Closely Akin to Murder

by Joan Hess

  As I drove past the model home, I saw movement behind a window. I slowed to a crawl to look more carefully, but if someone was inside, he or she had moved out of view. It might have been a workman, but was more likely to be teenagers up to some nefarious enterprise. I didn’t park and go inside to investigate, since Trixie seemed capable of dealing with a trespasser without so much as ruffling her hair.

  It was a good thing I was in the only car on the broad street, because I slammed on the brakes.

  “Damn!” I howled. “How could I have been so stupid?”

  CHAPTER 11

  I was still berating myself as I parked between Trixie’s pickup truck and a gaudy pink convertible that looked as though it had been purloined from Elvis’s automobile museum. I gave myself a moment for absolution, then rapped on the trailer door and went inside without waiting for an invitation that might not be forthcoming.

  Trixie sat behind her desk, a brown cigarette smoldering in her hand. Her lips tightened as she saw me, but she quickly produced a smile. “Did you come back for a tour, Claire? You’re in luck because I can give you a great deal on one of our prime lots that’ll be within spittin’ distance of the pool.”

  “Not today,” I said as I studied the other woman in the room. She stood in a doorway, motionless and without any of Trixie’s phony congeniality. Her complexion was smoother and rosier than that of her partner, and her dark blonde hair was styled in a flip reminiscent of a sixties high school yearbook. She was taller and more slender, too, although her silk blouse strained across the noticeable contours of her chest. Despite her efforts, there were fine lines visible beneath her heavy makeup and a subtle capitulation to the force of gravity that made it clear she had celebrated more birthdays than I.

  For a moment, I felt a surge of exhilaration that I’d found Fran Pickett, but it ebbed as I realized the woman had small, close-set blue eyes. Ronnie had been quite specific that Fran’s were large and hazel, and one can only do so much with tinted contact lenses. “You must be Maisie” I said.

  “That’s right,” she said, apparently willing to remain in the doorway for the duration of my visit.

  I looked back at Trixie. “When I drove by the model home, I thought I saw someone inside it.”

  She stubbed out the cigarette. “Yeah, I sent the lazy son of a bitch over to take care of the dust and cobwebs. We don’t have a parade of potential buyers, but we need to be prepared if one shows up. Are you sure I can’t give you a short tour? There’s not a lot to see, but we can go down to the barn where we’re planning to fix up the stalls and put in a riding ring. If you don’t mind a short hike, the hill behind it has a superb view of the Gila River.”

  “I’m not interested,” I said as I sat down across from her and took out my notes. Rather than continue, I waited in silence, my expression mildly antagonistic.

  Trixie began to fidget with a letter opener. “Did you ever find that box number you were looking for earlier?”

  “No, but I did find Rogers Cooper. In his way, he was extremely helpful. That’s why I’m here.”

  She dropped the letter opener and lit another cigarette. “I don’t understand what you mean, Claire. Was he the fellow with a wife named Bea?”

  “His wife’s name was Beatrice,” I said. “It took me longer than it should have to realize that ‘Bea’ is a nickname for Beatrice—and so is ‘Trixie.’ You’re Fran Pickett’s mother, aren’t you?”

  “Look at the time!” squealed Maisie, having miraculously uprooted her feet. “I told Grover down at First Federal that I’d be there at three to finish filling out the loan applications. Trixie, I’ll stop by the model home and make sure everything’s okay. Nice to have met you, Claire. I hope you’ll reconsider buying a ranchette here at the Tricky M.” Before we could respond, she wiggled her fingers at us and sailed out the door.

  I turned back to the woman across the desk, not sure if I should think of her as Bea or Trixie. Both facets had played important roles in the case, so I at last settled on Beatrice.

  “You’re Fran Pickett’s mother, aren’t you?” I repeated. “Is your last name still Cooper?”

  “A while back I thought about reverting to my maiden name, but it was too much trouble. Everybody in the real estate business has always known me as Trixie Cooper. I’d have been forced to get new business cards and send letters to all my previous clients.”

  She seemed eager to steer the conversation away from Fran, so I humored her for the moment. “I found your late husband’s grave in Green Acres Cemetery. You didn’t buy the property from him—you inherited it. Why didn’t you tell me the truth?”

  “I didn’t know why you were asking,” she said in a low voice, “and I was afraid you were a reporter. After Oliver’s death, reporters from Los Angeles showed up, wanting to do interviews with his daughter and ex-wife. They didn’t seem to know the details of his death, and I sure as hell didn’t want to answer any questions about it. Rogers was furious that they’d dared set foot on our porch. He was a pious man who likened Hollywood to Sodom and Gomorrah. He forbade Fran from so much as mentioning her father. The child support checks went straight into a savings account for college.”

  “Why tell me Cooper’s name at all?”

  “Because you could find it at City Hall in a deed book, and my name would be alongside his. I figured if I told you he was alive, you’d try more ordinary channels, then get discouraged and give up.”

  “I’m not a reporter,” I said, putting away my notes. “I’m here on behalf of Ronnie Landonwood. She desperately needs to communicate with Fran.”

  Beatrice’s eyes widened. “She was sentenced to twelve years. I’m surprised to hear she survived.”

  “I’ve spoken with her on the telephone several times in the last two weeks.” I was about to cite as further evidence the symposium in Brussels, then caught myself. The less anyone knew about Ronnie’s personal life, the better. “Is Fran living in Phoenix?”

  “I haven’t laid eyes on her in twenty-three years. No letters, no calls, no nothing. I don’t know if she got married and has a family, or is buried in some unmarked grave. Frannie was my only child, Claire. I won’t pretend it hasn’t been hard on me, especially after losing Rogers, too. Maisie’s the closest thing I have to a family anymore. She can be a real pain in the butt, but for the most part, we get along real well.”

  “Let’s stick to Fran,” I said firmly. “I’ve been told what happened the night of Oliver Pickett’s death and the trial afterward. Did you succeed in getting Fran out of Mexico?”

  “Yeah, but only after two years of filing appeals and slipping money under the table,” Beatrice said. Her hands had been trembling, but now they were lifeless on the desk. Her eyes clouded over and her face sagged like a crumpled paper sack. “I brought Frannie home and got her the best psychiatric care I could afford. She was in and out of hospitals for the best part of five years, being subjected to shock treatments and mind-deadening drugs. She knew what to say and do to convince the shrinks she was better, but then something would snap and she’d take a mess of sleeping pills or try to slash her wrists. During her good spells, she took night school classes. She was so intelligent that she easily could have been the top student at her school and been accepted at any college in the country.”

  I paused to ponder this, then said, “Ronnie told me she never saw Fran after they were transported to the prison. Was Fran transferred to another one?”

  “Not to my knowledge. The few times I was allowed to visit her at that repulsive place, she refused to talk to me. I had to fight not to cry when I saw her through the mesh, getting thinner and pastier each time. After she got out, she never said one word about the prison. It must have been so—oh, God, I don’t want to think about what my baby must have endured!”

  “But you did win her release,” I inserted soothingly. “You said she was periodically institutionalized over the next five years. Then what happened?”

  “I honestly believed she was
starting to do better. She worked in my office as a secretary and occasionally went out on a date, although never with the same boy more than once or twice. She’d even mentioned taking classes at a community college. In fact, we were talking about that the afternoon she got a letter from Ronnie. I never read it, but I could see how much it upset her. It must have been vicious.”

  “How strange,” I said as I rocked back in the chair and stared at her. “I can’t believe Ronnie would do that. There’s been no animosity in her voice when she talked about Fran—only remorse.”

  “All I know is that Fran got quieter and quieter over the next couple of weeks. She wouldn’t eat or go to work, and got to the point that she rarely came out of her bedroom. One morning she was gone. Later that day, the president of the bank called and said she’d closed out her savings account. A teller who’d just been hired screwed up and gave her a cashier’s check instead of taking her request to his superiors. The president was worried because there was more than four hundred thousand dollars in the account.”

  “Four hundred thousand?” I said, gulping.

  “Oliver was very wealthy, and had been ordered to pay child support of four thousand a month. For six years, every penny of it went straight into the account. Rogers and I used to fight about it like polecats. I wanted to fix up the house and buy nice clothes for Fran, but he said it was the devil’s desserts. What’s almost funny is that Oliver was just as prudish when it came to Frannie. He sent me money on the sly to pay for the convent school, and if he’d had his way, she would have entered the order when she turned eighteen and never set foot outside the walls. He was a real hypocrite, leading an amoral life in Hollywood, and then bitching at Fran if she filched a drink from his liquor cabinet. Rogers had a problem with his drinking, but he still had integrity.”

  “Why did he commit suicide?” I asked.

  She lit a cigarette with hands that once again were trembling. “I suppose I was responsible. I was frantic to get hold of cash to bribe various Mexican officials. I’d emptied our checking and savings accounts. The college account couldn’t be touched for two more years, and then only with Fran’s signature. Rogers refused to sell the property because it had belonged to his family since Arizona became a state back in 1912. I couldn’t sell it without his permission, but I found a way to mortgage it to the hilt. I was in Acapulco when he learned what I’d done. Guess he figured we’d never be able to keep up the payments.”

  It struck me as a little extreme, but I’d never owned so much as a square foot of property. Even the Book Depot was leased from the original owner’s widow. “Let me ask you about something else,” I said. “Did you arrange for Ronnie to receive monthly packages while she was in prison?”

  “I swear, you sure as hell know a lot of things.” She abruptly rose and went into another room, returning shortly thereafter with a glass of water. “You want something to drink?”

  I looked at the lipstick smudges on the rim. “No thanks. What about the packages?”

  “Yeah, I sent money to her lawyer every month. Oliver Pickett was a bastard and a bully. While I was married to him, I felt like I was living with a black hole that sucked in every morsel of my personality. When he got drunk, he had no reservations about slapping me around like I was his personal punching bag. I knew damn well he’d attacked Ronnie and she fought back in self-defense. It wasn’t her fault. I didn’t want her to know the packages were from me, though, because I was afraid that some day she’d show up to express her gratitude—and Fran might not have been able to handle it. Turned out I was right, didn’t it?”

  “Oliver’s death certainly has had a major impact on a lot of people’s lives,” I said with a sigh, thinking of the lengthy list of casualties. Some were destroyed decades ago, others more recently—and possibly as a result of my snooping. Which was drawing to an end. I’d found everybody mentioned in my files with the exception of Fran Pickett, and doing so was well beyond improbable. She could be anywhere in the world, living in luxurious seclusion if she’d shrewdly invested her money. Or blackmailing Ronnie if she’d squandered it and needed a fresh source of income. Or even holed up in a convent with clones of Sister Jerome and Sister Mary Clarissa.

  Beatrice cleared her throat. “You haven’t told me why Ronnie wants to talk to Fran. It’s a little late in the game for repentance. What’s done is done.”

  “I’m not at liberty to explain,” I said. I picked up my purse and stood up. “Thanks for your candor.”

  “Sorry about misleading you this morning,” she said with a bit of a smile. “Maybe it did me some good to talk about this after so many years. Then again, maybe I’ll crawl into bed with a bottle of tequila. Hard to say.”

  “Isn’t it?” I opened the trailer door, recoiling as hot, gritty wind caught me in the face. The sky had darkened during the last hour, and a low rumble came from the west.

  “We don’t get much rain in November, but when we do, it can be a gully washer,” Beatrice said. “You’d better hightail it back to town before it hits.”

  “One last question,” I said, turning around. “What happened to the money from Oliver Pickett’s estate?”

  “You’re standing on what’s left of it. Oliver’s will named me as trustee until Fran turned twenty-one. By the time that happened, her doctors backed my petition to remain her legal guardian until she was able to function. Never happened.”

  “How much was it?”

  “Not as much as you’d think. Oliver was making a quarter of a million per picture, but he was living in a mansion in Beverly Hills and keeping coke-snorting bimbos like Debbie D’Avril in mink coats. He thought nothing of taking his devotees to Monte Carlo for the weekend. The total estate was around two million dollars, but a third went to taxes. I used some of it to pay off the mortgage and the loans I’d taken out to keep the lawyer working on the appeal. Over the years I invested what was left in real estate ventures. This place should have been a gold mine. I’d have doubled the investment if the dadburned savings and loan hadn’t failed, catching Maisie and me with our pants around our ankles. Now we’re reduced to sleeping here in the trailer and clipping coupons to keep us in beans and rice. We don’t even have a telephone anymore.”

  “Why not live in the model home?”

  “We’ve got to have something to show folks in case they’re crazy enough to want to plunk down their life savings for a half-acre of rocks.”

  I went out to the car and drove back to Phoenix, watching the sky turn even darker as thunderclouds amassed in the broad valley. Beatrice had predicted a gully washer. I wasn’t sure if the ditches along the road qualified as gullies, but I had no desire to be between them if they did.

  Only a few drops of rain had splattered the windshield when I arrived at the hotel. I made a drink, then took out the files and added the particulars of the interview with Beatrice. There were several discrepancies. Fran had been at the same prison for two years. The co-conspirators might have been separated because of the nature of their crime, but it seemed odd that Ronnie never once caught a glimpse of Fran in the laundry, exercise yard, garden, or chapel. That same Fran who disappeared twenty-three years ago—after five years of suicide attempts. Had she ultimately been successful, or was she happily married and using her savings to put her own children through college?

  Rain began to pelt the window like bullets from an automatic weapon. I closed the curtains, but I was as powerless to muffle the noise as I was to find Fran Pickett. Failure, even when diluted with scotch, was leaving an unpleasant aftertaste. Maybe this really was destined to be “Malloy’s Crowning Flop.” I wouldn’t necessarily feel obligated to fling myself into a raging waterfall in the Sherlockian tradition. The Sisters of the Holy Shrine of San Jacinto had plenty of uninhabited cells, and surely Sister Ursala could use an assistant in the apiary.

  I’d sunk to this unattractive level of despondency (replete with a generous dose of self-pity) when I resolved to call Ronnie and tender my final report. I’d be
en on the verge two days ago beside the pool at the Acapulco Plaza when Caron had made the fortuitous remark about the “shrine”; now I was teetering on the lip of the abyss. I found Ronnie’s telephone number in Brussels and dialed it.

  I was informed she’d left the hotel. After I’d located her number in a Chicago suburb, I replenished my drink as well as my strength of character, then dialed it.

  “Hello?” she said groggily.

  “Claire,” I said. “I’m in Phoenix.”

  “That’s nice. I’m in the throes of jet lag. I’ve been told it’s worse going east, but going west always wipes me out for several days. Have you made progress?”

  “I spoke to Fran Pickett’s mother this afternoon,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound too smug. “It took some sleuthing to locate her, but I did.”

  “You did?”

  Once again I’d anticipated at least a minimal expression of admiration. “The original house is gone, and she’s living in a trailer on the same property. The problem is that she hasn’t heard from Fran for more than twenty years.”

  “Or so she says. I don’t remember much about her, but she looked as if she’d do anything to protect her cub.”

  “She told me some things that were inconsistent,” I continued. “Fran was in the same prison with you for two years before her mother won her release and took her back to Phoenix. You said you never saw her.”