Death Turns A Trick (Rebecca Schwartz #1) (A Rebecca Schwartz Mystery) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series)

by Julie Smith

  Alan’s all right, really. It’s just that he has trouble remembering he’s not on stage all the time. If you don’t watch him, he does bits, like the tough-guy routine he was affecting this morning. Also, he has no sense of responsibility and will probably never make a decent living. But he’s got a good heart, deep down. That and a lot of curly hair.

  I said it wasn’t exactly uplifting, finding Kandi, but I wasn’t his sister-in-law.

  “Did your new boyfriend do it?”

  “How do I know?”

  “Well, I hope not. I was kind of hoping you’d marry him. Then your sister wouldn’t have to worry about you anymore.”

  “Worry about me? She’s living in sin with Mr. Putz and she should worry about me?”

  “You’ll get used to me in thirty or forty years.”

  “I’ll brain you first,” I said, and instantly wished I hadn’t. It brought back a mental picture I could do without.

  Alan picked up a cast-iron pan and held it out. “Here. No time like the present. Come on, get it over with. Face it, Rebecca, you’ve been wanting to for two years.”

  He stretched out his arms, practically begging for it, and looked at the ceiling. “‘Ay, but to die and go we know not where,’” he said, “‘To lie in cold obstruction and to rot…’”

  I took the pan and lifted it in what I hoped was a threatening gesture, but I doubt he even noticed, he was so full of himself: “‘This sensible warm motion to become a kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit…’”

  If that had gone on much longer, I probably would have killed him, but Mickey saved his life by making a grand entrance with a fragrant paper bag. He shut up, and I lowered the weapon. “I was about to do you a favor,” I said to Mickey.

  Alan sneaked up behind her and nuzzled her ear: “Would you have missed this sensible warm motion?”

  She shook him off. “You children behave. I’ve brought breakfast.” She opened the bag and started arranging croissants on a plate. The pastries were a real extravagance on the kind of budget she and Jerko lived on. It disoriented Alan so much he set the table.

  I poured coffee and orange juice, and Mickey dredged up some butter and strawberry preserves. After a croissant and two cups of coffee, I felt a lot better. Strong enough to talk to Mom and Dad. I would have called them if Mom hadn’t beat me to the punch. The phone rang just about then.

  “Hi, Mom,” said Mickey. “Oh, she’s with us. Certainly she’s all right. I’ll prove it.”

  She passed me the receiver. “Thank God you’re all right, darling,” said Mom. “I called and you weren’t home.”

  “I know, Mom. I’m not at home a lot. I can drive and everything. But just this once, there is a little something wrong. I was going to call you before you heard it on the radio, but…”

  “The radio? What, has your house burned down?”

  "No, Mom. Now listen. Someone was killed there.”

  “What, in your building? I knew it wasn’t safe on Telegraph Hill. Just last year they killed a girl in her own bed.”

  “Her husband killed her. Look, this killing was in my apartment.”

  “Your apartment? Oy. Are you sure you’re all right, darling? I could come right over.”

  “I’m okay. I wasn’t there at the time. I’d left my purse at a party. She—the victim—came to return it, and she got there before I did. By the time I got home, she was dead. Someone bashed her with my Don Quixote sculpture.”

  “Thank God it wasn’t you!”

  “The police don’t seem to think it was a burglary. My house was ransacked, but nothing was missing.”

  “So why ransack it?”

  “To make it look like a burglary, I guess. Or maybe because the murderer thought Kandi—the dead woman—had brought something that he wanted.”

  “What? I’m not following.”

  “Can I talk to Daddy? I’d like to tell him, too.”

  “He had to run an errand. I’ll tell him. Listen, should we call off the party?” My parents’ thirtieth wedding anniversary party was scheduled for the next day. Sunday.

  “What, are you crazy?” I said. “I’m not dead.”

  “But, darling, you’re upset. Party or no party, my children come first.”

  “Mom, I’ll have a great time. Everyone’ll want to talk to me because I’ll be notorious.”

  “You sure? It’s not too late.”

  “Positive. Listen, I’ve got to go home and put my house back together.”

  “You’re not going back to the place alone?”

  “Mickey will drive me. I’ll have her come in and make sure no one’s there.”

  “You’re not under suspicion, are you, dear?”

  “No, Mom. They’ve arrested a friend of mine. I’m his lawyer.” Once that was out, I had to tell her the whole story, and I believe she was more upset by my going to a party at a bordello than she was about the murder.

  Not being able to fit into any of Mickey’s jeans, I had to wear my silver blouse and black skirt back to my house. I looked as grubby as I felt. I contemplated a shower and then a blitz of my house, but I knew the blitz would have to wait until I’d seen Parker.

  Mickey didn’t want to go in with me, because it meant taking me to my car, then driving all the way back to Telegraph Hill. But I needed her to help me move furniture. That Flokati rug had cost me $150 on sale at Macy’s and I wasn’t about to throw it out; I planned to wash the bloodstains out in the bathtub.

  We found the place in worse disarray than the night before, if that was possible. But I didn’t let myself think about it. Mickey and I heaved the sofas and coffee table off the rug, and I gathered it up while she ran some cold water. Then she left me alone.

  I added detergent and left the rug to soak while I called Judge Rinaldo. “I’m sorry, Miss Schwartz,” he said. “Martinez and Curry are dead against bail for your client. They’ve got witnesses and fingerprints.”

  “Yes, but he’s not a flight risk.”

  “They say he’s in such a depressed state he might try suicide.”

  “Bull—” I stopped myself just in time. “I mean, nonsense! I talked to him this morning.”

  “I’m sorry,” the judge repeated. “You’ll have a bail hearing if he’s charged.” He hung up.

  It was no more than I expected. The bit about suicide disturbed me, though. I hadn’t thought Parker was that upset, but then he had rather unreasonably refused to take the polygraph test. Unreasonably if he were innocent, that is. I had to assume he was innocent, so why not take the test? Was he really so upset he just wasn’t thinking straight? Could be; I would be if I were in his shoes. But so upset he was suicidal?

  I hoped to God not. And not only on his account—I wanted a man I didn’t have to mother.

  I went back to the rug. A little scrubbing and the blood came out pretty easily, but the feathers were something else again. Even after I’d gotten bored picking them off, you could hardly see the difference. So I decided to vacuum it when it was dry, and addressed myself to the hard part of the task: wringing the damn thing out.

  Then I bathed, put on a white silk shirt, gray flannel slacks, and a coral necklace. That was good enough for a Saturday at the Hall of Justice.

  Chapter Nine

  The Hall of Justice was eerily quiet. I took the elevator to City Prison and asked to see my client. The cops showed us into an interview room about the size of my bathroom, painted in two shades of blue. Two ugly shades. It was furnished with a table and two chairs.

  As soon as they left us alone, we kissed and held each other for a long time. Parker’s eyes were red, either from crying or lack of sleep. Maybe both.

  “No bail?” he asked, sitting down.

  I shook my head. “I’m sorry. Martinez and Curry told the judge you might be suicidal.”

  “Christ, I just might be.” He waved his hand in a futile gesture. I put a notebook and pen in the middle of the table so he’d have something to fidget with. “I’m having a very hard
time believing any of this is actually happening.”

  “I know. So am I. But we’ve got to talk about it.”

  “Yes. Rebecca, she was only twenty-four. God! Just twenty-four!” He picked up the pen and made two fists around it. “I remember how jealous I was when she was born. Everyone adored her because she was so pretty. I did too, by the time I got over my jealousy.

  “It’s funny the things you remember.” Animation came into his voice. “Mom had a black velvet cape that she used to wear to the opera.

  “One day—around Halloween—I got a pair of those fake glasses with a nose and mustache. You know, Groucho Marx glasses—and I put them on along with the velvet cape and sneaked up behind Carol. We used to watch that weekly horror show on TV—Creature Features, I think they call it now—and we'd recently seen one of the versions of ‘Dracula.’ Anyway, I tapped her on the shoulder and she screamed. No one else was home, so I could do anything I wanted. I chased her around the house for about ten minutes, until finally I cornered her and she just kind of sank down, whimpering.

  “She was so defenseless and so terrified and so pretty, I realized I loved her.

  “I was a teenager, and she was only about seven; I wasn’t used to moments of sentiment. I picked her up and took off the glasses. She put her arms around my neck and wouldn’t let go.”

  Parker’s voice was choked, but he went on. “She was, well, wild in high school. Ran away from home, and we didn’t hear from her for over a year. She came home strung out. She got straight and stayed home long enough to graduate. Then she went away again. To San Francisco. This time she kept in touch, and in a way that was even more heart-breaking. We knew she was on every kind of drug but heroin. Acid, speed, downers—coke, I guess, when she could get it. She’d always been a bright girl, and she was wasting herself. She was a vegetable. I swear to God, all she said was ‘Hey, man’ and ‘Far out’ for three years. But a couple of years ago her boyfriend got busted for dealing, and that seemed to sober her up.

  “She wrote me that she was going back to school. Our parents had stopped giving her money a long time ago, so I offered to do what I could. She said no, she had a job as a waitress. And I respected her for that. For not taking money. If I’d known what she was doing…”

  He put a hand over his eyes. I patted it and told him to take a break while I got him some water.

  Perhaps I should tell you now that I wasn’t exactly pleased by this narrative. Here I was, looking for a man I wouldn’t have to mother, and I had a six-footer crying all over me. I told myself I was being unreasonable; that people go through periods of unhappiness and have to help each other through them; that Parker would do the same for me if the roles were reversed. But our relationship was just beginning, and this was no way to start. In retrospect, it seems funny that I thought that, when I didn’t even know if he was about to confess to murder or what, but I did. I’m afraid it wasn’t a very professional attitude.

  If what I said seems cold, let me tell you that I was nearly in tears myself. That was the trouble.

  I got the water, and he drank it. “Anyway,” he began again, “when I saw her at Elena’s, you can imagine how I felt. I saw her right after you’d told me you could tell the hookers by the length of their skirts. I saw a pair of legs and I looked at them first, and then there was… was Carol. I couldn’t take it in. I mean I did and I didn’t. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Yes,” I said. “That’s what happens when you get a shock. You know it’s true because your senses tell you, but you resist it. Because you want it not to be true.”

  He took my hand and squeezed it. “Exactly, yes. Well, I just wanted to get out of there. I didn’t want to be in the same room with her. I’m sorry I left you like that, but it was so sudden… It was as if someone else actually walked out of that house. I felt disembodied. I wasn’t thinking.” I squeezed back to let him know I understood.

  “Somehow, I got myself to a bar. I remember getting in the car and not having any idea where to go or what to do, and then I just saw a bar, and I stopped and went in. I didn’t even remember where it was.”

  “What was the name of it?”

  “I don’t know. Does it matter?”

  “Not for now, but maybe later.”

  “I got drunk. I just sat there drinking one Scotch-and-water after another until I was numb enough to start thinking about it. And then I finally did realize it was true. I was furious. I hadn’t felt like that with her before. I mean being a druggie is wasting your life, but this! When she could have done anything she wanted, had all the choices in the world. Drugs are considered—well, a life-style, you know? Some people think they’re a way to enlightenment or peace of mind or something; I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. It’s criminal if you’re dealing, but it isn’t… it isn’t… selling your body.”

  “In a way it is.”

  “No. Not like this.”

  “I know what you mean. I was just playing devil’s advocate. What time did you leave the bar?”

  “I’m not sure, really, but I think it must have been around eleven-thirty. I don’t know what I had in mind. I guess I thought when she saw me she’d be so ashamed she’d, you know, give up her life of crime or something. Anyway, I meant to confront her.”

  “And did you?”

  “Well, when I got back there, she was dancing with some fat guy. I grabbed her and called her Carol, and I’m sure, I’m just sure there was a look of shock on her face. But she was a real pro,” he said bitterly.

  “She wiped it off right away and said, ‘What are you doing here?’, putting me on the defensive. I said it was obvious what she was doing and that she was coming with me. However I thought she’d react, I was wrong. She wasn’t at all contrite. She said, in a pretty snippy way, really, that she was sorry I had to find out, but it was her life and I’d better butt out.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Just about. I couldn’t believe she was serious, so I started to harangue her again, but those phony cops came in about then. It’s funny. Even after what happened, my only thought was to protect her. I backed her up against a wall so no one could see her, and she let me. The place was bedlam for a while, but then somebody recognized one of the ‘cops’ and people started laughing. Kind of nervously, you know, getting their bearings, but just glad we weren’t all going to jail. Carol must have slipped out from behind me, because the next time I saw her, she was standing with her arm around that fat guy, laughing. As if nothing had happened with me.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I wasn’t shocked this time; I was just revolted. But I felt the same as before. I just wanted out. So I left. Somehow I still couldn’t seem to get it through my head that my sister Carol was really a prostitute. A prostitute, and a nasty little job of work at that. With no family feeling, no affection for me. Perfectly happy to parade herself with guys who weren’t fit for her to spit on right in front of her own brother. So I drove to Fort Point, parked, and tried to think. I wasn’t in shape for it, though. Remember, I was still pretty drunk. I fell asleep.

  “When I woke up, things seemed a lot more real, somehow. The blind rage was gone, and the shock. I understood the position even if I didn’t like it. My watch said one-fifteen, and I remembered you for the first time in hours. So I went to your house to apologize.”

  “Were you still drunk, Parker? Under normal circumstances, I would have been either still at the party or asleep at that hour.”

  “I know. And to answer your question, I was pretty well sobered up. I’m afraid it wasn’t the most considerate thing in the world to do. It wasn’t only that I wanted to apologize. I needed someone to talk to.”

  “What happened when you got there?”

  “Some people let me in the front gate, and I went up to your apartment and knocked. Nobody answered, so I figured you were still at Elena’s, and I certainly wasn’t going back there. I went home and went to bed.”

  “When the couple let you in, didn
’t you notice a note in the mailbox?”

  “That note! What the hell is that all about?”

  “Did you see it or not?”

  “No. The man had his back against the mailboxes, holding the gate open. I couldn’t see them at all. Look here, the police won’t tell me anything. Martinez seems to think I followed Carol from Elena’s and she let me in. Then there’s something about her going downstairs to leave you a note warning you I was there. Then, according to him, I argued with her, she refused again to give up her… life-style, and I got violent and killed her. Rebecca, I’m not a violent person. You believe me, don’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, tell me what the hell is going on, then. What was Carol doing in your apartment? And why weren’t you there? And what the devil is this about a note?”

  “When those fake cops came in,” I said, “Elena figured she’d need a lawyer. So when the lights went out, she sneaked me out a back way and told me to drive home, change, and get ready to make like a lawyer. But I had a minor traffic accident and spent two hours here at the Hall. Meanwhile, she found my purse and sent Kandi—I mean Carol—to take it to my apartment. When the cops finally let me go, I came home and found the body.”

  “What about the note?”

  I explained. He whistled. “So they really think they’ve got me.”

  “That’s not nearly so damaging as the fingerprint. Parker, you must have touched the statue sometime at my house.”

  “I suppose I did, but I honestly can’t remember. My God, I've even considered the idea that I did kill her. I don’t know—turned into Mr. Hyde or something.”

  “Is that why you won’t take the polygraph?”

  “You think I’m being silly about that.”

  “Yes. Will you reconsider?”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “I’d better go. Is there anything else I can do? Have the police notified your parents?”

  “They’ve told them about Carol, yes, but not about me. They’ll be trying to get me. Could you possibly give them a call?”