K Is for Killer

by Sue Grafton

  Berlyn was approaching, the big guy right in her wake. Her chair tilted perilously. I grabbed for it, but not quickly enough to prevent her bag and leather jacket from tumbling on the floor in a heap.

  Chapter 19

  * * *

  I'd caught a glimpse of Berlyn's mouth, which opened with annoyance when she realized the chair had toppled over. She was looking sweaty and cross, her perpetual state, I suspected. I turned my back abruptly so I was facing the bar. I drank my beer, heart thumping. I heard her exclamation of surprise. "Look at this. Gaaaad..." She dragged the profanity out into three musical notes as she scooped up her belongings, apparently pausing to check the contents of her purse. "Somebody's been in here."

  "In your bag?" the guy said.

  "Yes, Gary, in my bag," she said, voice heavy with sarcasm.

  "Anything missing?" He seemed concerned, but not freaked out. Maybe he was used to her tone of voice.

  She said, "Hey."

  I could tell she was speaking in my direction.

  She poked me in the shoulder. "I'm talking to you."

  I turned, feigning innocence. "Excuse me?"

  "Oh, my God. What the hell are you doing here?"

  "Well, hi, Berlyn. I thought it might be you," I said. "I saw Trinny a minute ago and she said you were around someplace. What's the problem?"

  She gave the bag a shake as if it were a naughty pup. "Don't give me that bullshit. Have you been in here?"

  I put a hand on my chest and looked around with puzzlement. "I've been in the ladies' room. I just sat down," I said.

  "Ha ha. Very funny."

  I looked up at the guy with her. "Is she on drugs?"

  He rolled his eyes. "Come on now, Berl, settle down, okay? She wasn't bothering you. Give the chick a break."

  "Shut up." Her blond hair looked nearly white in the flickering light from above. Her eyes were darkly lined, mascara separating her lashes into tiny rows of spikes. She fixed me with a look of singular intensity, swelling the way a cat does when it senses a threat.

  I let my gaze roam across her face, resting on the diamond hoop earrings, which fairly quivered at her ears. I kept my smile pleasant. "Do you have something to hide, perchance?"

  She leaned forward aggressively, and for a moment I thought she might snatch me up by the front of my turtleneck. She put her face so close to mine that I could smell her beery breath, which was not that big a treat. "What did you say?"

  I spoke clearly, enunciating. "I said, your earrings are nice. I wonder where you got them."

  Her face went blank. "I don't have to talk to you."

  I shot a look at the guy just to see how he was taking this. He didn't seem all that interested. Already I found I liked him better than her. "How about this? You want to tell me how you acquired so much money in your savings accounts?"

  The beefy guy looked from me to her and back, apparently confused. "You talkin' to me or her?"

  "Actually, to her. I'm a private investigator, working on a job," I said. "I don't think you want to get in the middle of this, Gary. Right now we're fine, but it's going to get ugly in a minute."

  He held up his hands. "Hey, you two have a beef, you can settle it without me. See you round, Berl. I'm outta here."

  I said, "Bye-bye," to him and then to Berlyn, "My car's outside. You want to talk?"

  We sat in my car. The parking lot outside Neptune's Palace seemed to have as much going on as the interior. Two beat cops were having a solemn chat with a kid who seemed to have trouble standing upright. In the aisle ahead of us and two cars over, a young girl was clinging to someone's fender while she emptied the contents of her stomach. The temperature was dropping, and the sky above us seemed clear as glass. Berlyn wasn't looking at me.

  "You want to start with the earrings?"

  "No." Sullen. Uncooperative.

  "You want to start with the money you stole from Lorna?"

  "You don't have to take that attitude," she said. "I didn't exactly steal."

  "I'm listening."

  She seemed to squirm, considering how much to "share" with me. "I'm telling you this in strictest confidence, okay?" she said.

  I held a hand up Scout-style. I love confidences, and the stricter the better. I'd probably rat her out, but she didn't have to know that.

  She weaseled around some more, mouth working while she decided how to put it. "Lorna called and told Mom she was going out of town. Mom didn't mention it to me 'til later, right before she went to work. I was upset because I had to talk to Lorna about this cruise to Mazatlan. She said she might be able to help me out, so I went over there. Her car was there, but her lights were out, and she didn't answer my knock. I figured she was out somewhere. I went back first thing in the morning, hoping I could catch her before she left."

  "What time was this?"

  "Maybe nine, nine-thirty. I was supposed to take the money to the travel agent by noon or I'd lose my deposit. I'd already given them a thousand dollars, and I had to have the balance or I'd forfeit everything I'd paid."

  "That was for the cruise you took last fall?"

  "Uhn-hun."

  "What made you think Lorna had money?"

  "Lorna always had money. Everybody knew what she did. Sometimes she was generous and sometimes not. It depended on her mood. Besides, she told me she'd help. She just about promised."

  I started to quiz her on the subject but decided it would be better to let that pass for now. "Go on."

  "Well, I knocked on the door, but she never answered. I saw her car was still there, and I thought maybe she was in the shower or something, so I opened the door and peeked in. She was on the floor. I just stood there and stared. I was so shocked I couldn't even think."

  "Was the door locked or unlocked the night before?"

  "I don't know. I didn't try. I didn't even think of it. Anyway, I touched her arm and she was really cold. I knew she was dead. I could tell just by looking. Her eyes were wide open, and she was staring. It was really gross."

  "What next?"

  "I just felt awful. It was horrible. I sat down and started crying." She blinked, staring through the windshield, which was a little dusty for my taste. I figured she was trying to conjure up a quick tear to impress me with the sincerity of her anguish.

  "You didn't call the police?" I asked.

  "Well, no."

  "Why not? I'm just curious about your frame of mind."

  "I don't know," she said grudgingly. "I was afraid they'd think I did it."

  "Why would they think that?"

  "I couldn't even prove where I was earlier because I was at home by myself. Mom was there, but she was sleeping, and Trinny still had a job back then. I mean, what if I was arrested? Mom and Daddy would have died."

  "I understand. You wanted to protect them," I said blandly.

  "I tried to think what to do. I was really screwed, you know? I'd just been praying for the money, and now it was too late. And poor Lorna. I felt so sorry for her. I kept thinking about all the things she wouldn't get to do, like get married, or have a baby. She'd never get to travel to Europe –"

  "So you did what?" I said, cutting in on her recital. Her voice was getting quavery.

  She took out a ratty tissue and dabbed at her nose. "Well. I knew where she kept her bank books, so I borrowed her driver's license and this passbook. I was so confused and upset, I didn't know what to do."

  "I can imagine. Then what?"

  "I got in my car and drove down to the valley and took some money out her savings."

  "How much?"

  "I don't remember. Quite a bit, I guess."

  "You closed the account, didn't you?"

  "What else was I supposed to do?" she said. "I figured once they found out she was dead, they'd freeze all her accounts like they did with my gramma. And then what good would it do? She promised she'd help. I mean, it wasn't like she'd turned me down or anything like that. She wanted me to have it."

  "What about her signature? How'd
you manage that?"

  "We write alike anyway because I taught her myself before she went to kindergarten. She'd always imitated my writing, so it wasn't that hard to imitate hers."

  "Didn't they ask for identification?"

  "Sure, but we look enough alike. My face is fuller, but that's about the only difference. You know, hair color, but everybody changes that. Later, when the news hit the paper, nobody seemed to put it together. I don't even think her picture ran in the paper down there."

  "What about the hank? Wasn't there a closing statement sent out?"

  "Sure, but all the mail comes to me at home. Everything from them I pulled out and threw away quick."

  "Well, almost everything," I said. "Then what?"

  "That's all."

  "What about the earrings?"

  "Oh, yeah. I probably shouldn't have done that." She made a face meant to signify regret and other profound emotional responses. "I've been thinking I should put the rest of it back."

  "Back where?"

  "We still have some of her clothes and stuff. I thought I could stick the jewelry in an old purse, like that was where she kept it. In the pocket of her winter coat or something, and then, you know, discover it and act all amazed."

  "That's certainly a plan," I said. I was missing something, but I couldn't figure out what. "Could we get back to the money for just a minute here? After you drove back from Simi, you still had Lorna's driver's license along with the cash. I'm trying to understand what you did next. Just so I can get a picture."

  "I don't understand. What do you mean?"

  "Well, her driver's license was listed on the police report, so you must have put it back."

  "Oh, sure. I put the license right back where it was. Yeah, that's right."

  "Uhn-hun. Like in her wallet or something?"

  "Right. Then I realized I better make it look like she'd closed the account herself, you know, like she took some money out before she left town."

  "I'm with you so far," I said with caution.

  "Well, everybody thought she was already gone, so all I had to do was create the impression that she was alive all day Friday."

  "Wait a minute. I thought this was Saturday. This all happened Friday?"

  "It had to be Friday. The bank's not even open on Saturday, and neither is the travel agent."

  My mouth did not actually drop open, but it felt as though it did. I turned to stare at her hilly, but Berlyn didn't seem to notice. She was caught up in her narrative and probably wasn't tuned to my look of astonishment. She was really the most amazing mix of cunning and stupidity, and way too old to be so unaware.

  "I went on home. I was really really upset, so I told Mom I had the cramps and went to bed. Saturday afternoon, I went back to her place and brought the mail in with the morning newspaper. I couldn't see any harm. I mean, dead is dead, so what difference did it make?"

  "What'd you do with the bank book?"

  "Kept it. I didn't want anybody to know the money was gone."

  "So you waited a month and opened a couple of savings accounts." I was monitoring myself, trying to keep from using what an English teacher would probably refer to as the screaming accusative verb tense. Berlyn must have picked up on it to some extent because she nodded, trying to look humble and repentant. Whatever she'd told herself in the ten months since Lorna died, I suspect it sounded different now that she was explaining it to me.

  "Weren't you worried about your fingerprints showing up at her place?" I said.

  "Not really. I wiped off everything I touched so my prints wouldn't show, but even if I slipped up, I figured I had a right to be there. I'm her sister. I've been there lots of times. Anyway, how can they prove when a fingerprint was made?"

  "I'm surprised you didn't buy yourself some new clothes or a car."

  "That wouldn't be right. I didn't ask her for that stuff."

  "You didn't ask her for the jewelry, either," I said tartly.

  "I figure Lorna wouldn't mind. I mean, why would she care? I was so heartbroke when I found her." She ceased making eye contact, and her expression took on a troubled cast. "Anyway, why would she begrudge me when there wasn't anything she could do by then?"

  "You do know you broke the law."

  "I did?"

  "Actually, you broke quite a few laws," I said pleasantly. I could feel my temper beginning to climb. It was like being on the verge of throwing up. I should have kept my mouth shut because I could feel myself losing it. "But here's the point, Berlyn. I mean, aside from grand theft, withholding evidence, tampering with a crime scene, obstructing justice, and God knows what other laws you managed to violate, you've completely fucked up the investigation of your own sister's murder! Some asshole's out there walking around free as a bird right this minute because of you, do you get that? What kind of fuckin' twit are you?"

  That's when she finally started crying in earnest.

  I leaned across the car and opened the door on her side. "Get out. Go home," I said. "Better yet, go to Frankie's and tell your mother what you did before it shows up in my report."

  She turned to me, nose red, mascara streaking down her cheeks, nearly breathless from my betrayal. "But I told you in strictest confidence. You said you wouldn't tell."

  "I didn't actually say that, but if I did, I lied. I'm really a wretched person. I'm sorry you didn't understand that. Now get out of my car."

  She got out and slammed the door, her grief having turned to fury in ten seconds flat. She put her face close to the window and yelled, "Bitch!"

  I started the car and backed out, so mad I nearly ran her down in the process.

  I started cruising the neighborhood, hoping to run into Cheney Phillips somewhere. Maybe he was on call, doing vice rounds like a doctor. Mostly I was looking for a way to keep occupied while I sorted through the implications of what Berlyn had said. No wonder J.D. was nervous, doing everything he could to fix the day and time of his departure with Leda. If Lorna was murdered Friday night or Saturday, they were in the clear. Run it back a day and everything was up for grabs again.

  I cut down along Cabana and headed toward CC's. Maybe Cheney was hanging out there. It was not quite midnight. The wind had picked up, moaning through the trees, blowing as if there were a storm in progress, though no rain fell. The surf was being churned up, a wild spray coming off the waves as they boomed against the shore. From a side street, to my left, I could hear a car alarm crying, and the sound seemed to carry like the howling of a wolf. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the flight of a dried palm frond that hurtled down from a tree and skittered across the road in front of me.

  There were very few cars in the parking lot at the Caliente Cafe. The place was quiet for a Friday night, with just a smattering of patrons and no sign of Cheney. Before I left, I used the pay phone and tried to reach Cheney at home. He was either out or not answering, and I hung up without leaving a message on his answering machine. I wasn't really sure what bothered me more, the story Berlyn had told me or Danielle's revelation about Lorna and Clark Esselmann.

  I took a detour through Montebello, feeling unsettled. The Esselmann estate was on a narrow lane, without sidewalks or street-lamps. My headlights whitewashed the road ahead. The wind was still blowing. Even with my car windows up, I could hear it whuffling through the grass. A big limb was down, and I had to slow to avoid it, my eyes following the low wall that edged along the property. All the landscape lights were out, and the house sat in darkness, its angular black shape discernible against the clay-colored sky. There was no moon at all. An owl sailed across the road, touching down briefly in the grassy field on the other side, rising up again with a small dark bundle in its grip. Some death is as silent as the flight of a bird, some prey as unprotesting as a knot of rags.

  The front gates were closed, and I could see little beyond the dark shapes of the junipers along the drive. I backed up and turned around, idling my engine while I debated what to do. Later, I'd wonder what might have happened if I'd
actually gone ahead and pressed the intercom button and announced myself. It probably wouldn't have made a difference, but one can never be sure. Finally I put the car in gear and headed back to my place, where I crept into bed. Above me, the wind blew dry leaves across the domed skylight like the scratchings of tiny feet, something pricking at my conscience while I tossed in sleep. Once, in the dead of night, I could have sworn a cold finger touched the side of my face, and I woke with a start. The loft was empty, and the wind had died to a whisper.

  My phone rang at noon. I'd been awake for an hour but unwilling to stir. Having completed my transmigration into the nocturnal realms, I found the notion of getting up any time before two repugnant. The phone rang again. It wasn't that I needed more sleep, I simply didn't want to face daylight. On the third ring, I reached for the phone and pulled it into bed with me, tucking the receiver up between my ear and pillow. "Hello."

  "This is Cheney."

  I propped myself on one elbow and ran a hand through my hair. "Well, hey. I tried calling you last night, but I guess you were out."

  "No, no. I was here," he said. "My girlfriend was over, and we turned the phone off at ten. What's going on with you?"

  "Oh, man, we gotta talk. All kinds of shit is coming down on this investigation."

  "You ain't heard the half of it. I just got a call from a buddy in the sheriff's department. Clark Esselmann died this morning in a freak accident."

  "He what?"

  "You're never going to believe this. The guy was electrocuted in his swimming pool. Dove in to swim some laps and got fried, I guess. The gardener was killed, too. Fellow jumped in to try to save him and died the same way he did. Esselmann's daughter said she heard a scream, but by the time she got out there, they were both dead. Luckily she figured out what was going on and flipped the circuit breaker."