by Susan Dunlap
“What I meant,” Yvonne said with a trace of annoyance, “is that we all recognize them as Howards, but Howard doesn’t see himself from a distance. He doesn’t look up at himself, and he sure doesn’t see himself from the back.”
“What did he say?” I asked.
A Howard put a platter on the far end of the table. But this was no Howard like the others I’d just seen. This was the real Howard. I’d been wrong though; he wasn’t dressed as Leon Evans. He wore a gray business suit, with a white shirt, and a narrow red tie—like Chief Larkin’s gray suit and never-changing narrow red tie. I had known Howard would come as someone or something significant to him. How had I gotten sidetracked on Leon Evans and missed a disguise so obvious as the culmination of his own ambitions—Chief of Police?
“Oh my God,” I said, “no wonder I couldn’t find out anything about your costume.”
Howard grinned.
“It’s not like I didn’t try either. I checked your messages ever time I was in the office. I went to the costume store. They searched through all their records.”
Howard laughed.
“I even called the French Consulate to see where you could get a de Gaulle disguise.”
Howard laughed harder.
“I finally decided you’d be a silk-clad Leon Evans.”
Howard was nearly doubled over. Between fits of laughter, Jackson was explaining the bet to Yvonne.
To Clay, I said, “Think how guilty you’re going to feel about this display when you see me hobbling into the station after trudging miles from my car.”
“Keeps you in shape, Smith,” he said.
“Clayton doesn’t need to be so smug,” Yvonne put in. “He’s never gotten a garage.”
“You guys can visit.” Howard was only chuckling now. “I’ll give you a tour—show you how to pull up the door, how to drive in, how to saunter across the street to the station.”
Jackson snorted.
The music stopped, then a new record began. “Come on, Clayton,” Yvonne said. “This is the only beat slow enough to let me put my hands on those football shoulders.” They moved toward the middle of the room. On the sofa behind where they had been standing sat all four young Jacksons, the eight- and ten-year-old poking each other, the eleven-year-old, a pretty girl, smiling as if she were watching a romantic movie, and the oldest boy glaring and stuffing food in his mouth.
“How about you, Jill? You want to dance with the chief? Or are you too tired?” Howard asked.
“No, I’m okay. It’s just that I thought I was going to wrap up my case, and instead I hit a dead end.”
“Wrap it up? Hey, where are you with this case? I thought you were just getting the feel of it. I didn’t realize you were this far.”
“You don’t want to talk about my case now. I’ve already made enough use of you with Leon Evans. You don’t need me nattering at you during your own party.”
“It’s okay about Evans,” he said, putting a hand on my back and moving out onto the dance floor. My hand barely reached up around his shoulder.
“I didn’t want you to think I was just—”
“I said it’s okay. Look, I knew Evans was going to hold me up for your talk with him. He wasn’t going to get a lot out of me, but he was sure going to get whatever he could. So I set him up.” Howard was grinning again. Howard loved any kind of minor sting. He was a terror on April Fool’s Day.
“How?”
“I went down to his place right after Morning Meeting, in the squad car. I banged on the door. His goon said he was asleep.”
“You knew he’d still be in bed, didn’t you?”
“Of course. I’ve yanked him out of bed more mornings than his mother ever did. But this morning, I told the goon to give him the message that I was there, but to let him sleep.”
“So you’re even?”
“He may not think so, but I do. And that’s what counts. So all that’s left of your visit to him last night is your fond thoughts of him when he turns up in a homicide.”
The record, “Scotch and Soda,” brought back memories of college and high school. I realized that this was the first time I’d danced with Howard. It was such a comfortable feeling that it hadn’t seemed novel. It felt normal, like things had always been with Howard and me—like it was before our promotions.
Maybe it was my lack of sleep—I had been up all night—but suddenly I realized how much I had missed Howard—Howard laughing, Howard throwing himself into our bets, our schemes, Howard reveling in winning. I realized a tear was rolling down my cheek.
“Hey, Jill,” he said, looking down at me. “What’s the matter?”
I swallowed.
He kept his hand on my back and steered me past the food table into the kitchen and out the back door. The air was cold and damp.
“Come on, what is it?” he said, leaning against the wooden railing of the small landing. From it two steps led down to the walkway.
The temptation to explain was fleeting. But I didn’t want to chance unsettling things now. This was one of those feelings that was best left unspoken.
“It’s not the parking spot, is it?”
“No, Howard. I’m kind of wired from lack of sleep. And—this is going to sound ridiculous—”
“Ridiculous is okay.”
“Well, there were all those fake Howards inside. I felt bad that I hadn’t been let in on that. I mean, how come I’m not a Howard look-alike?”
Howard laughed. His head rolled back; his red curls shook. “Jill,” he said between laughs, “you may think you’ve grown in importance now that you’re a big Homicide detective, but you are still five foot six.”
“Five foot seven!”
“A shrimp by any other name …”
“Okay, okay. This just isn’t my day,” I said, grinning in response to his laughter. Howard knew how it irritated me to always be shorter than my friends at work. It made him laugh harder.
When he stopped, he put a hand on my arm. “Okay, Jill, now tell me about your case.” That was what the old Howard—this Howard—would have said.
I didn’t protest. I told him about my dash into Oakland to the Bien Hoa restaurant to find Sam Nguyen. “With the woman at the cash register, I’m batting one for three.”
Howard waited.
“She told me she doesn’t know where Sam Nguyen lives. I’m sure she’s lying about that. She said Sam had been there at twenty after one every workday this week. Three witnesses—Palmerston, Cap Danziger, and Jake Trent—saw him leaving the repair shop at one-thirty the day Palmerston was killed. So I know she’s lying on that one.”
“What’s the third?”
“She told me Cap Danziger and Lois Palmerston had lunch with Sam Nguyen there twice.”
“Cap Danziger and Lois Palmerston,” he said appraisingly.
“Exactly. I’m sure that was Sam Nguyen’s reaction. I’m willing to bet that was what he told Ralph Palmerston, and what made Palmerston hire Herman Ott. The only question is why he would have done that. The whole thing’s a riddle, Howard. The guy with the opportunity has no motive. Five people have Class A motives, but no chance to cut the brake lines.”
“So what are you doing?”
“I don’t know. I’m just here at your party.”
But Howard was not to be so easily put off. “Maybe Cap Danziger cut the brake lines and hoped suspicion would fall on Nguyen. One stone, two birds.”
“I accused him—not in those words—and he pointed out that he would have been rather obvious sidling into the repair shop and under the car. And, of course, he was with Palmerston when Nguyen was leaving.”
“Hmm.”
“I hate to discount Cap Danziger,” I said. “He was the only one of the group that your friend Leon Evans recognized … or admitted recognizing,” I said slowly. “Howard, Leon Evans bought two Cadillacs from Cap Danziger. Danziger himself told me that the reason drug dealers trade with Trent is because of Sam Nguyen.”
“And S
am Nguyen,” he said, picking up on my thought, “makes over cars.”
“I quote, ‘secret cargo space—no problem.’ ”
“So,” Howard said, “Sam Nguyen was engineering secret compartments for the Leon Evanses of the world.”
“And Cap Danziger knew about it,” I said, excited. “He would know, of course.”
“And he was blackmailing Sam Nguyen.”
“Maybe not for cash. Maybe just for influence. Nguyen forced Trent to rehire Danziger a couple of times when he fired him.”
“Whatever. Danziger had a hold on Nguyen.”
“Right. And Nguyen could equalize things by doing Cap the favor of cutting Ralph Palmerston’s brake lines,” I said, almost breathless. “By that, Nguyen disposes of Palmerston at a time when Cap has an unbreakable alibi. And he leaves Lois a wealthy widow free for the taking.”
“Now, if you just knew where Sam Nguyen was, huh?”
“But I do, Howard, or at least I can make a good guess. You’re not the only one giving a Halloween party.”
CHAPTER 25
I RACED INSIDE, GRABBED my purse, and headed out the front door. Howard was right behind me.
“You can’t come,” I called as I ran. “You’re hosting a party. What about your guests?”
“No one will even know I’m gone. They’ve still got six Howards. I can have a black and white signed out while you’re still looking for a parking place by the station.”
“You could let me use your garage.”
“Can’t. I’ve only got a weekday lease. Mrs. Layton rents it to someone else on the weekends.”
A female Mr. Kepple.
We climbed into my car, and I started the engine and pulled out.
“Jill, how do you know there’s going to be a party?”
“Adam Thede told me. He’s the party giver of the group. It was at his straggler’s breakfast that the scheme was hatched.”
“It seems pretty frivolous, your failed schemers going to a party when they should be home worrying.”
“Not really, Howard. They’re scared, all of them. Their lives had been turned upside down before the murder. The only people they can talk to are each other. Even if this weren’t Halloween, they’d want to be together. For them it’s just lucky there’s an excuse.”
“But Sam Nguyen, are you sure he’d want to party with the five of them?”
“Not party so much as keep an eye on them and remind them that they are in this up to their necks and they’d better not turn him in.”
I pulled up in front of the station and let Howard out.
He was barely inside the building when a van across the street pulled out. I hung a U and took the spot. A good omen.
Still in my Fairy Godmother’s costume, I headed for the parking lot exit, and there I waited. Halloween was not a good time to get a patrol car. I knew it would take Howard longer than usual. I just hoped—recalling Nina and Jeffrey Munson’s radical underground connections—that they didn’t decide I was getting too close and take Sam Nguyen to a “safe house.” If they did, he could disappear for years, maybe forever. I hoped it wasn’t too late.
I also hoped it didn’t take Howard much longer to sign out the black and white. The night had turned foggy. And the heavy air was cold. It began to cloud my good omen. When Howard pulled up in the car, I gave him Adam Thede’s address and said, “I’m beginning to have second thoughts.”
“You want me to turn around?”
“No. Keep going. It’s just Nguyen’s motivation. I mean, it’s bad enough that Cap Danziger knows he is creating secret compartments for drug dealers. But if he kills Palmerston, Danziger will know that too. He’ll have a lot more to hold over him. Killing Palmerston doesn’t get him off the hook at all. It just gets him in deeper.”
Howard nodded. “You’d think with friends like Leon Evans, that Nguyen would take the easy and permanent way of disposing of Danziger.”
“Damn it. It doesn’t make sense. But Nguyen was there.”
“Unless the three witnesses were lying and the woman at the restaurant wasn’t.”
I leaned back against the seat. There was nothing more to say. I ran over the facts of the case again, but they turned up nothing new. I was tempted to sift through them, but being awake all night was catching up with me and my mind was too hazy for details. Instead I let myself think about Howard’s party and the gaggle of fake Howards that I had been too short to be a part of.
And when Howard pulled up two houses from Adam Thede’s, he said, “So, what now?”
“I’m going in for the killer.”
“Wait a minute.”
“No. You can’t come. Look at you. No one but me would know that you’re supposed to be in costume.” I pulled up the hood of my Fairy Godmother robe and headed for Thede’s house.
Adam Thede’s house was a chalet on the downslope of a hill. A brace of tall red devils was leaving. I walked in through the open door. The living room was large, bare of furniture, and dark. In the dim light from the fireplace reptilian-faced monsters gyrated to the dance music. It looked like a scene from hell. I pulled the Fairy Godmother hood closer around my head. Picking up a half-full beer bottle, I made my way through the dancers, eyeing each one, trying to find Sam Nguyen and the Shareholders. But none of the dancers was familiar. A ghoul and a princess sat, arms entwined, on a pillow against the wall, but neither resembled Sam Nguyen.
The dining room was lighter. A bum, a witch, and a packing crate with arms were looking over the buffet. None of the Shareholders here.
Could I have been wrong about this party? I was so sure. Could all of them be lying low elsewhere?
I hesitated. I hadn’t seen Adam Thede. Regardless of the validity of my assumptions, he should be here. It was his house. Where was he?
I headed to the kitchen. When I opened the door, I spotted Thede in white chef’s garb at the counter, stirring a large bowl of something tan. Next to him was Cap Danziger in a cavalier’s costume looking down at a small, dark-haired figure in an Oriental jacket.
None of them moved. Bracing myself in front of the door to the dining room, I glanced quickly around the kitchen. The only other door led onto the deck. From there it had to be a thirty-foot drop.
I looked at the back of the Oriental jacket, at the blunt-cut dark hair. I thought of the fake Howards. Pushing my hood back, I said, “Nina Munson, I arrest you for the murder of Ralph Palmerston.”
She whirled toward me and stared. No one moved. Then she grabbed the bowl out of Thede’s hands and flung the gook in my face.
Frantically I scooped the thick sauce out of my eyes. When I could see, Nina was already on the deck railing.
“Don’t!” I yelled.
She looked at me a moment, and jumped.
I didn’t need to hear more than her scream to know that this time she had miscalculated.
CHAPTER 26
NINA MUNSON WASN’T DEAD, but she wouldn’t walk for a while either.
The wait for the ambulance, taking the statements, and all the paperwork took hours. I had promised Howard I would answer every one of his questions when I finished, and he, according to our custom, would take me out for dinner at Priester’s Restaurant to celebrate my collar. But that would have to wait.
As I drove home, the darkness was lifting. Soon it would be dawn. I pulled up in front of the Kepple house, walked around back, and as I had last night, took off only my jacket and slacks before crawling into my sleeping bag.
In the few seconds before I fell asleep, I thought about setting the alarm. I’d promised Howard I’d see him later. I didn’t want to sleep through till morning.
But I needn’t have worried. The whirring of Mr. Kepple’s electric edger jolted me out of the bag. Why did this man have to do his raucous gardening at the crack of dawn? This time I would complain. I was completely out of the bag before I realized it was four in the afternoon.
Muttering a silent apology to Mr. Kepple, I headed for the shower. And at qu
arter to five I was pulling up in front of Howard’s house. At least, I thought, by now the place will be cleaned and back to normal.
But as Howard opened the door, I saw that I was wrong. The living room resembled nothing so much as the returned garment room at California Costumery. The empty back end of the horse leaned against a sofa, a plumed helmet propped on its tail. Ellis’s compost heap covered the rest of the sofa and littered the floor. A Marie Antoinette wig lay next to a bald pate, next to a cotton tail, next to a bear’s head wearing glasses with the eyes popping out. My pumpkin was sporting a Howard wig and a patrol officer’s cap. And beneath, between, and on top of the costumes were wadded napkins, paper plates with dried clumps of food, and beer cans—cans that held enough beer to satisfy an average American town till the turn of the century.
“I started with the kitchen,” Howard said in way of explanation.
“I hate to think what shape that must be in then.”
He just shook his head and made his way through the litter to the sofa and pushed the accumulated debris to the floor. “Ellis was supposed to help clean up. He’s too wasted to move. The rest of the guys … well, I guess I don’t need to go into that.” Howard’s complaints about his ever-changing cadre of roommates had paralleled mine about my ex-husband. We had, at times, had yearning discussions about caves in the Himalayas.
“About my case,” I said to distract him, “what do you want to know?”
He perked up. “The footprints under Lois Palmerston’s window. Who made them? I’ve been trying to figure that out all day.”
“Want to guess?”
“Jeffrey Munson? You said he wore running shoes. He seemed like a skulker.”
I laughed. “No. Actually, there was no need for any of the five suspects to peek in Lois’s window. It would have been dangerous for them to park in front of the house and creep around in the bushes. If they’d wanted to find out about Lois, they would have called, or rung the bell. They hadn’t been watching her house all night. They didn’t know there had been no lights on. If any of them had come by, they would have assumed she’d gone to bed early. The only person who was watching the house, and who was being driven crazy by the lights being off, was my friend Billy Kershon.”