by Inga Vesper
‘About that reward,’ the detective says. ‘If all this is true, you might win it.’
Her mind sweeps away. A thousand dollars. That’s a mighty fine sum. She’d go to college and have spare for Mimi still. No more mopping and scrubbing and the stink of King Pine.
But the thought of coming into so much cash over the death of a mother just feels . . . wrong.
The detective seems to feel the need to hammer in the point. ‘You could treat yourself. Go on vacation or something. You could do anything you want.’
‘I want to go to college,’ she says to the waffle.
‘There you go. What do you want to do? Domestics?’
She shoots him a glance. ‘Science.’
‘That’s . . . nice.’
‘But with my own money. My momma always said it’s no good coming into a windfall like that. It brings bad luck.’
He looks confused. ‘Maybe you should have a word with your mother. This isn’t some lottery. You’re helping me out, after all. Hell, you’re helping the whole PD.’
‘Momma’s dead.’ She doesn’t know why she tells him this, but it just slips out. ‘She got hit by a truck last year.’
‘Oh. Oh, that’s . . . She had an accident?’
The bite of waffle swells up in Ruby’s mouth. She swallows. ‘That’s what the city ruled.’
His eyes narrow. For a moment, he is a true detective. ‘You think it wasn’t?’
Of course it wasn’t. The crosswalk was clearly marked. It was broad daylight. Momma wore her orange dress. She was carrying her bright green bag and walking slowly, because of her bad leg. Walking out into a street that was empty, the witnesses said, until the garbage truck hurled around the corner. The driver was on his way to the depot. End of his shift. The lawyer said his client didn’t see Momma, didn’t notice the thump her body made as it hit the fenders. That’s why he drove right on. Dennis Huffman is a family man, sir, a God-fearing, hardworking family man. A beacon in his community. You have to understand, sir, my client was just trying to get home in time for the football. The game meant very much to him.
Which is the worst part. Because, by inference, Mrs Prudence Wright, her infectious laugh, her coarse hands and her collection of porcelain angels, meant nothing at all.
‘I told Joyce about it.’ It seems important all of a sudden. Important he understands. ‘I told her what I thought and she believed me. They ruled it an accident, but the truth is it was deliberate. The guy got off with a warning. Joyce said that’s just typical. No one ever wants to know the truth. Not when it’s so damn bad.’
The detective looks at her for a long time. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says finally.
‘That’s what I meant with all the secrets. That’s what you have to understand. The people in Sunnylakes, they only wanna be seeing the side of things they like. The other side, the dark stuff, that stays hidden. No one saw what happened to Joyce because no one wanted to see. Not even her. She was hiding the baby like you’re hiding your own secret. It just gets pushed out of sight and out of mind. Until . . .’
She swallows. How do you even start explaining?
‘Until it comes out, regardless.’ The detective takes a bunch of dollar bills from his wallet and spreads them on the table. ‘I think I get it.’
Ruby nods. He doesn’t get it. Not really. But at least it’s a start.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Mick
S
unday morning stretches like chewing gum, endless, pink and sticky-sweet. Fran and the girls discuss going to church, then decide to leave it. They hit the chaises and Brad gets his running shoes out. Mick watches him disappear down the driveway and tries, with a faint flicker of hope, to recall the Santa Monica stats for hit-and-runs. That makes him feel guilty and, since the best way of dispelling guilt is work, he sneaks into the bedroom, rummages in his papers for Jackie’s home number and makes the call.
If she is at all bothered to have her Sunday morning interrupted, she does not show it, and neither does she flinch at his question. ‘Yes, I think the beer bottle was fingerprinted,’ she says cheerfully. ‘I can look it up right now.’
‘You have the case files at home?’
‘Murphy wanted me to make a copy for the LAPD, just in case they need to come in.’
‘I see.’ He swallows the sour taste from his mouth. ‘Likes to be prepared, our Murphy, doesn’t he?’
‘I’m sure it won’t be necessary. Ah, here it is. Size-wise it’s probably a man’s hand, but the fingerprints are unknown, meaning they do not match any member of the household.’
‘So they weren’t Frank Haney’s.’
‘No, but if you recall . . .’ She pauses and changes tone. ‘I mean, I am probably wrong, but there were some other men at the scene, weren’t there? The milkman . . .’
‘Goddammit, if we have to fingerprint every man who was in Sunnylakes that day I’m going to chop Hodge in half and feed him to the dolphins.’
‘Perhaps not every man,’ she says, and he can almost see her grin. ‘The prints are quite unique. According to the notes, the ring finger and little finger are not present.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Either our man drinks beer like a French dandy with the fingers splayed, or he’s got two fingers missing.’
‘Crap. I mean, thanks.’ A shiver runs through him, and he cannot tell whether it’s the excitement of the chase or anger at how he could have missed that damned bottle.
‘One more thing, Detective.’ Her voice is all sunshine now. ‘The art exhibition organized by the Sunnylakes Women’s Improvement Committee is opening today. I got a flyer in the mail.’
Mick’s mind skips to the afternoon ahead, to be spent making small talk with Brad and struggling to light the barbecue. Or perhaps . . .
Once Jackie’s hung up, he fishes out a fresh shirt and starts rummaging for an artsy tie. Fran, of course, is not amused. ‘You’re leaving? On a Sunday? I thought the whole reason why we moved to California was so you could work more social hours.’
Mick helps himself to some lamb cutlets from yesterday’s wrecked family dinner. ‘The reason we moved to California was because I burned my fingers. Anyway, a murder’s a murder.’ He shrugs. ‘There’s no regular hours.’
‘But this is Santa Monica.’
‘Doesn’t matter if it’s Harlem East or the Vatican. If someone’s dead, I’ve got to figure out whodunnit. Believe me, I would love to stay around and get to know Brad and—’
‘What do you think of him?’
Mick swallows too fast. ‘He seems nice enough . . .’
‘Because, I really think we ought to talk about what this means for Sandy’s future and . . .’ Fran hugs herself. ‘He’s just not quite . . . I don’t like him.’
‘He’s a dumbo.’ Mick grins, relieved at the rush of honesty. ‘I’m surprised he can string three sentences together. Don’t worry, Sandy’ll see through him soon enough.’
‘You think?’
‘I’m a detective, I’m always right.’ He sprays on some eau de cologne and leans in to kiss her.
‘What’s all this?’ Fran grabs his lapels, a sudden darkness in her eyes. ‘You smell like you’ve got a woman waiting.’
He forces a smile. ‘A whole suburb full of them.’ Guilt washes over him. He thinks again of Beverly. He ought to stay, enjoy Sunday with the wife and kiddies. Hell, he’s come too close to losing them once before.
But then again, there’s two girls out there whose mother has vanished. He’s got to do his job.
He gently releases Fran’s fists. ‘I’ll make it up to you. Day out in LA, just you and me, baby.’
‘Peace offer accepted.’ She kisses him back. ‘Just watch yourself around those women.’
Outside, he backs the Buick out of the driveway, cranks the window down and the radio up. His mind flicks to Ruby’s revelation that Frank Haney and Nancy Ingram have a thing going. It sounds like something out of Aunt Jenny’s Real Life Sto
ries – the war widow and the single father, a hot summer’s night, her eyes . . . what’s the word they always use? Limpid. Her limpid eyes floating over quivering bosoms. That’s Nancy Ingram, all right.
Except it’s not that easy. Frank is a married man. Humping your wife’s best friend is generally considered a big no-no. If Joyce found out about this . . . what would she have done? Would she have confronted them, or run?
*
Sunnylakes Library is adorned with red-white-and-blue ribbons and a banner that says: The Art of the Home – the Sunnylakes Women’s Improvement Committee Exhibits .
Mick pays his 50 cents entrance fee to a teenage girl who is sweating in her best plaid dress. She hands him a ticket and a leaflet featuring Joyce’s photo and a call for donations to fund a nation-wide TV appeal. He fishes another quarter from his pocket and drops it into the donations box.
The exhibition is in a function room above the library. It is filled with women of that age range when they start looking like their mothers. The women wear teal and beige day dresses with matching hats. There is an abundance of subtle lipstick and pearls. Only Genevieve Crane stands out. She has put on a small black number with bare shoulders. The neckline is plain, giving all the more prominence to her delicate collarbones and the giant, sparkling hummingbird brooch pinned to her chest.
Mick heads toward her, then hits an invisible wall and scoots off to a quiet corner. Dammit. It’s hard to admit, but Ruby is right. He needs a different approach – the old confrontation won’t work here. Hello, I’m Detective Blanke. By the way, ladies, has any of you had an abortion? And who here owns a gun and really, really hated Deena Klintz?
He swerves toward the paintings. Still lifes, Dutch landscapes, a laughably childish drawing of the Abraham Lincoln memorial. Seaside watercolors, where the beach bleeds into the ocean and the parasols look like drinks umbrellas.
But there is one that stands out. A painting of a pool. He recognizes it immediately. The white tiles running around the perimeter, the hint of a garden shed in the corner. The geraniums. Dozens and dozens of them. Petals everywhere, a sea of red. They dance before his eyes. He blinks and looks at the pool again, a perfect square of azure, sunlit and clear. As if you could leap right into it.
The feeling spooks him; in fact, the whole painting makes the hairs twirl in the back of his neck. The signature at the bottom, in easy, curly letters, confirms what he already knows. This is Joyce Haney’s work.
‘Quite something, isn’t it?’
Mick spins around and finds Nancy Ingram, wearing a pink cocktail dress.
‘It is, Mrs Ingram,’ he replies. ‘Joyce really has a remarkable talent.’
She nods earnestly. ‘She even bested our teacher. Mrs Crane said she should talk to a couple of painters in LA about exhibiting in a . . .’ She pauses and looks away. ‘Have you found out anything new?’
‘Still hoping to ask Mr Haney a few more questions.’
‘Oh, yes. I spoke to Frank’s mother last night. Lucille is very concerned. He’s innocent, you know.’
Mick thinks about Frank Haney’s mom and Ruby’s description of her.
‘He wasn’t even here,’ Mrs Ingram implores. ‘He was in Palmdale when Joyce disappeared.’
‘That’s true. But we are investigating him in other matters. I cannot—’
‘Detective Blanke, I actually wanted to talk to you about something.’
His mind cranks up a gear. The desperate look in her eyes. The way the tip of her tongue flicks over her fiery lips. Mrs Ingram has information. That’s how it shows with women. That neediness. Men who want to spill the beans talk straight, but women grow sticky like caramel sauce.
‘I might have some . . . evidence.’ She peers over her shoulder, then leans in a little closer to him. He can smell perfume emanating from her peroxide hair, which, up close, looks stiff like a scarecrow’s. ‘I heard there is a reward. But you must promise not to breathe a word to Joyce or Frank. It is a matter of strictest confidence.’
‘Promise.’
‘Detective, you have heard about the man who broke into the Haney house on Friday? I called the station to report it. Well, I believe it was a certain Jimmy—’
‘Jimmy the Boyfriend. Yes, we’ve got an officer trying to track him down.’
If Mrs Ingram is surprised that Mick is one step ahead, she doesn’t show it. ‘Well, I hope you find him soon. Because, you know, Jimmy and Deena . . .’ She blushes. ‘They slept together. She told me, just after Joyce went missing. She asked me never to speak to anyone about it. I crossed my heart and swore to die.’ She laughs nervously, then chokes on it. ‘But now Deena is dead and . . .’
Mick balls his fist in his pocket. This is where it all comes out. The clues align. In the library. With the lead pipe.
‘Did Joyce know?’
‘Of course not. Deena told me it happened after Joyce rejected Jimmy, a couple of weeks before she disappeared. Joyce drove off, Deena offered Jimmy a drink, one thing led to another . . . Deena was devastated over it. I mean, Joyce and her were such good friends.’
‘Why did she do it, then?’
‘Well.’ There is just a little hint of self-satisfaction in Nancy Ingram’s voice. ‘Deena always had the hots for men.’
Mick’s mind flicks to what Ruby told him last night about Mrs Ingram herself. Careful now, Nancy. You’re not so ice-cold either.
‘Why do you think Jimmy broke into the house?’
Mrs Ingram presses her lips together and squints, the very picture of a woman trying to think hard. ‘I don’t know. Is it true that a murderer always returns to the scene of the crime?’
‘We don’t know if Joyce is dead. I hope—’
‘Because I think I saw his car on Monday. I . . .’ She flinches. ‘I was looking out of the window to make sure Ruby wouldn’t step on my lawn. I remember there was a car gunning out of the Haney’s driveway. Around 5 p.m. Just before we discovered Joyce was missing.’
Mick stares at her. ‘And you think it was Jimmy?’
‘Well, I didn’t see the driver’s face. But the car was silver and had black fenders. And something green at the rear. Do you . . . do you think that sort of information would get him arrested?’
Mick swallows. ‘Let’s say it was Jimmy. Why would he harm Joyce?’
‘She told me he didn’t take the rejection too well.’
A vision rises before Mick’s inner eye. Joyce in the kitchen, tidying up after lunch. The silhouette of a man in the terrace doors. I cannot stay away from you. Or, maybe: How dare you say ‘no’ to me? And her reply: Jimmy, I could never leave Frank. Words turn to blows. She falls and hits her head. Or, perhaps, she confronts him. I am pregnant, Jimmy. He threatens her. Or drags her into the car to—
No, somebody would have heard her scream.
What if she came willingly at first? Let’s talk in the car, Joyce. And then he knocks her out and drives off. But what about the blood?
‘Sounds like a movie,’ he says. ‘Two men desire the same woman.’
‘It happens.’ Mrs Ingram’s voice is dry. ‘A love triangle. To outsiders, it’s a flip, but to those inside . . .’
‘You wouldn’t know this fellow’s surname? And do you have a description?’
‘McCarthy,’ she says. ‘Jimmy McCarthy.’
A firework explodes in Mick’s brain. He has to phone the station, right now. Get some officers burning up the lines.
‘I really do hope you’ll find him,’ Mrs Ingram continues. ‘Please, let me know if . . . well, if I win the money.’
Mick’s mind drifts back to a conversation he had with Ruby, back in her kitchen. How she’d insisted she wasn’t in it for the reward, and really wanted to help Joyce. But surely Mrs Ingram too is first and foremost interested in the welfare of her friend.
The friend whose husband she sleeps with.
Mick dismisses the thought. Eyes on the prize. Jimmy McCarthy, bingo.
He smiles at Mrs Ingram. ‘I’ll le
t you know for sure,’ he says. ‘Can I get you another drink? And then, would you kindly show me where the phone is?’
*
He calls the station. Someone picks up on the third attempt, a young man named Barnes, who, Mick figures, is the Sunday substitute for Jackie. Barnes notes down Jimmy’s surname and the car’s description, and promises to get to work.
When Mick returns to the exhibition, Genevieve Crane is giving a speech, thanking the mayor of Sunnylakes and the library staff and the many artists who have worked so hard for this. ‘Including,’ she says, ‘Joyce Haney, such a talented and wonderful young woman, a close friend whose disappearance has shaken us all to the core. And, of course, Deena Klintz, who sadly cannot be here today.’
Mick glances at Nancy Ingram, whose smile does not quite reach her eyes. The other women look stony. One thing is for certain. Deena Klintz will not be sadly missed.
Gloved hands clap together and glasses clink.
After, Mrs Crane extricates herself from a gaggle of women and sweeps toward him. She smiles her enigmatic smile and sets her drink down on a nearby table.
‘What do you think, Detective?’
‘Well.’ He’s definitely sweating now. ‘Some great realism. And the color combination of this one’ – he points at a vase of sunflowers – ‘almost like Whatshisname . . . you know, the one with the ear.’
‘Van Gogh,’ says Mrs Crane. ‘And if that’s like a Van Gogh, I am Marilyn Monroe.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
She lowers her voice. ‘Come on, Detective. This is amateur art. Nothing to write home about. Except, of course, for Joyce’s work.’
They both turn to the picture of the pool. Two older ladies, whose lips have never tasted Appetrol lunch substitutes, are blocking it from view with their substantial rears.
‘Joyce would have loved Amblioni,’ Mrs Crane says.
‘The exhibition in LA? Are you going?’
‘It sold out months ago. I tried to get tickets for us, but . . .’
Mick nods. ‘I’m sorry. Well, I . . . I’ve got to beat feet. Adieu.’