I listened to silence for eight or ten beats. He used the time to get a grip on himself; he sounded calmer when he said, “She claims you’re crazy, that she and Jack had a perfectly normal life in Pennsylvania before they moved out here.”
“And you believe her.”
More dead air, about five beats’ worth this time. “I don’t know what to believe,” he said.
“You tell her what I said about helping her?”
“I told her. She called you a liar and a lot worse.”
“How scared was she?”
“Scared, man. She nearly had a hemorrhage when I said that damn word to her.”
“What word? Crazybone?”
“She turned white. I thought she was going to keel over.”
“Give you any idea what it means?”
“No. I tried to get it out of her, but she— Don’t you know?”
“No idea.”
“Then where’d you get it?”
I told him about startling her in the potting shed on Tuesday. “It has a pretty terrible meaning for her, whatever it is. It’s tied to the reason she ran away.”
“Yeah,” Smith said. Then he said, “I think she was already planning to go before I showed up.”
“Thursday night, you mean. At her house.”
“Yeah. She didn’t say anything about leaving then, not until she called me at home yesterday — I took the day off work, waited around, I thought she might need me. I didn’t think she’d just run out of my life, I thought we had something better than that...” The last couple of words had a phlegmy sound, as if he were choking up. He drew an audible breath. “I wanted to marry her,” he said then. “I still do.”
There was nothing for me to say to that. I asked, “What makes you think she’d already made up her mind to run?”
“How uptight she was before I even mentioned you. Uptight and scared. Emily, too. Both of them.”
“Was Emily there when you talked to Sheila?”
“No. Crying in her bedroom by then.”
“Crying? Why was she crying?”
“Sheila... smacked her, that’s why.”
My hand tightened around the receiver. “Hurt her?”
“No. Slap across the face. She’s got a temper, a bad temper when she’s upset, and the kid wouldn’t leave the room. She knew something was going on... Emily did... and she wanted to know what it was.”
“And you just let her mother hit her?”
“I’d’ve stopped it if I could. It happened too quick. You think I like the idea of kids being smacked around? Well, I don’t.”
“All right. Is she in the habit of hitting her daughter?”
“I don’t think so. No.”
“Ever see Emily with bruises or marks?”
“No. Christ, Sheila’s not like that. She’s not, dammit. It’s just that Jack getting killed, the two of us seeing each other, this thing she’s so afraid of... everything coming down on her at once, it’s got her half crazy.”
No damn excuse, I thought, but I didn’t say it. I said, “What about the two of you? Going on how long?”
“What the hell does that matter?”
“How long, Trevor?”
“Three months. That’s all I’m going to say about Sheila and me.”
“How about her husband? He played around, too, didn’t he?”
“Damn right he did. Why do you think Sheila — Never mind, I’m not getting into that either.” He sucked in another audible breath. “Listen, you’re a detective, you’ve got your nose in this already. You think you can find her?”
“I’m sure going to try.” But not for your sake or hers, I thought. For Emily’s. “Did she ever mention anyone named Karen to you? Artist, makes stained glass, lives somewhere up the coast.”
“No. A friend of hers?”
“Or a relative. Emily calls her Aunt Karen.”
“Sheila didn’t talk much about her personal life,” Smith said. “Didn’t have any relatives in California or anywhere else that I know about.”
“Okay. They left yesterday afternoon, you said?”
“Before two. It was after one when she called me. Said she was leaving, told me not to tell anybody, don’t talk to you at all anymore — she’d be in touch. I said wait, let me come over, we’ll talk it over first, but her mind was made up. As soon as we hung up I drove up to her house. I live in Santa Clara, it took me forty minutes to get there. They were already gone by then. I stayed home today, too, I thought maybe she’d call. When she didn’t... I had to talk to somebody, I couldn’t just sit around and wait for a call that might never come...”
“You did the right thing contacting me. Where will you be tomorrow?”
“Emerald Hills. Another day here and I’ll go nuts.”
“All right. I’ll see what I can find out. Call you if there’s any news.”
“Yeah, thanks.” Pause. “I don’t blame you. The kind of trouble Sheila must be in...” Another pause. “Shit,” he said.
Yes, I thought, and the pile keeps getting bigger. And I wish I knew where to find a shovel.
I couldn’t sleep.
I kept lying there with my eyes wide open, watching the dark and listening to Kerry’s even breathing and thinking mostly about Emily Hunter. Her mother had overheard part of her call to me, or found out about it some other way; that was why she hadn’t shown up at the riding academy. It was also why Sheila Hunter had decided to pack up the kid, ripping out ten years’ worth of roots, and haul her off to Christ knew where. Bad trouble, all right, but it wasn’t just the woman’s anymore. She’d made it her daughter’s as well. Ten years old, sensitive, bewildered... did Emily have any idea of what it was all about? If she did, it wasn’t because her mother had confided in her. The only secret-sharing Mrs. Hunter had done was with her late husband and co-conspirator. And yet the Hunters’ relationship couldn’t have been all that tightly bound after a decade, else both of them wouldn’t have been seeking solace in other people’s beds. How long had they been cheating on each other? Recent thing, or had the marriage begun to unravel long ago from too much guilt, too much fear?
Crazybone. The word was at or near the center of the Hunters’ secret, of Sheila’s panicked flight. But without some connection, some piece of the hidden past, there was no way to decipher it.
A nonsense jingle began to run around inside my head; kept on running until fatigue drove me down into a restless sleep. Crazybone connected to the shoulder bone, shoulder bone connected to the neck bone, neck bone connected to the crazybone, and little Emily’s gone away...
10
On a Sunday morning the sleepy country-village atmosphere of Greenwood was even more pronounced. The main drag and side streets were mostly deserted, and what cars I encountered and what people I saw seemed to he on their way to and from church. A large contingent of worshippers was exiting the one church I passed, all of them well dressed. It was good to see that the old-fashioned standard of Sunday wear still applied in places like this. A surprisingly large percentage of churchgoers these days thought nothing of attending services in jeans and sweatshirts and the like. Meaning no disrespect, just making the statement that they didn’t see any good reason to dress up for the occasion. God didn’t run a fashion agency, so did He really care what His flock was outfitted in when they offered up their prayers?
The new breed had a point, but as a member of the old breed I preferred the upholding of tradition. Hypocritical member of the old breed, it could be argued, since I seldom attended Mass anymore, but so be it. Besides, formalized religion and strict interpretation of biblical doctrine don’t necessarily make a good Christian — a fact some radical members of the Religious Right would do well to recognize. A person’s relationship with God is or ought to be a personal and private thing. If individuals want to worship in a group, fine; if they prefer to worship alone and in their own fashion, fine. The world would be a far better place if people would stop trying to tell others what to believe and ho
w to believe in it, in religious and other matters.
A sharpening breeze created a rippling effect in Whiskey Flat Road’s tree tunnel, so that branches and trunks seemed to be flowing around the car as I drove through. The motile illusion bothered my eyes, even though I was wearing sunglasses. So did the bright sunlight down here, it being another perfect day in this pocket paradise. Too little sleep last night and too much eyestrain over the course of nearly sixty years. Kerry had been after me to make an appointment with an optometrist — and I kept putting it off because I was afraid he’d tell me I needed to wear glasses all the time instead of just for reading.
The gates were still open at the foot of the Hunters’ driveway, so I swung in between the pillars without slowing. The parking area above was tenanted by nothing more than a scatter of leaves. I parked among them, got out and stood for a few seconds looking around. Except for all the house windows being draped, blinded, or shuttered, everything appeared pretty much the same as on my first visit. And why shouldn’t it? I thought irritably. Abandonment didn’t change the outward look of things, just the feel of them.
A red light bloomed on a key plate set into the porch wall, an announcement that the alarm system was armed. Even if I yielded to an impulse to jimmy my way through a locked door or window, I couldn’t do it without setting off the alarm. That wouldn’t have stopped Samuel Leatherman: he’d have bulled his way inside, discovered an important clue in two or three minutes, and been long gone before a security patrol or police car showed up. But I wasn’t Samuel Leatherman, and glad of it in spite of dear old Cybil. Chances were, Sheila Hunter hadn’t left any clues behind anyway.
I walked around the house to her potting studio, more for the exercise than with any purpose. Locked up as tight as the house. No alarm system here, and none needed. This was where she’d come to get away from her troubles; she wouldn’t keep reminders of the past around. Just the same I took a quick look through the glass wall. Tuesday’s tableau minus Mrs. Hunter, the clay in the tubs as cold as her dead husband.
Back the way I’d come and across to the detached garage. The double doors were locked and so was a side door; the only window had a shade drawn so tightly over it I couldn’t see inside. Alarm system on the house, shade on the garage window, and weapons somewhere on the premises, no doubt. Suburban paranoia had nothing to do with it, either. Damn safe bet somebody, somewhere, really had been after the Hunters for the past ten years.
An idea occurred to me on the way to the car. I fired up the engine and coasted down to the foot of the drive. Whiskey Flat Road was deserted, so I set the brake and got out again and went to the mailbox, which was attached to the inside of one of the pillars; there was a slot on the outside so mail could be put through when the gates were shut. The box wasn’t locked and there was mail inside, all right — yesterday’s delivery, at least. I fished it out. Two catalogues, three pieces of junk, and a PG&E bill. So much for my brainstorm. Like a lot of my clever little ideas, it was a practical bust.
The wind made chuckling sounds in the trees as I returned to the car. Or maybe it was that rough, tough action hero, Sam Leatherman, laughing at me from somewhere up in pulp heaven.
As I drove toward the village, something began bothering me — a nagging little irritation at the back of my mind. It was not clear enough to identify, and I couldn’t seem to catch hold of it. Something I’d seen or hadn’t seen or should have seen at the Hunter place; something that was off in some small way. Might be significant and might not. I’d have to figure out what it was before I could tell.
Come to me sooner or later. Picking at it would only drive it in deeper.
Anita Purcell had returned from her trip to LA.; she was just opening her fine arts shop when I got there. She was short, gray-haired, energetic, and steely-eyed, and as I might have predicted, she didn’t want anything to do with me or my ilk. Those were almost her exact words when I introduced myself: “I want nothing to do with you or your ilk.”
I was tempted to ask her what she thought my ilk was. Instead I said, “Well, I’m sorry you feel that way, Ms. Purcell. But you may have information about Sheila Hunter—”
“You’ll get no information from me.”
“Your niece told me you—”
“My niece had no business telling you anything. She won’t make that mistake again.”
Which meant that Gretchen Kiley had fessed up and her aunt knew all about my previous visit. Closed issue, as far as Ms. Purcell was concerned. I made one more stab at trying to pry it open.
“What would you say if I told you Mrs. Hunter and her daughter left Greenwood suddenly on Friday and won’t be coming back?”
The steely eyes had heat in them, like metal in a forge. “Yes? If that’s true, and I doubt it is, you’re responsible for driving them away. You and your hounding and bullying.”
“Is that what she told you? That I was hounding her?”
“Do you deny it?”
“She’s in trouble,” I said. “She and Emily both.”
“What kind of trouble could a grieving widow and a little girl be in that wasn’t generated by you and your employer?”
“I’m not sure of the specifics. All I know is—”
“Nonsense. That kind of talk cuts no ice with me.”
“It isn’t nonsense. I’m not looking to harm the Hunters, I’m trying to help them. And I can’t do that unless you help me find out where they went. It’s possible Mrs. Hunter confided in or is staying with a woman named Karen, a stained-glass artist who lives somewhere up the coast. All I’m asking is any information you may have about this woman. Her full name, a telephone number—”
“My God,” she said, “what amazing gall you have. If I weren’t a lady, I’d tell you what else I think you’re full of.”
Hopeless. Sheila Hunter had planted an image of me as the relentless pursuer in Ms. Purcell’s mind, one enhanced by what she considered to be the profligate tongue of her niece, and no amount of appeal, disclosure, or wheedling was going to change it. There was nothing for me to do but take what she thought I was full of away to dump on somebody else.
Sunday was a big day at Emerald Hills Country Club. Both tiers of the parking lot were jammed; I had to leave my car with a few other late arrivals along the edge of the entrance drive, a good three hundred yards from the main building. Not all of the cars would belong to golfers, although men and women and carts littered what I could see of the fairways and greens. Brunchers, lunchers, social drinkers, serious drinkers, and kibitzers would be plentiful, too.
A different guy was manning the security desk this morning, just as polite and not quite as supercilious. He let me sign in and pass by with a minimum of scrutiny. I went first to the Greens Room, on the chance that I might find Dale Cooney alone and getting an early start at the bar. No such luck; she wasn’t anywhere in the room. So I’d have to try to brace her at home after all, a gloomy prospect but a necessary one if I was going to get anything out of her today.
Outside, the terrace was packed with people eating and paying little or no attention to a string quartet that was making pretty music on the far side. I went down the steps and started along the path to the pro shop. Three men in golf togs were coming toward me, two of them in animated conversation and the third a couple of paces behind with his head down and his face set in brooding lines. The lagger was the self-proclaimed guiltless dentist, Doc Lukash.
I eased over and cut between the two talkers and Lukash, so that he was forced to pull up short to keep from running into me. I said through a friendly smile, “Morning, Doctor.”
He looked at me blankly for three or four seconds. Recognition, when it came, dragged his thin mouth and chin down even further, out of a brood into a scowl. “Oh, it’s you,” he said. “What’re you doing here?”
“Talking to people. You have a bad round?”
“What?”
“Your golf game. You don’t seem very happy this morning.”
“Neither m
y golf game nor my mood is any of your business. Are you still investigating Sheila Hunter, for God’s sake?”
“That’s right. And with more reason now than before.”
“What are you talking about?”
“She’s left town. Looks like she won’t be coming back.”
“...I don’t believe you.”
“Truth, so help me.”
“Why would she do that? Unless you had something to do with it...”
“I had something to do with it, yes, but that’s not the main reason she left. She’s got troubles, big troubles. Something that happened years ago, before she moved to Greenwood.”
“Something... what trouble? What happened?”
“Don’t you know?”
“I have no idea. How would I know?”
“Well, you were pretty close to her once. I thought maybe she—”
He bristled. Part of it was a pose of indignation, but underneath there was a tremulous emotion that might have been fear. “I told you before,” he said. “I have never been involved with Sheila Hunter, romantically or otherwise. Malicious gossip, that’s all it is. If you repeat it, if you bother me again, I’ll sue you and that insurance company of yours for harassment and slander. Is that clear?”
“Clear enough.”
He stepped around me and headed for the steps, moving in that slow, jerky way of people under tight restraint — as if he’d rather have run than walked away from me.
Just what are you afraid of, Doctor? I thought. Your reputation? Or is it something you know about Sheila Hunter’s past that you wish you didn’t?
I went on to the pro shop. Trevor Smith wasn’t there; the towheaded kid behind the counter said he was out on the links, giving a lesson to one of the members, and that he wouldn’t be back until around twelve-thirty. Fine, dandy. Now I had another forty-five minutes or so to kill.
I wandered back inside the main building. A quick lunch would have been good, even at Emerald Hills’ prices, but reservations were probably required and a nonmember would have trouble getting a table anyway. Into the Greens Room again. Still no sign of Dale Cooney. Lukash was in there drinking his lunch, but he wasn’t alone, and I wouldn’t have bothered him again if he was — not just yet. I managed to carve a piece of standing room at the bar, where I had an elegant lunch of a Bud Light and a handful of salted nuts and pretzel sticks. The beer cost five dollars, just about the price of an entire six-pack where Kerry and I did our shopping. By the time twelve-thirty rolled around, I was in a mood to, in that good old pro football cliché, kick some serious butt.
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