The Conspiracy Club

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Ramona Purveyance nodded with enthusiasm.

  Jeremy said, “I wonder how long he’ll be gone this time.”

  “Hard to say. Sometimes it’s a day, sometimes it’s a week. He sends me postcards.”

  “Where from?”

  “Everywhere. Come, I’ll show them to you.”

  Jeremy followed her into a compact apartment brightened by rear windows that afforded a view of the infinite grass. A meadow, really, with just the faintest rise as it swooped toward the horizon. A dozen or so ravens circled, blending with the sooty sky only to dart out into the fissures of light that separated the storm clouds. The effect was startling—airborne static.

  Ramona Purveyance said, “They’re always out there. Beautiful things, despite their reputation.”

  “What reputation is that?”

  “You know, like in the Bible? Noah sent the raven out to seek peace, but the raven failed. It was the dove that brought back the olive branch. Nevertheless, I consider them beautiful creatures. Not peaceful, though. Sometimes we get cardinals, lovely red things that they are. The ravens scare them off.”

  She placed her teacup on a low, glass coffee table, waddled to a maple bureau, opened a top drawer, and said, “I’m pretty sure I put them in here.”

  Jeremy looked around the flat. The walls were painted green—a hospital green—and the furniture was newish and blond and inexpensive. A couple of prints—framed seascapes clipped from calendars—were the sole art pieces. No bric-a-brac, no mementos. None of the family history you’d expect for an old woman.

  But that was a foolish assumption, a romanticized version of family life. Things fell apart. Or never took off.

  What would he have to show when he was old?

  Ramona Purveyance opened drawers, closed them, repeated the process, said, “Hmm.” The living room opened to a small, spotless kitchen. If the woman cooked, her cuisine left no scent.

  “Ah, here we go,” she said. In her hand was a sheaf of postcards bound by a wide red rubber band. Without hesitation, she handed them to Jeremy.

  The first dozen or so were from overseas. London, Paris, Constantinople, Stockholm, Munich. The Canal Zone—Arthur revisiting his old military haunts?—Brazil, Argentina. The next batch were all American: Oregon’s Crater Lake, New York City, St. Louis, Los Angeles, Bryce Canyon, Santa Fe, New Mexico.

  Beautiful pictures of familiar landmarks on one side, the same message on the other, in a familiar hand:

  Dear Mrs. P—

  Traveling and learning.

  A.C.

  Ramona Purveyance said, “He’s a dear to remember.”

  “Since I’ve known him, he’s lived here,” Jeremy lied. “Must be . . .”

  “Ten years,” she said. “Five years after I arrived. It’s a quiet place, for some city people the adjustment is hard. Not for the professor. He sold his big house and its contents and fit in quite beautifully.”

  “The house in Queen’s Arms.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Ramona. “He showed me pictures. A big old thing—Victorian.”

  Something right! Finally!

  “Must’ve been a lovely place to live in,” she went on. “Fine old furniture, those pretty leaded glass windows. But far too spacious for one person. The professor told me he’d knocked around there far too long. Well after . . . he should have.” She flinched. “Are you a pathologist, as well, Dr. Carrier?”

  “Psychologist. After he should have, Mrs. Purveyance?”

  The chocolate eyes remained steady. “After he realized how ill suited such a big place was for a person living alone.”

  “Being alone can be an adjustment.”

  “Have you ever lived alone, Doctor?”

  “Always.”

  Ramona Purveyance knitted her fingers and studied him. “A psychologist. That must be quite interesting.”

  Smiling, but something in her tone told Jeremy she couldn’t have cared less. He said, “Professor Chess and I discuss interesting clinical issues from time to time. He’s deeply interested in psychosocial topics.”

  “Of course he is,” she said. “The man’s as curious as a child. Sometimes I see him out there.” She motioned out the window to the endless grass. Ravens had congregated near the horizon, small and black as flyspecks. “He walks and explores, kneels and peels back the grass, looks for insects and whatnot. Sometimes he brings his metal detector and just goes clicking around. Sometimes he brings a garden spade and digs around.”

  “Has he ever found anything?”

  “Oh, absolutely. Arrowheads, old coins, bottles. Once he found a pearl necklace that he gave to me. Small baroque pearls, some were pitted, but overall still lovely. I gave the necklace to my granddaughter Lucy—she’s just old enough to appreciate things of beauty. The world’s a treasure trove if you know where to look.” She eyed the door. “Would you like some tea?”

  “No, thanks. I’d better be going.”

  “Dr. Carrier,” she said, “that term you used—’psychosocial.’ What exactly does that mean?” She canted her head to one side, a parody of coyness. “I do like to work on my vocabulary.”

  “The interaction between psychology and social issues. Issues that confront society. Poverty, crime, violence. Professor Chess is especially interested in criminal violence.”

  Ramona Purveyance looked down at her hands. “I see . . . well, I’ve got laundry to do. Shall I tell him you were by?”

  “Sure, thanks,” said Jeremy. “I guess we have no idea when he’s coming back—did he pack a large suitcase?”

  “I wouldn’t know, sir,” said Ramona, retrieving her teacup. The contents must’ve been cold, but she sipped slowly. Over the rim of the cup, the dark eyes studied him.

  “No idea?” said Jeremy.

  “He slipped a note under my door asking me to look after his mail last night. He must’ve done it late because I was up until eleven. When I woke up at six, he was gone.”

  The teacup lowered. Ramona Purveyance’s expression was bland, but her eyes were guarded. Jeremy smiled. “That’s Professor Chess. Driving off on another adventure in that beautiful Lincoln.”

  “It is a lovely car, isn’t it? He maintains it like a clock—washing, polishing, vacuuming every week, but, no, I wouldn’t think he’d take it. When he travels he generally has a cab pick him up. Or he drives his other car and leaves it at the airport.”

  “His other car?”

  “His van,” she said. “He’s got a Ford van, an old one, but in perfect shape. He told me he bought it at a city auction. Used to belong to the Coroner’s Office, isn’t that a bit delicious?” The old woman hugged herself. “Professor Chess assured me it had been cleaned out thoroughly. They always are.”

  “They?” said Jeremy.

  “Morgue things.” Another giggle. “Death things.”

  25

  Halfway back to the city, the storm hit. Jeremy fishtailed for miles, drove with a misted windshield, felt his brakes lose confidence, was nearly part of a seven-car pileup. Toward the end, he gave himself over to the Fates. Miraculously, he arrived home in one piece and had a dinner of canned soup and toast and black coffee.

  The following night, he and Angela finally stole away from the hospital, and he took her to a higher grade of restaurant than ever before; off Hale Boulevard, on the North End. Because of the weather, they rode in a taxi, and Jeremy supplied umbrellas for both of them.

  A lesson from Arthur.

  The place was green suede walls, granite banquettes, starched linens the color of fresh butter. On the way to their rear booth, Jeremy and Angela passed an iced case of fish so fresh the creatures’ eyes stared back reproachfully, another containing fat-marbled prime cuts of beef and pork. Pugnacious lobsters, their pincers bound, clawed the spotless sides of a ten-foot aquarium.

  The savagery of good living.

  Jeremy had made a reservation two days before and gotten another resident to cover for Angela. A guy who’d rotated through Psych as an intern and
sat in on a couple of Jeremy’s lectures.

  The ambience, the food, all that was great. The planning was what impressed Angela to the point of moist eyes.

  She sat right up against him, their thighs laminating.

  “After this, how am I going to go back to resident’s fare?”

  “Ease into it,” said Jeremy. “Avoid undue sensory shock.”

  “This is pretty shocking,” she said. “Being treated like this.”

  “I’ll bet you’re no stranger to that.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Only daughter in a professional family. Something tells me you’ve experienced the finer things in life.”

  “You’re right,” she said. “They raised me with love, gave me what I wanted, always told me I could achieve anything I put my mind to. By all accounts, I should never lose confidence, right? But I do. Nearly every day. This job, all those people, depending on me. What if I misplace a decimal place on an order? Or fail to catch it when someone else does—that actually happened to me when I was an intern. Some puffed-up attending more concerned about billing than taking care of his patients dashed off an insulin scrip for a diabetic. A hundred times too much. We would’ve had a sudden death, and everyone would’ve been puzzled.”

  “You caught it?” said Jeremy.

  She nodded. A China Doll waitress brought complimentary melon liqueur in tiny green glasses and a lacquered tray of various fried things. Angela massaged her glass. Picked up a baby octopus, muttered, “Too cruel,” and placed it back on the plate.

  “So you saved a life. Good for you.”

  “I almost didn’t catch it, Jer. The syringe was already loaded—prepared by a nurse—and I was supposed to give the shot, and I just happened to glance down and read the order. I’ll never forget the look on the patient’s face. An old guy, an old sturdy guy who’d operated heavy machinery in his heyday and still liked to flirt. He must’ve seen my face, realized how thrown I was. He said, ‘Everything okay, girlie?’ ‘Sure,’ I said and I made a big show of inspecting the syringe. Then I lied, told him something was wrong with the needle, too many air bubbles, we needed to get a fresh one. I left him there, tossed that damn syringe in the nearest biohazard bin, called the head nurse over, and showed her the order. This was a smart woman, an experienced woman, she knew as much about dosages as most physicians. She said, ‘Oh, my,’ then she recovered, and it was, ‘Of course, we’re not going to tell anyone, are we?’ And I said, ‘Of course not.’ She suggested I alter the original order to where it should’ve been, and I did. Then I loaded up a new syringe, went back in, gave the poor patient his shot. He smiled at me. ‘There you are, I been missin’ you. Maybe you and I can go out some day, honeybunch, cut a rug.’ I smiled back—too shaken up to be offended and besides, he’s an old guy, another generation, how can you take offense? I said, ‘Well, Mr. So and So, you just never know.’ And when I left, I give my rear a little shake. To cheer him up—I know it was tacky, but this guy almost died, and I was almost the one who killed him. He deserved a little joy, no? A little atonement from me, too.”

  Her lips shook. Lifting the tiny green glass, she tossed back her drink.

  Jeremy said, “Nothing to atone for. You’re the hero of the story.”

  “Pure luck. So close. Since then, I’ve been paranoid about dosages, double- and triple-check everything. Maybe it’ll make me a better doctor. You know the worst part of it? The attending—the idiot who couldn’t keep his decimal places straight—he never knew. We protected him, never told him. So what does that make me? A coconspirator?”

  “If you’d told him, he’d have denied it. And you’d have come out the worst for it.”

  “I know, I know,” Angela said, miserable. “This is some romantic evening—I’m sorry, Jer.”

  Jeremy nuzzled the warm, sweet place behind her ear. So smooth, women. So finely wrought.

  She said, “You’re a wonderful guy. Please, let’s keep this going.”

  A week later, he received a postcard from Oslo.

  Stunning photography, some place called the Vigeland Sculpture Gardens. Monumental carvings of hypermuscular figures displayed in a verdant parklike setting. To Jeremy’s eye, the images were aggressively proletarian—Wagnerian.

  On the back of the card was fore-slanted writing in black fountain pen ink:

  Dear Dr. C—

  Traveling and learning.

  A.C.

  The old guy picks up and leaves just like that. And why not? Arthur was retired, lived alone, had no work obligations.

  Had downsized.

  Jeremy was certain the Victorian had been abandoned for some reason other than Arthur’s sudden insight that the house was too large.

  Ramona Purveyance knew the reason, she’d almost let it slip—he’d knocked around there too long after . . .

  But when Jeremy had pressed, she’d finessed.

  Had there been some tragedy in Arthur’s life? Some life-changing event? Perhaps the old man had simply confronted one of life’s routine tragedies: widowerhood.

  Loss of the doting wife Jeremy had imagined. That would’ve been more than enough to insult Arthur’s gregariousness. Leading him to seek his pleasures elsewhere.

  Late suppers with like-minded eccentrics.

  Jeremy placed the postcard in a desk drawer. The next time he saw Anna, the faculty office secretary, he thanked her for providing Arthur’s address, told her Arthur loved the gift, was now traveling.

  “Yes, he does that,” she said. “Sends me the prettiest postcards. So considerate.”

  “A good way to occupy oneself,” said Jeremy.

  “What is?”

  “Travel. What with his living alone and all that.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.”

  “How long has he been single?”

  Anna said, “Ever since I’ve known him—I believe he’s always been single, Dr. Carrier. Confirmed bachelor and all that. A pity, wouldn’t you say? Such a nice man?”

  Living single meant you could hop to the airport, charm the ticket agent, board, loosen your shoelaces, nibble salted nuts, down a martini with two pearl onions, and settle back for the long flight.

  If Arthur was behind the interoffice envelopes, he’d sent Jeremy two articles on laser surgery and left the country shortly after posting an old clipping about a missing English girl and her murdered chum.

  At least, Jeremy had assumed the story was old because of the dry, brown paper. What was the point? A crime-history lesson? Wanting Jeremy to ponder yet another example of very bad behavior?

  Wanting to lead Jeremy somewhere . . .

  If so, the old man was being maddeningly oblique.

  Where was the clipping . . . Jeremy searched his desk, remembered he’d thrown it out. What was the murdered girl’s name . . . Suzie something, a surname beginning with C . . . he struggled to retrieve the memory, felt it evade him maddeningly, a sour aftertaste, lodged in the soft, spongy tissue behind his tongue . . .

  But the other name came to him, unbidden.

  The girl who had vanished—an unusual name—Sapsted—Bridget Sapsted.

  He turned on his antiquated computer, endured the squawks of his temperamental modem (the hospital had converted to word processing years after every other health facility, still refused to install an integrated system), sat back, and counted the dots in his acoustical tile ceiling until he finally connected to the Internet.

  He entered the missing girl’s name into a search engine, heard the computer hum and snore and flatulate—indatagestion.

  Three hits, all from British tabloids.

  The case wasn’t ancient at all; the acid-laced pulp paper had deteriorated quickly.

  Six years ago: As the clipping had stated, Bridget Sapsted had gone missing.

  Two years later, Bridget Sapsted had been found, dead.

  The young woman’s skeletonized remains had been buried shallowly, in a densely wooded area, less than a quarter mile from those of he
r “chum” Suzie Clevington. Found three weeks after Suzie. Nothing left but bones; the coroner estimated that Bridget Sapsted had been interred for the full two years before being sniffed out by dogs.

  “Finding Suzie helped narrow the search,” said Det Insp Nigel Langdon. “We are now considering both young ladies the victims of the same killer. For evidentiary reasons we are unable to divulge an explanation for that assumption at the present time.”

  Jeremy plugged the policeman into several data banks. Only one hit for any Nigel Langdon, and it had nothing to do with police work: Last year, a man by that name had delivered a lecture on the cultivation of peonies to the Millicent Haverford Memorial Garden Club. Kent.

  Same district, had to be the same guy. Perhaps the Det Insp had also retired, chosen quieter pursuits.

  Jeremy phoned overseas information, was stalled by several false starts, finally connected to the right English operator and obtained a listed number for a Nigel Langdon in Broadstairs.

  Where the murdered girls had gone to school.

  The time difference made it evening in England, but still early enough for a polite call.

  He punched in the number, listened to the overseas squawk, was momentarily stunned when a cheerful woman’s voice chirped, “Hallo, who is it then?”

  “Is Mr. Langdon there, please?”

  “Watching the telly. Who shall I say is calling?”

  “Dr. Carrier, from the United States.”

  “The States—you’re joking.”

  “Not at all. Is this Mrs. Langdon?”

  “Last I checked. No joke? What, then? What kind of an American doctor are you?”

  “A psychologist,” said Jeremy. “I’m a friend of Dr. Arthur Chess.”

  “Are you now?” said the woman. “I’m sure that’s good for him, whoever he is. So you think Nige needs a head-shrink?”

  “Nothing like that, Mrs. Langdon. Dr. Arthur Chess—Professor Chess is a renowned pathologist, with an interest in one of Mr. Langdon’s cases—we are talking about Detective Inspector Nigel Langdon?”

  “Retired inspector . . . Nigey’s well past all that ugly business—it’s the murdered girls, right? Has to be that.”