Acid Bath

by Nancy Herndon

  Still, if the woman was in danger, she deserved a warning. Sarah shook her head. Tomorrow she’d ask Virginia if she had a telephone number for Mary Ellen in New Mexico. If anyone but Karl had that information, it would be Virginia. With that thought, and hoping her warning wouldn’t come too late, she prepared for bed. Before she fell asleep Sarah marveled at how bizarre a situation it was, when she planned to warn the wife of a faculty member that her husband might be a murderer.

  Thirty-eight

  * * *

  Tuesday, June 2, 9:30 P.M.

  Elena hadn’t been out of headquarters all day. There’d been meetings with Escobedo and Beltran trying to scope out their next moves in the acid bath case, meetings with the D.A.’s office about what to do with the warrant against Sarah Tolland. How sure did they need to be that Sarah was innocent? Elena had wondered. Sarah hadn’t even known the deceased. The screening attorney finally decided not to take the case to the grand jury, but to send it back for further investigation. There had been long sessions on the telephone trying to track down Gus McGlenlevie’s sexual contacts and their sexual or family contacts. There was also a futile effort to investigate the Bonaventuras and any activity they might have initiated in Los Santos, like the vandalism of Elena’s house; Fernie said rumors were beginning to circulate about a Miami connection in Los Santos. Then there had been breaks for ordered-in food and trips to the ladies’ room and the water cooler, the only exercise she’d had all day. After one such trip she returned to find Beto Sanchez, who had been called in, occupying his cubicle across the aisle.

  “Looks like you and Leo blew it,” said Beto.

  “Blew what?” She sat down on her own chair and reached for the telephone.

  “Saw in the last edition of tonight’s paper that your corpse wasn’t Angus McGlenlevie after all.”

  Elena turned and stared at Beto.

  “That bein’ the case, don’t it look like you arrested the wrong person? Why would she kill some guy she didn’t know from Adam?”

  Sarah or her lawyer had called the paper! If Beltran had agreed to drop the charges against Sarah, apologize and ask for her cooperation, this needn’t have happened. Now McGlenlevie was a walking target for whoever had tried to kill him. Mrs. Bonnard too, if Karl was the killer. And Elena herself might be on the Bonaventuras’ list. They’d figure if Sarah wasn’t a suspect anymore, Lili was — Lili or some Bonaventura hit man.

  “Well?” prompted Beto.

  “Don’t blame me,” said Elena. “Beltran wanted her arrested in the first place, and he wouldn’t let us cut her loose.”

  “Naughty, naughty,” said Beto, grinning. “Beltran hates to be shown up.”

  “Then he shouldn’t go out on a limb,” muttered Elena. The lieutenant had been even unfriendlier since they discovered that Angus McGlenlevie wasn’t the victim. “I told you that identification was worthless,” he’d said. If he thought that, why had he been so hot to arrest Sarah?

  “I hope you’re not indulging in any dumb I-told-you-so’s with the lieutenant,” said Beto. He was scavenging through a pile of papers and came up with a scrap that looked as if he’d put a cigarette out on it. “I got a message for you from Frank. He called just a few minutes ago. I didn’t even know you was in. Guess both of us are clockin’ overtime.”

  “I’m not taking messages from Frank.”

  “This one’s professional, babe. Frank says to tell you that the word on the street is a Bonaventura guy’s in town.”

  Elena, who had been looking for a telephone number, turned back toward Beto. “Bonaventura?”

  “Yep. Frank’s snitch says the Bonaventura guy is looking to hire some local talent for a job.”

  A job on my house? Elena wondered. A job on me? Or were they moving in on the dope pipeline from Mexico? She’d had the security company update the alarm system on her house the morning after the break-in. Now all she had to do was keep her eyes open — on the job, at home, asleep, awake. Damn Frank — he was probably making it up just to spook her. “Thanks, Beto, but Frank’s information stinks — where I’m concerned anyway.”

  She flipped to the Yellow Pages in the telephone book. With McGlenlevie’s resurrection on the front page, she was really worried about Mrs. Bonnard. Where was that religious retreat being held? She couldn’t very well ask Karl, especially if he was out of town. And if he wasn’t, how would she explain a sudden desire to talk to his wife? Someone had mentioned the name of the woman’s church, some crazy long name. Elena ran a finger down the listings. There were three that sounded promising, and she decided to call the home number of each pastor.

  On number two, she got lucky. The Reverend Owen Wister — Owen Wister? She almost laughed aloud. Was he the reincarnation of the author of The Virginian, a novel that she’d thought amazingly romantic if somewhat dated when she was eleven years old?

  “Reverend Wister, this is Detective Elena Jarvis of the LSPD. Do you have a parishioner named Bonnard? I don’t know her first name.”

  “Mary Ellen Bonnard?” There was a shocked pause. “I hope you’re not trying to contact her with some — some terrible news — a death or — “

  “Is Mrs. Bonnard on a religious retreat?”

  “Yes, she is. I’m going up there myself tomorrow. As she’s one of my flock, perhaps you’d like me to break the news to her.”

  That her husband may have tried to kill her lover? Elena thought wryly. “Sorry. I need to talk to her myself. May I have her telephone number?”

  “Well, there’s only one telephone at the camp.”

  “This is very important.”

  “Important enough to get her out of bed?”

  “If necessary.” It was already a quarter of ten, for Pete’s sake.

  “I see. Mrs. Bonnard isn’t in any kind of trouble, is she?”

  “I hope not.” The Reverend Wister, obviously eaten up with curiosity, gave her the number, and Elena put through the call to Mary Ellen Bonnard. Fortunately the city had come through with more funding, so the ban on long distance calls had been lifted. Elena waited a good five minutes while Mrs. Bonnard was dragged out of bed. Then Elena introduced herself and launched into what was going to be a ticklish conversation.

  “I have some bad news, Mrs. Bonnard. Well, half bad. There’s been a murder here in Los Santos, a man named Howard Margreaves.”

  “Who?”

  “He worked for Angus McGlenlevie.”

  “Ah . . . I’m afraid I don’t — “ Mrs. Bonnard was stammering.

  “But we have reason to think that Margreaves was killed by someone who mistook him for McGlenlevie. The two men looked somewhat alike, and Margreaves was staying in McGlenlevie’s apartment.”

  “But I — I don’t — “

  “Are you trying to say you don’t know Angus McGlenlevie, Mrs. Bonnard?”

  “I’m afraid I really don’t — I mean I may have heard the name. I believe he was — “

  “ — the husband of your husband’s department chairwoman,” said Elena helpfully.

  “Yes, yes, I do — know of him — but I believe they are divorced.”

  “I’m sure you know they are, Mrs. Bonnard. Mr. McGlenlevie says he met you at a talk he gave to your reading group and that you’ve been having an affair ever since.”

  “Oh, but Gus couldn’t have — “

  “Gus?”

  Mrs. Bonnard began to cry.

  “Mrs. Bonnard, do you think that your husband is capable of killing your lover?”

  “My husband didn’t know anything about — “

  “Mr. McGlenlevie said the same thing, but neither of you can be sure, can you?”

  “Is Gus all right?” asked Mrs. Bonnard, the query broken by stifled sobs.

  “Yes ma’am, he is. He was out of town at the time of the murder — getting in touch with his male muse,” Elena added dryly.

  “He’s so talented.”

  “Mrs. Bonnard, I’m going to give you my home phone number and my office number.
” Weeping women didn’t make useful witnesses until they recovered. “Please think about the questions I’ve asked and call me back collect. If you can shed any light on this murder, I’d appreciate the information.”

  “Like what information, Detective? I haven’t been in Los Santos for over a month.”

  Elena sighed. “Have you, for instance, heard from your husband since you left town?”

  “No.”

  “Isn’t that rather surprising?”

  “We weren’t on very good terms. I’m thinking of getting a separation, even though my church doesn’t believe in such things, and my pastor has advised me to — well — try again. But I really don’t think that Karl — well, he was more unpleasant than usual the last two weeks before I went away on this retreat.”

  “You wouldn’t describe your relations with your husband as amicable?” asked Elena, remembering that Karl Bonnard had initially expressed more dismay than anger with his wife.

  “Heavens, no,” said Mrs. Bonnard. “Amicable? I hope the Lord will forgive me for saying so, but I don’t think there’s a meaner man in the world than Karl Bonnard.” She was crying again. “Would you mind if I hung up now?”

  “Have you got my telephone numbers?”

  “I do.”

  “Please call me. The situation could be dangerous to both you and Mr. McGlenlevie. If your husband was responsible for Margreaves’ death and hears that McGlenlevie is still alive — and how could he help hearing, when the news was in the evening paper — ?”

  “Oh, my Lord,” cried Mrs. Bonnard. “Oh, I’ve just blasphemed. Oh, this is terrible,” and sobbing, she hung up.

  Elena shook her head. What did these women see in Angus McGlenlevie? Even Sarah had once been taken with him.

  Elena’s fingers itched to tap out Sarah’s phone number, but her next promotion might depend on not doing it.

  She sighed, picked up her handbag, went home, turned on the patio lights, and out of sheer frustration, attacked the back of her house with whitewash, her service revolver shoved into the waistband of her jeans — just in case any Bonaventura employees showed up.

  That damn Frank — getting me all upset, she thought. And here I am whitewashing my house when mob thugs may be hiding in the bushes. I’ve become a home-repair freak. Elena made another angry sweep with the roller. And that’s all Frank’s fault too. If he were here right now, I’d throw some unslaked lime on him.

  What would it do? she wondered, fantasizing. Take off a couple of layers of skin? Make holes here and there where it hit?

  The Bonaventuras too. If they show up, I’ll dissolve them. She covered another square of adobe with the thick white liquid.

  Hell of a note when you can’t whitewash your house without worrying about the Mafia and your ex-husband and Sarah, who’s probably madder than hell at the police department in general and me in particular.

  Elena climbed down and shifted her ladder to the left. Mary Ellen Bonnard had said Karl didn’t know about the affair. If he hadn’t, he wasn’t the murderer. So who was?

  Thirty-nine

  * * *

  Wednesday, June 3, 9:05 A.M.

  “You can’t be serious,” exclaimed Leo. “Frank’s got the best information network in town.”

  “If some snitch really told him that,” Elena retorted. “Frank probably made it up.”

  “Well, I guess he could have,” Leo admitted, tipping his chair back and lacing his fingers behind his head. “Our best leads are the Bonaventuras, in town or out; former lovers of McGlenlevie; Bonnard; and someone who actually wanted to kill Margreaves.”

  Elena nodded. She had received word when they came in at eight that Margreaves had been positively identified by his dental work.

  “So I’ll see if I can track down Frank’s info on the Bonaventuras in case they’re really our perps.”

  “Check with Fernie,” Elena suggested. “He’s been hearing rumors.”

  “O.K., and I’ll check out Bonnard. You stay here and get on the telephone. See what you can find out about the girlfriends. And say, someone needs to notify the Margreaves family, see what they know.”

  “And I’m elected? Thanks a lot!”

  “Ask them if Margreaves had any enemies, if he had a weird childhood like McGlenlevie said. Maybe someone in his family did him in. Course, you had a weird childhood, so maybe you did him in.”

  “I did not have a weird childhood.”

  “Yeah right. Didn’t your old man belong to the Penitente Brotherhood?”

  “Sure. Lots of men do.”

  “And they crucify people, right?”

  Elena laughed. “Not lately. That’s just a vicious rumor anyway. They help out their neighbors — that sort of thing.”

  “And your mother’s a hippie, right?”

  “Right, but Dad won’t let her grow pot anymore or run around barefoot. He thinks it’s undignified for a mother of five.”

  “I rest my case. You’re the person to talk to the Margreaves.”

  Leo headed for the street and, as Gus McGlenlevie had suggested, Elena got the New Jersey number of the late Howard Margreaves from Personnel at Herbert Hobart University, still irritated that Leo thought her family was weird. None of them were fanatic tap dancers like some people she knew. Mrs. Howard Margreaves, Sr., of Murray Hill, New Jersey, answered the telephone.

  “Mrs. Margreaves, I’m calling about your son Howard,” said Elena, dreading the conversation to follow.

  “Oh, I knew it,” cried Mrs. Margreaves. “He’s got another one of those terrible summer colds, hasn’t he? I haven’t had a letter from Howie in three weeks, and he has no telephone. You can’t imagine the worries a mother suffers, Miss — what did you say your name was?”

  “Jarvis,” said Elena.

  “Jarvis. I suppose you’re from the university clinic. Well, I hope you’re taking good care of Howie. His respiratory system is so delicate. It comes of living in New Jersey. Chemicals, you know. Of course, my husband says that’s nonsense. Poppycock, that’s what he calls it, but he just says that because he could breathe anything and it wouldn’t affect him.”

  Mrs. Margreaves had a breathy little voice and an obvious inability to stop talking. Elena hated to cut her off with worse news than the woman anticipated.

  “Scientists, you know,” Mrs. Margreaves was saying. “Howard Senior is a scientific administrator at Bell Labs — well, we don’t call it Bell Labs anymore — A.T. & T. That was a crime, a governmental crime — don’t you think? — breaking up the company the way they did.”

  “Mrs. Margreaves — “

  “Howard Senior always said Howie should have become a scientist. He could have, you know. He had an S.A.T. of 1450. His father said, ‘Why waste all those brains on a no-money endeavor like poetry where he’ll be associating with people wearing sandals and long hair — and beards.’”

  The emphasis Mrs. Margreaves put on beards made them sound like the mark of Cain, and maybe she was right, thought Elena. Gus had that big, messy beard, and he was a sort of sexual Cain. “Mrs. Margreaves, about — “