A Hopeless Case

by K. K. Beck

  Inside, there was a sofa and a coffee table to delineate a waiting area, and, a little ways away, three desks in formation. At one of them sat a woman with wavy hair and big glasses. She was reading Good Housekeeping magazine and eating a tuna sandwich. Soft Muzak bounced along in the background.

  The magazine and the sandwich were whisked away, and the woman rose, smiling. She smoothed her sweater down over her hips. “Can I help you?”

  “This is my first trip to the island,” Jane said, trying to sound a little vague. “I’m thinking of buying some country property.”

  The woman produced some brochures. “Here are some of our listings,” she said, “and a map.” She didn’t sound too enthusiastic. Jane figured she was probably besieged with browsers. “Are you thinking of residential property or acreage?”

  “Both, actually,” she said, “I want a house and a lot of land around it. I live in Southern California. It’s getting so crowded there. I thought I might sell my house down there and move up here. Everyone says you get so much more for your money up here.” She flashed a disingenuous smile. “And you have enough water.”

  The woman pushed her glasses farther up the bridge of her nose and her face took on a pleasant animation. “Oh, really? Where in California?”

  “La Jolla, actually,” said Jane. “Have you heard of it?”

  “Yes, yes,” said the woman. Jane imagined she was mentally calculating her commission. “I suppose you’d like waterfront. Maybe something with a city view?”

  “That would be nice,” said Jane, strolling over to a big plat map on the wall. “You know, I’ve heard about this place, years ago. I had a cousin who was involved in some cult that had land over here.”

  “There’ve been several,” said the woman. “But they never last long. The old Bible camp was sold to a group from the Midwest a few years back, but they busted up. You don’t need to worry about any of that.”

  “They were called the Fellowship of the Flame,” said Jane, as if just remembering. “Thank God Isabel came to her senses and got out of it. She’s an investment counselor in San Diego now. Doing really well.”

  She stood in front of the map and traced the main roads. “Do you know where that property is? Are the Flame people gone?”

  “Yes, years ago. That property’s the One-Ten Institute retreat now. Very legitimate people. They do corporate training and so forth.” The woman came over and pointed to the map.

  “You know, I could show you some very nice homes right now. Is charm high on your priority list? We have some older homes, and then a brand-new one with a nice view over the water. And, of course, you could build too. There’s some fabulous acreage available with terrific view potential. Maybe we could talk about your needs in the car. Let me just go turn on the answering machine.”

  She went back and rummaged around her desk, allowing Jane just enough time to reach into her bag, grab a pen, and jot down a legal description of the property the woman had pointed to from the plat map.

  “Just a general overview should get us started,” said the woman rather breathlessly. “I’d really like to give you the lay of the land. Island living isn’t for everyone,” she added, her tuna sandwich forgotten. Grabbing her hefty handbag and putting it purposefully on her arm, she gazed soulfully at Jane. “But I can tell you’re an island person. It’s a special life-style for special people.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t possibly look at anything today,” Jane said. “But give me your card.”

  “I think you should start looking right away,” said the woman firmly. “When these terrific properties come up, you have to act fast.”

  “Oh, but I have to see about the property down in La Jolla first,” she said. “I still haven’t finished negotiating the divorce settlement. In fact, Harry and I aren’t even sure we want to go through with it and bust up.”

  “I see,” said the woman, putting down her handbag and narrowing her eyes.

  “Well, they do say it’s awfully hard on kids,” said Jane apologetically.

  The woman handed her the brochures and her card. She had cranked up the Muzak and was back in Good Housekeeping before Jane had left the premises.

  Chapter 19

  Jane was startled to discover how much she had enjoyed lying to the realtor. Had it been necessary? She could easily have obtained a legal description of the property from Calvin Mason without assuming the persona of a restless Californian with a cousin Isabel in San Diego and plenty of equity. Jane could even imagine the house in La Jolla. It was worth a million dollars, and there was jasmine all over it.

  But she’d wanted to take a look at the farm. She wanted to see the tangible asset that might have been bought with Linda’s money.

  It felt strange, being a liar. She wasn’t used to it, and somehow she doubted Uncle Harold would approve. She made her way down quiet country roads, two-lane blacktop lined with blackberry vines in mounds by the side of the road, past neglected orchards with gnarled old trees. Somehow, she thought, Uncle Harold probably managed to do all his good works without lying. The mere force of his quiet dignity would blast on through to a solution. Was it because her motivation wasn’t as pure as his, that her tactics weren’t either?

  The property would have been hard to find, except for the little black-and-silver signs nailed to fenceposts along the way. They all read “110%” above an arrow, and they led her away from the grassy orchards to back roads lined with fir trees to the site. When she got there, a similar sign above the gate read THE ONE-TEN INSTITUTE. About twenty yards inside, a uniformed security guard sat in a little booth staring out through the glass. PLEASE STOP AND CHECK IN said a sign above his window.

  Beyond, she could see a big parking lot, full of cars, and then rolling lawns, and a long, low glass-and-wood building surrounded by tasteful landscaping. Behind the main building were smaller buildings in the same style, connected by gravel paths. It looked like a small, dull campus.

  She sat there for a while, and noticed a small guardhouse at the entrance. Getting in meant more lies. She started to toss around a few ideas, then decided it would be better to wait until she knew just what she was looking for. She had really just wanted to see a physical manifestation of Linda’s money. And here it was, looking very banal, and nothing at all like orgy headquarters for the Fellowship of the Flame.

  With a feeling of terrible anticlimax, she turned the car around and drove back to the ferry. This time, she sat in her car on the way back. Her car was parked in the front row, so she had a view of the water and the city looming toward her.

  From the landing, she drove into downtown Seattle, and went to the King County Administration Building. Even though Vashon Island seemed miles away, it was still part of the county. She found what she was looking for on the third floor. The recorder’s office. She had to wait a while, but it was all there. The land, the title of which was held by the One-Ten Institute, had been purchased in 1979 from the Flame Foundation. The selling price had been two hundred thousand dollars for fifty acres, a house, and a barn.

  So, the Fellowship had been around ten years ago. And they’d made a nice profit on the land. The records showed that they’d bought it just seven years before that, in 1972, the year Linda died, for the sum of one dollar.

  Which blew Jane’s theories about Linda’s inheritance all to hell. She’d assumed the Fellowship had spent Linda’s money on the Vashon Island property. She wrote down the name of the previous owner. Claire Elizabeth Tomlinson. A gullible Flame follower, she supposed.

  As she drove back home, she decided she’d get Calvin to track down the foundation people. She’d concentrate on Claire, and on finding out what she could about Richard English. On a whim, she changed her route and drove along Pine Street and past his studio.

  To her surprise, there was a light on. And, through the blinds, she could see somebody inside the reception area. She stopped the car and went inside.

  “Hello,” Jane said, looking down at a young woman kneeling o
n the floor in front of a large cardboard box. She had a Wilma Flintstone ponytail of bright red hair on top of her head, and huge copper earrings. She wore a tight, short khaki dress and black stockings and shoes.

  “I’m Jane da Silva,” she said.

  The redhead woman stood up. “Oh my God,” she said. “You’re the one who found Rick.” She looked about twenty, with beautiful clear white skin, and wide greenish eyes. She was skinny and coltish and very chic. She also had a childish, squeaky voice. Jane pegged her as one of those stylish young women who manage to appear more sophisticated and interesting than they actually are. You ran into them in menial jobs in glamour professions. There was something rather endearing and brave about them. Eventually, Jane theorized, their substance caught up with their style.

  “I’m Wendy,” she said. “The receptionist?” She had a kind of L.A. Valley Girl way of making a statement sound like a question. It was as if she wanted to make sure you understood her, and was asking for confirmation that the message was received. At least, Jane found herself murmuring yes and nodding vigorously.

  “I guess you can imagine I’m totally in shock. Rick’s wife, Gail, asked me to come here and kind of straighten stuff out, and, like, answer the phone, you know? ’Cause people were bugging her at home. It’s really horrible. Like newspaper people and all that?”

  “I see,” said Jane.

  “Anyway, I’m pretty blown away myself by all the shit that’s happened, but I couldn’t say no to Gail. I mean, God, her husband was murdered. It’s so incredible.”

  “I know it must be a terrible shock,” Jane answered. “I was driving by and I saw someone was here. To tell you the truth, Wendy, I’ve been really curious about your boss. Ever since I came here that night.” She paused. “I was beaten up. I guess you heard about that.”

  “Yeah, I know. I can tell.” She stared frankly at Jane’s face and winced sympathetically. “The police told Gail. She wanted to talk to you, but they said you were in the hospital, and that they weren’t giving out your address. She wanted to know where to get in touch with you, but I couldn’t find you in the Rolodex or anything.”

  “I’ll give you my number,” said Jane. “I’d like to talk to her. Maybe I can have hers, too.” Jane resolved to wait a decent interval for Gail’s call. The woman’s husband had been murdered just two days ago. But she wanted that number just in case Gail never did call.

  “How come you were here that night?” said Wendy, now busying herself with a message pad at the desk. “You’re not like a client or anything? Are you?”

  “No. I was seeing him about something else entirely. Something that happened years ago. But I never did get to talk to him.”

  “The police told us you couldn’t see who did it. It was pitch black. I know how dark it can get in that studio.” Wendy shuddered.

  “That’s right. I never saw him.”

  “I keep wondering if it’s someone I know. God, wouldn’t that be terrible? The police seem to think so. ’Cause Richard, he, like, sent me home early, even though I was working on billings?”

  “He did?”

  “Yeah. I thought it was weird at the time. He didn’t have any appointments in the book. Not until seven, when you were supposed to come. It’s all blank from four on, which is totally weird.” Wendy handed over a small piece of paper. “Here’s Gail’s number.”

  “Here, I’ll write down mine,” said Jane. As she wrote, she said, “Can you imagine why anyone would kill Richard English?”

  “No way! He was so nice. He was teaching me all about production. He was always so nice. Too nice, I sometimes thought.”

  “Too nice?”

  “He’d do work for people and not get paid, and he wouldn’t even get pissed off. You know?”

  “So he wasn’t a great businessman?”

  “He was like supercreative and really good at what he did. He was a really good artist. You should see his mattes. They’re like really gorgeous. And he was a good businessman. I mean, he started this business from nothing. Absolutely nothing. He never acted proud of that. He was always really low key about it, you know?” Tears started welling up in her eyes.

  Just then, Jane heard a noise from behind the door that led into the studio. She started. Wendy caught her look and turned over her shoulder. Jane felt a little frisson of panic, thinking about that studio.

  “That’s just the cops,” she said. “They’ve been here all morning.”

  The door opened and Detective Cameron emerged. He looked at Jane thoughtfully and then back at Wendy. “You two know each other?” he said.

  “We just met,” said Jane.

  “Oh yeah?” he said expectantly, cocking his head back a little as if she owed him some explanation.

  She didn’t offer him any. Instead, she smiled and handed her phone number over to Wendy. “Tell Gail, will you?” she said.

  On the way home, she stopped at a deli and bought a roast beef sandwich with cheddar and plenty of horseradish on rye and a lemonade to go. She supposed she should go grocery shopping. Fill the refrigerator. Plan meals. Get organized. She’d do it later.

  When she got home, she still didn’t have enough sense of the house to know where it was most comfortable to sit. She still felt like a visitor. She ended up having her lunch in the living room, with Saint George and his dragon.

  The phone rang, only heightening the feeling of strangeness in the house. The noise seemed obtrusive in the stillness. She went into the hall and answered it.

  “Hold please, for Mr. Montcrieff,” said a crisp female voice.

  She waited a while, staring down at the baseboards and studying the trim around the doors. All the woodwork needed to be stripped. It had thick, dark varnish on it. Maybe she could do it herself. The thought of getting down to a nice rosy oak and just oiling it lightly appealed to her.

  Mr. Montcrieff didn’t come on the line. The old boy had probably been distracted by some fauna outside his window. But she didn’t dare hang up on him. It wouldn’t do to antagonize him or any trustee.

  Finally, a voice came on the line. “Hi there,” it said. It wasn’t old Mr. Montcrieff at all. It was Bucky.

  “Where have you been?” he asked, sounding slightly agitated. “The office got a phone call from some hospital billing department. But the hospital said you’d left, and I called you at home but there was no answer. Is your machine broken?”

  Jane laughed. “I don’t have a machine.”

  “You don’t?” said Bucky incredulously. “I guess you’ve been out of the country a long time. You have to have a machine.”

  “Why?”

  “So people can get a hold of you. So you don’t miss important calls.” His voice rose with feeling.

  “If it’s really important, they’ll call back,” said Jane. “Like you just did.”

  “Well, what’s this about the hospital?”

  Jane didn’t particularly want Bucky telling her uncle and the trustees that she’d managed to get herself worked over and stumbled onto a homicide scene while attempting to carry on Uncle Harold’s work. It might make her seem less than competent.

  “I was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” she said vaguely.

  “It was at that studio, wasn’t it?” he said. “You told me you were going there, then I read about the murder in the paper. The mystery woman who was assaulted at the scene—that’s you, isn’t it?”

  “’Fraid so,” she said, trying to sound casual.

  “My God,” he said. “What have you gotten yourself into?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” she said. “But I’m not quitting.”

  “Still after the Fellowship of the Flame?” he said.

  “I’m still interested in them, yes.”

  “Well, listen, I have a lead for you.” His voice took on a conspiratorial tone. “Keep my name out of this. There’s a woman in town who was heavily into this group back in their heyday. As a personal favor to me, she’ll talk to you about it. She may know
something about the whereabouts of the leadership,” he added.

  “That’s awfully nice of you,” said Jane. “It’s really very good of you to help me.”

  “I want you to succeed,” he said. “I want you to have that money.”

  “That would be nice,” said Jane. “What’s the woman’s name?”

  “I’ll tell you at dinner,” said Bucky. “We were going to have dinner, remember?” His voice took on a winsome tone.

  “Yes, of course,” said Jane, trying to sound pleased.

  “How about tomorrow night?”

  “Fine,” said Jane. “But why don’t you go ahead and give me her name? Then I can tell you all about my progress over dinner.”

  “All right,” said Bucky. He sounded a little wary, as if she’d stiff him once she got the name. “It’s Claire Westgaard. She’s in the book.”

  Claire wasn’t that common a name. “Claire Tomlinson Westgaard?” said Jane.

  “That’s right,” said Bucky. He sounded surprised, and also miffed, as if she were somehow belittling his help.

  “Thank you so much,” she said. “And I’m looking forward to tomorrow night, too.”

  “So am I, so am I,” said Bucky, back to his old smooth self. “I’ll pick you up at six-thirty.”

  Claire was home, and she said she’d be glad to talk to Jane. She had a throaty voice with a hint of amusement in it. Jane had been expecting a whiny fanatic. The two women arranged to meet at Claire’s house the following morning. When she hung up, she was even more curious. Claire sounded so normal.

  Chapter 20

  As Jane lay on the sofa, gazing up at Uncle Harold’s slightly cracked ceiling, she watched the light change slowly. The room grew dimmer, but she didn’t see any point in getting up and turning on the lamps. Anyway, she knew they cast a strangled yellowish light.