It was Saturday morning. Rita had returned to Albuquerque, and Carol Masters had returned to New Mexico from Alpha Centauri, or wherever she’d been hiding. I had called her from my house and she had agreed to see me, so I had taken a taxi down to the office, picked up the Jeep, and driven out here. We were standing in the doorway of her home in Tesuque, a small town a few miles north of Santa Fe.
“Are you quite all right?” she asked me.
“Fine, thanks.”
“Well, please, do come in.”
I followed her and the clicking of change and a trail of Giorgio perfume into a huge living room that had me blinking against its glare. Sunlight splashed through the wide picture window and swirled around the furniture. Everything in here was blinding white: the enormous sectional leather couch, the massive enameled wooden coffee table, four or five plump leather chairs, the walls, an acre or two of carpet with pile so thick you could lose small children in its depths. The only color in the room was provided by Carol Masters herself, and by a full-length oil portrait of a young Carol Masters standing tall and proud in a diaphanous pink nightgown at the base of an ornate curving staircase. The staircase must have been specially constructed, because Carol Masters, no matter what sort of pride she might possess, was no taller than the average ten-year-old girl.
“Won’t you have a seat,” she said, smiling.
I thanked her and sat down in one of the chairs. She lowered herself to the sofa, where she sat politely smiling, her back upright, her knees together, her fingers interlaced on her lap.
“A real private dick,” she said to me, smiling again. “A shamus. How exciting.”
I smiled. “For whom?”
She laughed. “Well, for me of course. I’ve never met one before.”
She wore a red silk caftan with long flowing sleeves and a hem that reached to her gold sandals. I knew that she was, officially, nearly seventy years old, and it seemed to me that she hadn’t given up a single one of those years without a struggle. Her hair, a confusion of wild curls, was the same bright red shade as her fingernails and her lipstick, but it glistened with highlights of something that might have been purple. Her eyebrows were thick dark arches that looked as though they were attached with Elmer’s glue. Perhaps they had been. Certainly the thick black lashes below the half-moons of green eye shadow were unreal: I imagined, whenever she fluttered them, that I could feel a faint breeze.
Her skin was white, as though it had never seen the sun, and it was tight against the fine bones of her skull, as though someone had grabbed a handful of it at the back of her neck and tied it off with a rubber band.
But buried beneath the cartoonish makeup and the drum-taut skin was a face that had once been exceptionally beautiful. Her nose was small and delicately shaped. Her mouth was wide, the generous lips sculpted. Her best feature was her eyes, which were large and bright green and alert, and they watched me with a kind of avid amusement.
“But this is all such a terrible thing, isn’t it?” she said. “First Quentin and now Leonard Quarry. I came to New Mexico, you know, because the vibrations here were so loving. So peaceful. It’s a holy place, don’t you think? Santa Fe in particular. A sacred spot. And now, suddenly, there’s all this violence everywhere. Hangings and stabbings and whatnot. It’s just horrible.” She shivered theatrically, but there was a faint gleam in the green eyes. I got the feeling that she didn’t entirely disapprove of anything, including stories of violence, that might brighten up her day.
I said, “The police have talked to you, then, about Leonard Quarry?”
“Oh yes. This morning. They only left about an hour ago.” She smiled happily. She had enjoyed their visit, evidently.
“They asked you whether Leonard knew anyone involved in the theater?”
“Yes. I didn’t quite understand why. And they never said.”
“The man who killed Leonard may have been wearing theatrical makeup.”
The eyebrows lifted themselves, a pair of caterpillars doing pushups. “Really? Why on earth would he do a thing like that?”
“A disguise.”
“Oh.” She nodded. “Yes, of course. How clever of him. And how dull of me not to realize. But why would he want to off Leonard?” She smiled, pleased with herself. “Isn’t that the way they say it now? Off?”
I smiled. “Sometimes, yes. I don’t know.”
“Aside from the obvious reasons for killing him, of course.”
“The obvious reasons?”
She smiled. “Did you ever meet Leonard?”
“Once.”
“Then you must’ve seen that he was an absolutely dreadful man. Rude and hateful. I can’t imagine how that lovely girl could stand living with him. You’ve met Sierra?”
“Yes.”
“She’s a dear, isn’t she? An absolute dear.” She shook her head, which made her beads and bangles rattle. “And Leonard was such a boor.” As though hearing herself speak ill of the dead, she frowned, took a deep breath, and then smiled ruefully. “Araxys keeps telling me that I’m much too judgmental.”
“Araxys,” I said.
“Yes. I’m a channeler, did you know?”
I nodded. “I’d heard something about it, yes.”
“Araxys is the entity I channel. He’s a being who exists on Alpha Centauri.”
I nodded. “Doesn’t Alpha Centauri have a surface temperature of something like eighty million degrees?”
She laughed and her jewelry tinkled. “I couldn’t begin to tell you. Science was never my strong suit, you know. All those numbers and laws and tables and such. But I’m sure it’s very hot, Alpha Centauri. Stars are, usually, aren’t they? But you see, Araxys has transcended matter. He exists as pure mind. Heat doesn’t bother him, any more than the terrible coldness of space.”
“He hangs out on Alpha Centauri because he likes the neighborhood?”
She laughed again. She pointed a finger at me. The red fingernail looked lethal. “You’re very naughty. I can tell. You’re a tiny bit skeptical about these things, aren’t you? Confess now.”
“A tiny bit.”
She smiled and sat back. “Well, at least you’re not like one of those awful reporters. They pretend to believe everything you say and then they go off and write things that make you look like an absolute idiot. I’ve never liked them, not even years ago, when I was in Hollywood.”
She said the word Hollywood with a calculated casualness. I nodded toward the portrait behind her. “That was painted then, wasn’t it?”
She turned to look at the painting. “Yes. Many years ago, of course. That was me in one of my favorite roles. Clara, in The Marshal Takes a Wife.”
I nodded. “Good movie. Randolph Scott as the marshal, Robert Ryan as Doc Holliday.”
She looked back at me, fluttering those immense lashes in surprise. “You’ve seen it?”
“Sure.” Years ago, and I could barely remember it. But I’d stopped at the library to take a quick look through a film guide. “I think it was one of the best things you did.”
Smiling, she narrowed her eyes and, once again, she aimed her fingernail at me. “You really are naughty. And unfortunately, I’ve always had a fondness for naughty men.” Another smile. “So how can I help you?”
I smiled. “As I said over the phone, I’m working for the public defender who’s handling Giacomo Bernardi’s case. She doesn’t think he’s guilty. Neither do I.”
She nodded. “Neither does Araxys.”
“Oh?”
“No, not at all. He left me a note about it. I thought that Giacomo was guilty, I admit it. It seemed so obvious at the time, didn’t it? That silly Tarot card was missing, and so was Giacomo, and he’d had that nasty argument with Quentin the night before, all that screaming and shouting and carrying on. It reminded me of the scene in Red Beauty where Scott Brady starts shouting at Lyle Bettger—do you remember?”
“Ah. No. I’m sorry.” Araxys had left her a note?
“I’m the on
e who should be sorry—I wish I’d never done that piece of trash. Disgusting right-wing nonsense. I was supposed to be the beautiful foreign correspondent who’s actually a Communist spy, and Scott was the steely-eyed F.B.I. agent. That’s what the script said. Steely-eyed. Scott nearly made himself ill trying to get his eyes to look steely. We fell in love, of course, he and I. In the film, that is. In real life we hardly spoke to each other. He was a bit of a moron, I always thought. And he was married, of course.” She brightened. “Which goes to prove my point, doesn’t it?”
Which point, I wondered.
She said, “Lyle played my cell leader, Bronski. Or Kronski. I can’t recall.” She frowned. “Do you suppose that the Communists really had cells, the way everyone said they did?”
“I don’t know,” I told her. I had the sense that I was losing control of this conversation. I said, “I wonder if we could go back for a minute. To the police asking about Leonard Quarry’s theatrical connections?”
“He didn’t have any,” she said. “None at all. I doubt that Leonard even knew what a theater was. He was an absolute philistine.”
“And do you have any contacts in the theatrical world these days?”
“None at all, thank goodness. I still receive an occasional Christmas card from one or two friends out on the Coast, but that’s my only contact with that world. I’ve left all of it behind me.” She blinked and then she smiled. “Surely you don’t think that I had anything to do with Leonard’s death?”
“No. But it was a question I had to ask.”
She nodded. “The police think that Leonard’s death had nothing to do with Quentin’s, you know.”
“I think they’re wrong.”
“Well, of course they are,” she said, indignant. “That’s exactly what I told them. But they’re just … dumb flatfoots, aren’t they?” She smiled brightly, pleased with herself, I think, for having found the proper phrase. “First Quentin, then Leonard. Just like John Carradine and Mike Mazurky in Haunted Holiday.” She leaned toward me conspiratorially, and her voice dropped to a stage whisper. “Who’s next, do you think?”
“No one, with any luck.”
“Disasters always happen in threes,” she said. I wasn’t sure whether she spoke out of conviction or hope.
“About the deaths, Miss Masters. Can you think of anyone who might have a reason to kill Bouvier and Quarry?”
She sat back. “You know, I’ve thought and thought about it, really I have, and I can’t, honestly. If someone wanted to kill those two because they were so obnoxious, then both of them would’ve been dead years ago. Don’t you think? What we want here is a motive, isn’t it?”
I smiled. “Yes. So far I haven’t found one. And now that I’ve met you, I’ve talked to all the people who attended the get-together at Brad Freefall and Sylvia Morningstar’s last Saturday.”
She nodded shrewdly. “It has to be one of us, doesn’t it?”
I nodded. “I thought so. I’d still like to think so. But from his description, the man who killed Leonard Quarry wasn’t at the get-together.”
“Yes, but he could’ve been a gunsel, couldn’t he? Hired muscle. A gun for hire.” She was having a good time, using the dated slang with obvious enjoyment. “If you could track him down and lean on him, make him squeal …”
I smiled again. “Maybe. Miss Masters, did you ever hear of a young woman called Starbright? She lived in Albuquerque.”
She blinked. It was hard to miss one of her blinks. “Starbright? What kind of a name is that?”
“You’ve never heard of her?” I asked.
“I would’ve remembered.” She shook her head again, more in dismay than in denial. “Starbright. Goodness.” She looked at me shrewdly. “Why do you ask? Was she someone’s moll?”
“Apparendy she was involved with Bouvier at one time.”
“Oh. Well, no. I’m sorry, but I never heard of her.”
“She committed suicide a few years ago.”
“Oh. How awful. It’s such a tragedy, suicide, isn’t it? Such a waste. Araxys says that the people who commit suicide are turning their backs on love.”
“Speaking of love,” I said, “do you happen to know if Bouvier or Quarry were involved with anyone besides their wives?”
“Oh, I don’t follow gossip anymore.” She smiled. “I used to, hundreds of years ago, but that was back in the days when I was causing it. I have heard that Quentin was a terrible cad, but then Justine, his wife, is hardly Florence Nightingale. Or so I’m told. But as for Leonard, I can’t imagine anyone getting involved with him.”
I nodded.
Time to go. I had enjoyed talking with the woman, but it seemed clear that she knew nothing useful. I closed my notebook. “Okay, Miss Masters. Thanks very much for your help.”
Her green eyes widened and her thick black eyebrows lifted. “Oh, are we all done? Don’t you want to hear what Araxys has to say?”
“Thanks, but I really should be getting—”
“Oh, I know you don’t believe in any of it. I don’t blame you at all. I didn’t believe it myself, not at the beginning. Fifteen years ago, that was, and I can still remember how I felt. Disbelieving. And frightened. I was playing with a Ouija board when it first happened, a gift from a very dear friend of mine. All of a sudden, Araxys started spelling out messages to me. There I was, all alone, out on the balcony of my darling little apartment. I was stunned. Why should some celestial being be bothering little Carol Masters? But he explained that I’d been chosen, despite my … well, my obvious limitations.”
She smiled sweetly. “I haven’t been terribly good, I must admit. Not when I was younger. I always had a terrible weakness for, oh, let’s call it adventure, shall we?” She smiled again. “That sounds so much nicer, doesn’t it? But Araxys told me that none of that mattered. And he explained how I could go into a trance state, so he could take over. It was very strange at first, believe me, all of it. Bizarre. I’ve always been a person who had both feet on the ground, and this was just too much. But finally, you know, all I could feel was gratitude. For the wonder of it, the absolute wonder of it. And I’ve never stopped feeling that. It’s been a way for me to help people, people from all walks of life, with all sorts of terrible problems. And right now I feel that I’ve done so little to help you. And you seem like such a nice man.” She smiled. “Even if you are naughty.”
I smiled. “I thought that Araxys had already spoken to you about the murder.”
“Oh no. Not spoken, no. I’d been on the phone with someone one night, talking about Quentin’s death, and I’d been saying beastly things about Giacomo. The next morning, when I woke up, the note was there, by my bed. He does that, sometimes, leaves sweet little notes for me. He uses my hand to write them, while I’m asleep.”
“You haven’t asked him about Bouvier’s murder?”
“No.” She glanced around, as though Araxys might be lurking somewhere in the room. Lowering her voice, she said, “He doesn’t like me bothering him with questions of my own. Not anymore. He wants me to help other people.” She winked at me, her eyelash waving like a small black hand. “But you could ask him, you see, and then we’d both know.”
I looked at my watch. A quarter to twelve.
I hadn’t been to the office this morning. Rita and I had slept late at my house, and the only person I’d spoken to, besides her and Carol Masters, was Hector, who had told me that Paul Chang was doing well. I had tried to reach Peter Jones, but no one had answered.
Sooner or later today, I had to go to the office, to write up reports. But by now, the news that I’d shot Paul Chang would’ve gotten out, and I’d probably be spending most of my time dealing with messages on the answering machine. I might as well postpone all that for a while. And postpone checking the floor by the front door, to make sure that the service had cleaned away all of Paul Chang’s blood.
Carol Masters said, “It won’t take long, you know. I promise.”
“Sure,” I said.
“Let’s ask Araxys.”
“Oh no, no. Not us. I won’t be here. When he takes over, I get shuttled off to the side somewhere. Into the fourth dimension, he says, and I’m sure it’s all very fascinating, but I can never remember what it’s like, when I come back.” She seemed a bit miffed by this. “But the point is, you see, you’ll have to ask him yourself.”
“Okay.”
She smiled. “Oh good. It’ll be such fun. You’ll see. And I’m sure he’ll be able to help. He just loves to help.”
I nodded.
“Now you mustn’t be frightened,” she said, “by the way he sounds. He has a gruffish sort of voice and sometimes people get a little nervous. I’ve asked him if he can change it, but he says that’s impossible.”
I nodded again.
“Wonderful!” she said. “All right, then. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” She said this as though she were dashing off to the 7-Eleven to pick up a six-pack. And then she turned slightly on the sofa, settling her spine flat against its back and her feet flat against the floor. Closing her eyes, she placed one hand atop the other on her lap. Beneath their Nile green lids, her eyes quivered and twitched. She took a long, slow breath. For a moment, nothing else happened.
Then, abruptly, her head fell forward, dangling at the stem of neck, and her mouth opened and a man’s voice came out, rough and raspy: “You seek answers, my son?”
I didn’t believe that the voice belonged to a being from Alpha Centauri. But hearing it issue, so rough, so masculine, from the small fragile body of Carol Masters startled and unsettled me. Whether because of some racial memory of ancient terrors, witches and warlocks and vampires and shape-shifters, or simply because of the bogeyman tales of childhood, most of us carry around little pockets of atavistic fears. And when reality seems to shift slightly on its moorings and we grope for the reasons, sometimes we’re tempted to admit into our conscious world precisely those things which are feared. Once, many years ago, I’d seen a friend suffer an epileptic fit, and I’d felt the same thing then that I did now: a cold uncanny shiver prickling down the back of my neck.
The Hanged Man Page 20