

“Maybe,” Charlie said. “Maybe you know more than you realize. Let’s start with approaching the gate.”

Watching, Constance thought how very good he was with these young women. He was not deferential in a way they were used to. He had dismissed the apartment, which was breathtaking, with a stunning view of the city, just as he had dismissed the slight inflection with which Sunny had said her last name
Door
. Names, fortunes, none of that interested him, it was clear, but what did interest him was the quality of their perceptions, what they had seen, what they had heard, what they had thought of it all. Constance doubted if anyone ever had treated them with intellectual interest in their young lives.

And what it came out to, she also thought, was a repeat of what they had learned already. No one saw or heard anything. He took them to the gate, through it, down into the basement, up the elevator, and so on until they were back in the Continental and on the way to the city once more. Nothing new. No one else was there. Debra had left her purse in the elevator when they went into the apartment, she had started to go back for it, then didn’t because they would leave in just a second anyway. Left it where? he asked. On the shelf under the mirror, she said. She put it down to comb her hair, and forgot it. He nodded. On to the smell of paint in the apartment, the tarps, the curved hallway… . What had they talked about with the watchman? Both women filled in the brief conversation; it had lasted only a minute or two and then Johnny had come back.

Both young women had treated his interrogation as an adventure when it began, but they were bored with it quickly, bored with having to back up to fill in details that seemed so minute they couldn’t make any difference. Like where everyone stood in the apartment, in the elevator, on the ground waiting for Johnny to come back. Debra said he wanted to know their lines of sight, didn’t he? And why didn’t he just say so if that was it? He nodded. That’s it, he admitted, and they worked with a little sketch, then another. Where were they when Johnny opened the trunk and tossed in his briefcase? Sunny had looked inside; the trunk was big and empty. Debra had watched a contrail point to the city. Where were they when Johnny went back inside? Standing by the car, talking. No one passed them there. Did they actually see Pierce follow them to the gate when they drove out?

“He was walking after us,” Debra said. “I saw him, and we didn’t see anyone else,” she said finally in irritation. “Believe me, I wouldn’t lie about it. What for? We didn’t see anyone!”

Finally he thanked them, and he and Constance rode the elevator down twenty-two floors and emerged to the street where it was hot and muggy and crowded with tourists. You could tell the tourists because of the cameras, and the women didn’t wear hose, and they were sunburned to a degree that looked painful.

“Well,” Constance said judiciously, “you told them what they didn’t see or hear could be important.”

He laughed. “Let’s get on the road. This is a sauna.”

They were nearly an hour late for their meeting with Bill Gruenwald. He was drinking a beer when they arrived; he looked tired and discouraged.

Charlie was tired, too; he had not counted on the tourists, on the heavy traffic, on the heat that had increased mile by mile as they neared the city. It was not fair, he thought vehemently, for Constance to look the way she did after such a day. She was in beige pants and a beige top with a white belt, white sandals; she looked as if she had stepped out of a cool advertisement only minutes ago. He was dirty, sweaty, crumpled, and the tension he had put aside all day had returned vengefully, much worse, he was certain, than it would have been if he had admitted it throughout the day instead of shunting it off like that.

He liked Bill Gruenwald and didn’t want to play games with him, but on the other hand Gruenwald had been ordered off the case, and Charlie needed him. Game time, he told himself unhappily.

EIGHTEEN

“Sorry we’re late,”
Charlie said as they neared the booth.

Gruenwald stood up and glanced at his watch. “Forget it. Technically, I’m off work. I know a little place you might like, few miles down the road. Good food there. Buy you a beer.”

“He really doesn’t want to be seen with us, does he?” Constance murmured in the car a few minutes later, as Charlie followed the sheriff along a narrow winding country road that was a series of sharp curves.

“Nope. I reckon he’s vulnerable politically. Case goes haywire, he gets it in the neck. Way it goes.”

The sheriff’s turn signal began to flash; Charlie slowed down. They left the blacktop road for a newer one of glaring white concrete, and just ahead there was a sprawling log structure with a sign: Harley’s Haven.

“We are there,” he said, pulling into the parking lot behind Bill Gruenwald. A few other cars were in the lot, which was quite spacious, and looked well used. Watch out for weekends after nine, Charlie thought. When he glanced at Constance it was to see a look of concentrated absence on her face. That was how he thought of it; she was not home, but off somewhere thinking. She could concentrate herself away during lectures, during Christmas-rush shopping, during movies, during his long discursive discussions with Phil Stern, his lifelong friend, anything.

Once or twice that expression had come during one of their infrequent arguments; he had stormed out of the house wanting to kick a cat or dog, or take a swing at a lion, something. When he returned, she could pick up the argument exactly where they had left off, and he never would learn what had taken her away briefly.

He touched her arm, bringing her back as cool and poised as ever. But he knew that if she had not yet finished whatever it was, it would be up to him to carry on the conversation with Bill Gruenwald, who would never realize she was paying no attention at all.

Inside Harley’s Haven there was a nice dance floor, and two dining rooms, one separate from the music area; it was dim and quiet at this hour. They sat in there. A red-haired man came out from the back to greet them. “How’s things, Bill? What’ll it be?”

“Paddy,” Bill Gruenwald said, then nodded to Charlie and Constance and mentioned their first names. “Dos Equis for me.”

“Good ribs coming along,” Paddy said. “Belinda’s cooking, you know, her own sauce?”

Gruenwald groaned. “I’ll hang around for them.” When they all had ordered their drinks, he said to Constance, “Spare ribs barbecued by Belinda is one of the reasons some folks around here aren’t hurrying very fast to get to heaven. When she goes, they’ll trail along after her.”

Charlie and Constance decided they would hang around and wait for the ribs also. Bill Gruenwald began to talk about some of Charlie’s cases he had followed; he asked intelligent questions. Charlie gave him reasoned, intelligent answers, and Constance went back to her “other space” where she could think undisturbed.

They were well into the ribs before she came back fully. The ribs were as good as promised. They came with a sweet/sour cole slaw, biscuits, green beans cooked with ham most of the afternoon, boiled new potatoes, collards with vinegar and green onions and a bowl of fresh black-eyed peas.

It was time to slow down, Charlie knew, or he would have to stop long before he wanted to. Trouble was, he wanted to eat for a week; the motel restaurant, decent as it was, left an empty spot after every meal there. Mediocre food did that, left an emptiness, and you just ate more and more trying to find the one thing that would touch and fill that hole, and never did.

“Charlie,” Bill Gruenwald said, “Belmont is getting antsy. I think he’ll hold off until early next week and then go calling with a warrant.”

“Good heavens!” Constance said indignantly. “With what? He can’t have any more than he did yesterday, or the day before that.”

Bill Gruenwald nodded. “That’s one of the problems. He isn’t getting anything else, and he’s got Marion Olsen; a motive, the ruined art pieces; time, she’s the only one who had the time.”

“Have you given him anything about Musselman yet?” Charlie asked.

“Tried. Only way that makes much difference is if the reason is political; someone paid off someone for the variance, or else graft; you know, order it at a buck, write down two, pocket one, pay one. Either way, it gets political and nasty. Belmont doesn’t like politics mixed in with his murders, one of the problems. And he wants that to stay the way it was closed, accidental death. Even if we came up with something besides accidental death, he seems to think it’s a different case altogether. And it could be, you know.
This
case concerns a bunch of nutty artists, that’s how he sees it.”

“Well, it really does,” Charlie said. “A nuttier bunch you aren’t likely to find. Look, come to the party tonight. You want to see nuts in action, be there.”

Gruenwald hesitated. “A party?”

“Party. Séance. Whatever. I don’t intend to take part, old buddy. I intend to sit it out in the dining room, or back porch, or somewhere.” When the sheriff still hesitated, Charlie dipped his fingers in his water glass and then wiped them carefully. You couldn’t get barbecue sauce off without water, he thought, and this was not the sort of place that brought hot lemon-scented towels or water bowls. He paid close attention to the task of cleaning his hands as he said, “If I were you. Bill, I’d be there tonight. I mean, if I didn’t have anything better to do, no new movie in town that needs my immediate attention, no hoodlums on big mean bikes roaring around, no shootings in the saloons, why then I’d consider this a sort of special deluxe entertainment opportunity and I sure would be there.”

“What time?” Bill Gruenwald asked resignedly.

“We probably shouldn’t arrive together. And we plan to get there about nine thirty. Maybe you could have a reason to drop in, you know, a few more questions to ask Max or Spence or someone. You ever find out what time Spence left his shop that Friday?”

“Yeah. Five. Made great time, got to the house at ten to six.”

“Uh huh. Anyway, party time, nine thirty or so. Am I remembering right? Was there blueberry pie on that menu?”

All through dinner Toni watched Paul Volte; whenever he glanced in her direction, she quickly looked away, but then found herself watching him again. He ate very little and drank wine and looked sad. It made her want to cry for him to look so sad all the time. A few times when Ba Ba addressed him quite directly, he had looked so blank it was as if he had gone deaf.

Johnny was tired, he had announced at the start of the meal; he said nothing more after that.

Spence was going on about two artists who had got in trouble with NEA over what some called obscene art, and they defended as antiwar statements. Spence was hanging their show next week, he said unhappily, and he expected pickets, demonstrations, God knew what all. Fire bombs, he added gloomily.

Only Max seemed normal; he listened to Spence with interest, and he watched Marion with such affection that it was touching to see.

And Marion was angry about something. She scowled and cursed and banged her glass down too hard, and let her silverware clatter too often, but she didn’t really say anything.

All in all it was a very strange and awkward dinner; as soon as it was over, Marion said, “Paul, Ba Ba, I need to talk to you. Let’s go to the office.”

Toni helped Mrs. Weber clear the table and scrape dishes in the kitchen. A few minutes later when she returned to get the tablecloth, she saw the sheriff at the table with Johnny and Max, looking at a crude map.

“Hi,” the sheriff said. “Are we in the way here?”

She shook her head. The tablecloth had been folded and pushed across the table to the end. Slowly she picked it up, gathered the napkins, and started to leave.

“Like I said,” the sheriff was saying, “we figure they must have already been inside the complex by seven. You had to unlock the gate to drive through, but did you look at the other door, the single door?”

Johnny shook his head. “I never gave it a thought. It was closed, or I would have noticed, but I didn’t examine it.”

“Of course not. No reason to. Pierce says it was locked at six, but I wonder if he really tried it, or just gave it a glance.”

Max said sharply, “If he said it was locked, it was. He’s a good watchman.”

Toni went on into the kitchen. She felt as if something that had just started to loosen in her throat had tightened all the way again. Why didn’t they finish? Be done with it? She wanted to scream at the sheriff with his bland voice, his bland face, his silly little mustache… . Without warning, she was seeing his face then, not the way it had looked just now in the dining room, but strangely different, with a deep hurt, a deep secret: a private self she had not seen before.

She dropped the tablecloth on the kitchen worktable and wandered out of the room, down the hall toward the studio, thinking of nothing at all, but examining the face that had presented itself to her, turning it this way and that in her mind, following a line that started at the corner of the eye, down the side of his face where it was smoothed out by his rather high cheekbone…

As she passed the closed office door, she could hear raised voices, including Spence’s, although Marion had not even invited him to the little talk. Toni continued past the door, on to the studio, to her work space at a long table against the wall.

Not soapstone, too soft, too smooth. Gneiss, or even sandstone. A reddish sandstone, with yellow in it. She reached across the table to a lump of modeling clay, but when she drew it closer, the image vanished. Now she could see only the bland sheriff with his bland mustache, his bland eyes. She stared ahead at the wall; there was a crack in the paint, small bits had chipped off exposing the undercoat that was whiter than the finish paint. She pinched off a bit of clay and pressed it against the crack. She filled in the crack from as high as she could reach to where it disappeared behind the table. Tears flowed down her cheeks as she plugged the crack with the soft gray clay.

Then she heard a door slam and Marion’s harsh voice yelling, “Goddamn it! There’s no choice! We do it her way! You hear me? And you behave or I’ll get you by the balls and I won’t let go! And Ba Ba, you screw up with this and I’ll slap you silly from here to Christmas! You got that straight?” Her voice receded, still at full volume apparently, but she was hurrying away, her bare feet making no noise. Toni ran to the bathroom that was between the office and studio; she closed the door, locked it, and then pressed her forehead against it hard. After several very deep breaths, she turned and washed her face, and felt she was as ready as she was going to get that night. It was time for Constance and Charlie to show up, party time.