“What?” he said, as way of greeting.
My first thought on seeing Alan Pinkerton up close was that this boy was big. Not heavy like his mother, although I could imagine that someday he’d have a gut on him. But this kid was half hormones, half steroids. He wore faded blue Levi’s and no shirt, and his hand was tucked just inside the waist of his pants, which he wore low enough on his hips that the darkened trail of hair leading to his genitals was just visible. Jess had said this was a good-looking boy, and on the surface I suppose he was. Tan, blond and muscled, I imagined he ranked right up there with the kind of boys high school girls would find attractive. But his eyes, a surprisingly light blue, were too close together and smallish. His lips were sensuous for a boy, but his mouth seemed mean. And the way he was looking at me, as if he were appraising me sexually, made me immediately uncomfortable.
“You must be Alan,” I said, digging in my pocket for a business card. “I’m Cassidy James, a private investigator. I’d like to ask you a few questions. Is there somewhere we could talk?”
“Whatever,” he said, a picture of nonchalance. “Come on.” He turned and I followed him down a dark hallway to his bedroom. Barbells blocked the doorway, and we stepped over them into a dimly lit room. His shades were drawn, and the walls were covered with heavy metal posters. Not a cheery room, but no sign of severed penises floating in jars either. Alan plopped onto his bed, drawing his knees up under his chin. He seemed too calm, I thought, to have been guilty of anything. Unless he was some kind of sociopath—the kind completely devoid of the guilt gene.
“The reason I wanted to talk to you, Alan, is because I thought you might be able to help me out. You see, last night there was a fire out on Pebble Cove, and a house burned down. Do you know anything about it?”
“No. Why should I?”
“Well, you know how fast news travels in Cedar Hills. I thought maybe you’d heard about it.”
“Yeah. So what?”
“Does that mean, yeah you heard about it? Or just yeah, go on.”
“I heard about it.”
“Okay, good. So you know it was the Hendersons’ house that burned down. How does that make you feel?”
His blank stare lasted an eon.
I tried again. “You were close to one of the family members, so I figured you might be upset.”
“No,” he said. “I couldn’t care less.” Nice guy. I kept going.
“Well, maybe I didn’t get the story straight. I heard that you and Mary were dating. Is that right?”
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” he said. Aha. At least the boy could speak in complete sentences. Maybe I was getting somewhere.
“Well, what makes it my business, Alan, is that the Hendersons were receiving threatening phone calls and then their house was burned down, and the police who are pretty good at putting two and two together think there might be a connection.”
“Then how come you’re here and not them?” he asked. Not as slow as his mother, apparently.
I ignored this question. “How many times did you actually call them before the house burned down?”
“I didn’t have nothing to do with that, and no one can say I did. I never threatened nobody, either. So what if I called her up? There’s no crime in that, is there?” His tone was threatening, daring me to find fault with his actions.
“Well, you were angry with Mary for not going out with you again. Is that right?”
“That whore?” he said, his voice rising. “No way. Stupid California bitch. I went out with her one time. A total waste of time. What a dog.”
Whore? Bitch? Dog? This boy had some anger.
“I thought she was the one that wouldn’t go out with you, Alan. That’s why you’re so angry with her.”
“Oh, yeah, right. Like I care. The only reason I even called her again was to tell her to stop spreading lies about me. I didn’t like her uppity attitude either, and I told her so.” He began cleaning the unusually long fingernail on his pinky finger with studied boredom.
“So how many times do you think you called her?”
He shrugged, toying with the hair below his navel.
“Just out of curiosity, Alan. Where were you last night? Around ten o’clock?”
He snorted, as if this were the most ridiculous question he could imagine. “I was with friends. You can check it out. We were at Dougie Martin’s house. His parents were home too. Anything else you want to know?”
This threw a whole new light on the matter. If Jess could verify Alan Pinkerton’s whereabouts last night, then I was barking up the wrong tree.
“Just a few more questions,” I said. “Did you happen to know the man who was killed a few days ago? Walter Trinidad?” The boy’s eyes shot up at me, then quickly looked away. An interesting reaction.
“Never even met him.”
“Do you smoke?” I asked.
“Sometimes. Why?”
“What brand?”
“Why?” he repeated.
“Just trying to sort things out, Alan. What brand?”
“You got some sort of warrant or something? ’Cause I don’t think I have to answer these questions. I don’t think whether I smoke or don’t smoke is any of your business. I don’t think you should even be here. I think you better leave.”
“Well, thanks for your help, Alan. I’ve enjoyed our little chat. If you can think of anything else that might help in these investigations, give me a call. I sure appreciate your assistance.”
I could see from the way he was looking at me that I had him confused. Here he’d tried to play tough guy and I was thanking him. He started to push himself off the bed.
“No need to get up, Alan, I can see myself out. And again, thanks for everything.”
Mrs. Pinkerton had lodged herself in an easy chair, a plate of brownies before her, and was so engrossed in the TV that she didn’t hear me leave. Outside, I gulped the fresh air, grateful to be out of the dark, overly warm house. Alan Pinkerton may not have had anything to do with Walter Trinidad’s murder or the Hendersons’ fire, but he had to be guilty of something. I could hardly wait to hear Sheriff Booker’s impression of him. My own nerve endings prickled with bad vibes, but as old Jake was always reminding me, you can’t always rely on first impressions.
Chapter Eleven
The postmaster’s house sat high on a bluff overlooking the lake, not far from the Pinkertons’ house, and since I was almost in the neighborhood, I thought I’d drop by for a visit. I was hoping that Ed spent his Saturdays out on the lake rather than in front of the television. I wanted the chance to chat with Betty Beechcomb alone. To my relief, his car was not in the driveway.
She greeted me at the door wearing a shimmering, sheer halter top, bright pink Danskin tights and her ever-present high heels. A strange getup for anywhere, let alone at home alone. I wondered if she was expecting someone else. I introduced myself and she waved me in cheerily, retrieving a half-empty glass with what looked like gin or vodka from the counter on her way into the living room. A Donna Summer tune blared from two large speakers, and she sort of danced her way over to the stereo to turn down the volume. From the scuffed indentations in the recently vacuumed carpet, I gathered she’d been dancing when I arrived.
“Mrs. Beechcomb,” I started, “I’m working on a case involving the murder of Walter Trinidad, and I understand that you were, uh, friends with him.” No point in beating around the bush, I thought.
Her heavily made up eyes grew wide for a fraction of a second, and then she threw back her head and laughed. Her bleached blond hair was pulled up into a ponytail, which bobbed on the top of her head. When she’d quit laughing, she took a long swig of her drink, rattling the cubes around. “I suppose in a town this small, it was bound to come out sooner or later,” she said, studying her lacquered red nails.
“Forgive me,” I said, “but you don’t seem too upset.”
“Oh?” She appraised me coolly. “Did you know Walter well?�
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“No,” I admitted, wondering how she’d managed to turn this around.
“Well, I did. He was a tedious bore. And a terrible lover, I might add. He had the teensiest little pecker you ever saw. Not that a pecker is everything. But it should at least be there, shouldn’t it?”
Not necessarily, I thought wryly. But this wasn’t the time to wax philosophical about the male appendage. “Then why, may I ask, did you go out with him?”
“Because I was bored! B-O-R-E-D, bored! God, what a tiny, tacky town this is. Don’t you ever get bored, dear? Well, no. I suppose not.” She eyed me disdainfully.
“Can you tell me where you were on Wednesday evening?” I asked, watching her closely.
“Out. O-U-T, as in out on the town. Wednesday is Ed’s bowling night. I pretend to begrudge him his few nights out. Ha! I practically live for Wednesdays.”
I was beginning to fear that if she insisted on spelling everything, I’d still be there when Ed returned. This was not a conversation I wanted to have in his presence. “Can you tell me where you went? And with whom?”
“I’d rather not.” She plucked an ice cube from her glass and sucked noisily. “Oh, all right.” She sighed, letting the cube fall from her lips back into the glass. “What possible difference can it make? I was with a boy. A local boy. Perhaps you know him. Quite a young stallion, if you know what I mean. Name of. Tommy Green.” I’m afraid my jaw must have dropped, because she graced me with another one of her laughs. “I see you do know Tommy. Perhaps you’ve been out with him too?”
“Uh, no,” I stammered. I felt my cheeks turn embarrassingly hot at the suggestion. “Where did you two go?” I asked, trying to regain control of the conversation.
“Oh, just out in his darling little speedboat. Tommy has some marvelous grass. We smoked a little, drank some gin, you know.”
“What time did you get back?”
“Before eleven. Ed gets home around then and I wanted to be in bed before he got here.”
“And did Tommy know you were also seeing Trinidad?” I asked. Her eyes narrowed and she got up to fix herself another drink, talking over her shoulder. I followed her into the kitchen and couldn’t help noticing the large butcher knife lodged into the wood block holder on the counter.
“I didn’t think anyone knew about Walter. It’s certainly not something I was going to discuss with another man. Frankly, I don’t even know how you found out.”
But I had found out. And maybe Tommy had too. And maybe little Tommy did not take kindly to another man messing with his woman. I shook my head at the grisly image of Tommy slicing away at Trinidad. “And how about Friday night? Were you with Tommy then too?”
“My, you do get around. As a matter of fact I was. Ed had an Elks Lodge meeting. Those always turn into late nights at that dreadful little tavern, so I knew I had until midnight and I made the most of it.
“What did you think of the fire?” I asked. “I bet that took you by surprise.” She fell for the bluff easily.
“Wasn’t that something!” she said, her dark eyes widening. “Tommy, of course, wanted to rush over there and help, but I convinced him that we couldn’t very well be seen pulling up to the dock together. Besides, we were too stoned to be much help to anyone. But I think he was a little peeved at me over that.” So Tommy had lied about seeing the fire. I wondered what else he might have lied about.
“Do you smoke, Mrs. Beechcomb?”
“You mean cigarettes? Oh, just now and then. Whenever I’m with someone else who smokes. I don’t actually ever buy cigarettes. I just mooch them. I suppose you think that’s awful.”
Here was a woman who admitted to cheating on her husband, apparently as a matter of course, who refused to help people whose house was on fire, and she thought I’d think less of her for mooching cigarettes.
“Did you know the Hendersons?” I asked, changing gears.
“Are you suggesting I had something to do with that fire?” she asked, fanning herself as if the room had suddenly grown terribly warm. In fact it was quite cool where I was standing.
“I just wondered if you knew them.”
“Him, you mean. You wondered if I knew him! Well, of course I do, and obviously you already know that, or you wouldn’t be asking. But I did not have an affair with Bob Henderson. For your information, he was not very, shall we say, responsive, to my advances. I’m not a thin-skinned woman. I know how to handle rejection.”
I suddenly wondered if somehow Trinidad had rejected her, and if her way of handling that rejection involved a butcher knife.
Outside, the crunch of gravel told us Ed Beechcomb had arrived home early. Startled, she looked up, and for the first time, she seemed somewhat rattled.
“I’d appreciate your not blabbing any of this,” she said, hurriedly ushering me to the door. “I understand you have to ask your little questions and I’ve tried to be patient and answer things that are none of your business. And you must know I’ve been totally honest, even though I know my improprieties must seem shocking to someone like you. I haven’t lied about anything,” she said, practically shoving me out the door.
But she had, I mused, smiling at her. I’d seen a carton of Virginia Slims on the top of the refrigerator, and for some reason I didn’t think Ed Beechcomb was the type to smoke them.
“Thanks so much!” she shouted gaily, waving good-bye. “And if you get any more of those little lip gloss tubes in, let me know!” Apparently she wanted Ed to think I was the Avon lady.
I left, smiling briefly at Ed, who barely looked up, his face so long and drawn I was afraid that the news of Betty’s infidelities had finally reached the post office.
Chapter Twelve
It was nearly six when I got back to my house, and Martha’s boat, which she kept at the marina, was tied up to my dock. I hurried up to see what she’d found out about Erica, and when I walked in, the two of them were lounging in the living room, shoes kicked off, drinking wine. Erica was doing a pretty good imitation of Sergeant Grimes.
“There you are,” Martha said. “I thought you’d be slaving over a hot stove!” She got up to hug me and over her shoulder I saw Erica watching us with interest.
“I was out detecting,” I said, getting a wineglass. “How did it go with Grimes?” I still hadn’t looked Erica in the eye. I hadn’t had time to sort out my feelings, and I didn’t quite know how to act.
“He wanted me to take a lie detector test,” Erica said. “He said if I was innocent, I had nothing to fear, and that if I refused, he could book me on suspicion of murder and do it the hard way. The guy’s obviously been watching too many Clint Eastwood movies. Anyway, I agreed.”
Martha was sitting in my favorite chair, so I sat down on the sofa, leaving a lot of space between Erica and myself. Panic and Gammon were already entrenched on her lap, purring happily.
“So how did it go?” I asked.
“Do you mean did I pass?” Erica asked. “Don’t tell me you’re starting to have your doubts too?”
“I didn’t mean that at all,” I lied. “It’s just that there were things you seem to have left out of your story. Such as being the subject of an earlier murder investigation, for example. I just wonder what else you haven’t told me.”
“Oh, I see,” Erica said sarcastically. “So you do think maybe I killed my uncle. This is great.”
“I’m sure that’s not what Cass meant, Erica,” Martha said, playing peacemaker. “Is it, Cassie?” She raised an eyebrow at me. This was Martha’s way of telling me to cool it, but I was already angry.
“You left out a pretty important detail, especially considering that you hired me knowing you were a suspect in this case. It’s not like this was some insignificant little episode. I mean, come on Erica. What was I supposed to think? Better yet, what were you thinking?”
Erica got up, dumping both cats from her lap. She stormed into the kitchen, and turned back, her eyes livid. “I guess I didn’t want to break the mood by bringing up som
ething I’d rather forget. I guess I thought that you trusted me enough that when you did hear about it, you wouldn’t just automatically jump to the conclusion that I was guilty. I hoped you thought more highly of me than that. And I guess I was wrong.” She stormed out, leaving Martha and me staring after her.
“Nice going, champ,” Martha said. “You want to go apologize now, or you want to hear the story?”
“I don’t know what I want,” I said miserably.
“Well, listen up. First off, she passed the polygraph with flying colors. I talked to Mike Wong who sat in with Grimes while he interrogated her. He got pretty rough, from what I hear. A couple of times Wong had to intervene. Anyway, just over a year ago, Erica was involved in a murder case, but no charges were ever brought against her. In fact, if anything, she turned out to be something of a hero. Unfortunately, she was too late to save her lover.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, beginning to feel sick to my stomach.
“Erica was working on a book. Did you know she’s a writer? Anyway, she was in her home office working and it was way past midnight when she heard her lover, Anne, screaming from the upstairs bedroom. She went charging up there and burst into the bedroom. There was this guy, a nylon stocking over his head, choking Anne. He’d come in through the bedroom window with the intention of raping her and when she tried to fight back, he started choking her. Erica grabbed the first thing she could find, which turned out to be a golf club leaning against the wall. She started hitting the guy over the head and back, all the while he was choking Anne. Erica was yelling at him to stop, to get off, but he just kept on choking her until finally he fell to the floor. Erica said he never even tried to fight her off. He was so intent on killing Anne that he didn’t even try to defend himself. By the time Erica could reach her, Anne was already dead. Erica tried CPR, but it was too late. Apparently the whole thing only took a few minutes. Just like that, both her lover and the man who killed her were dead. Her whole life fell apart.”
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