by Susan Dunlap
Even now as I glanced at the booth across from us, a blond, curly-haired young woman was staring at Howard. “I see your point,” I said to him. “You seem to have attracted a Little Miss Muffet.”
He looked over and sighed. “Wonderful.”
I finished my burger. “Did the lieutenant say anything else?” Howard’s burger lay barely touched.
“Oh, yeah. He said, one more day. Then, no thief, no car. And definitely no hope of making detective.”
I put my hand on his arm and gave it a squeeze. “We’ll get your thief. Come on, have a little confidence in us. And in the meantime, eat some of that mound of food you ordered.”
A trace of his normal grin returned. “I take it that means you’ll help with my ultimate plan?”
“Sure. Tell me.”
“In a minute. I’m taking your advice and eating now.” Eyeing my empty plate, he added, “There’s nothing holding you back from talking. Tell me what you have on for the rest of Watch.”
I sat back, fingering my coffee cup. “Not much. A couple of routine follow-ups that I could put off. Some reports. Oh, and a message to call Nat.”
Howard took another bite of his burger. He was one of the friends who had heard all my complaints throughout the divorce. The couple of times he had met Nat it was obvious they disliked each other. Whether the cause was merely natural antipathy or because Howard was my friend, I had chosen not to consider.
Now Howard asked, “What did you ever see in Nat? Take your time. I’ve still got salad and dessert to eat.”
I leaned back against the booth. “It’s something I’ve asked myself. Probably the answer is excitement and a certain amount of snobbishness. Nat’s family was so wonderfully patrician, so almost Boston-Brahmin. And then, Nat and I were going to Europe, going to live like the literati in the twenties. And he was going to be a professor, which to a college senior like me was virtually next to God. He knew exactly what he wanted and it sounded fine to me.”
Howard started in on his salad.
It was the job that had changed me, that and growing four years older. We’d moved to Berkeley when Nat started graduate school and I’d taken the Patrol Officer’s test hoping for a job to support us during that time. Our stay in Berkeley was to be temporary, a necessary period until Nat graduated and our real life began.
But I had come to love Berkeley, with its warm winters and dry summers, its street artists, the coffee houses, the campus haranguers, the Telegraph Avenue freaks, and the atmosphere that gave them freedom. I enjoyed the pottery studio that was open till midnight, where on my nights off I could throw lopsided bowls and call them artistic. I liked my friend Sarah, who worked part-time and shared a tiny house because she wasn’t willing to sell any more of her time, and Lydia, who designed and sewed wild and wildly expensive vests and dresses, and Jake at Super Copies, the poet—all the people who would never become staid and grown up. I wasn’t willing to leave Berkeley, or my friends, or my career.
“Besides my own feelings, Howard, it became evident that I was not likely to be an asset as the wife of an aspiring professor.”
“How so?”
“Look how I spend my time. I chase suspects down alleys no sensible woman would walk in. I deal with overdoses and assaults. I break the worst possible news to wives and parents. Frankly, after all that, Nat’s concern with the Yeatsian interpretation of life often seems a bit trivial to me. And, I must admit, our divergence has not been one-sided. Nat accused me of an unnatural fascination with the squalid.”
Howard laughed.
“The thing is that instead of divorce being the end to a marriage, our marriage was more like a preparation for the divorce. Once I realized I didn’t want Nat’s life there was nothing else there. In the end it was more a matter of removing my possessions than myself.”
“Oh? What about the hibachi? What about,” he paused for effect, “what about the seventeen untouched cans of Pepperidge Farms soups? What about…?”
“Okay, okay. Admittedly we hit new levels of immaturity after the separation.” We had squabbled over a coffee grinder neither of us had ever used, and the blender, and the houseplants. It had come to a head in September while I was working on a murder case and Nat was calling me about our Cost Plus stainless. “But I did buy him a new set of stainless, and he is going to split the National Geographics.”
“And this finishes it?”
“I’d like to think so. I just wish he’d realize that the reason you divorce someone is so you don’t have to deal with them.”
“You could ignore his call.”
“I could, but you know I won’t.” I still felt the guilt, not about our possessions or moving out. But my departure had forced Nat to leave school, to take a job working at the welfare department, which he hated. It wasn’t logical for me to feel responsible, but I did. I couldn’t explain it to Howard; it wasn’t even really clear to me.
Howard ate in silence.
“Anyway,” I said, “I’m safe now. We’ve haggled over everything but the stamps and the straight pins. Maybe Nat wants to give me something he took.”
“You know you’ll have room for it, whatever it is.”
“Hey, no sneering at my apartment.”
It was still early for most people’s dinner, but Priester’s was getting crowded. The blond Miss Muffet had been replaced by a duo in jeans and T-shirts. Out front the noise level rose.
“You can eat and talk,” I said. “Tell me about your plan.”
“Okay.” He chewed the remains of the salad and shifted a slice of cherry pie in front of him. “I’m going to get my thief on my own ground, away from Telegraph, where there are no head shops for him to run into, no street artists to hide him, no spaced-out freaks for him to use as camouflage.”
“How?”
“Lure him. I’ll cruise down Telegraph twice, then park a couple blocks away and leave the car just long enough for him to salivate. Then I’ll snatch it away and park a few blocks further on. By the time I get to College Avenue his tongue will be hanging out and I’ll grab it.”
“That’s a fairly disgusting picture, Howard, but if you don’t lose him it could work.”
“It should take about an hour for me to make it to College.”
“Okay. I’ll be there.”
Howard grinned. “That’ll give you time to call ol’ Nat and see what he’s decided to give you.”
Chapter 3
I TRIED NAT. HE wasn’t home. My obligation paid, I tossed the message into the garbage and pulled out my pad. I would have to record this afternoon’s fiasco. I wanted to slant the report, to somehow make this, the third attempt to capture this very minor thief, look less inept than it seemed.
My phone buzzed.
“Patrol Officer Smith,” I said.
“Jill? It’s Nat. You didn’t call me back.”
“I tried. You weren’t there.” Already the conversation had that familiar accusatory theme.
“I went to Anne’s again. She still wasn’t home. You remember my telling you about Anne.”
I didn’t remember. I could feel my fingers tightening on the receiver. Who was this Anne who had gone out? A girlfriend? And, more to the point, why was Nat calling me, at work, to ponder her whereabouts?
In the background I could hear traffic sounds. “Are you in a phone booth?”
“Yes. I’m a couple blocks from Anne’s.”
“Uh huh.”
“I called you before. Anne’s missing. I haven’t seen her since yesterday; she didn’t come to work, didn’t call in. It’s not like her. Everyone’s worried.”
But presumably everyone was not worried enough to go to her house or call an ex-wife to talk about it. Now I remembered Anne, Anne Spaulding—she was one of Nat’s coworkers at the welfare department. I hadn’t met her, but Nat had talked of her—how interested she was in his studies, what clever points she had made. He had hit me at low moments when I first moved into my apartment, when it bothered me that
the apartment was merely a converted porch at the back of someone’s house, when I felt aimless, when I missed not him but the supposed order of our life together. And when I felt guilty about leaving him. Anne, by his description, was all that I had not been, someone who could be the ideal professor’s wife.
“Maybe she forgot to call,” I said.
“Anne doesn’t forget.”
“Well, then something probably came up and she was too rushed to call.”
“I doubt it. The morning paper’s still on the stoop. I pounded on the door. There was no sound inside.”
“Are you sure she heard you? What’s the layout of the apartment?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been inside. But, Jill, Anne was at work yesterday. She wouldn’t just wander off on a Tuesday morning and forget all about her job. If it were Monday, maybe, just maybe, it might have been a long weekend, although that’s not like Anne. But no one is too preoccupied to come to work on a Tuesday.”
I could hear the concern in Nat’s voice; it was an undertone I hadn’t heard in a long time—in two, three years, maybe. I almost asked him how come he hadn’t been in Anne’s apartment, after all her interest in him. But I stopped myself. Why should I care? He was obviously upset; I didn’t need to poke the wound. It was bad enough he was working at the welfare department instead of in classes he loved; I should be pleased he had some companionship there.
And Nat’s conclusion was logical. Normal people did not disappear on Tuesdays. “Okay,” I said slowly. “Did you see the neighbors?”
“No. They probably hadn’t gotten home from work yet.”
“Any signs of forced entry?”
“What do you mean? Broken windows?”
“Well, more subtle things, like jimmied locks or trampled branches under the windows or—”
“Jill, there could have been things I didn’t notice. I’m not an expert.” He paused. “Will you go and have a look?”
“Okay, I’ll do that.”
“Anne lives—” A truck passed, muffling Nat’s words.
“What?”
“She lives on College Avenue. That’s your district, isn’t it?”
“You mean my beat? Yes.” District was a welfare term. Already I was sorry I’d agreed to help him. That incorrect term, replacing mine with his, was typical of Nat. It summed everything up.
But regardless of my unsettled feelings toward Nat, or my history of resentment of Anne Spaulding—or maybe because of them—I would investigate. Anne Spaulding’s disappearance did sound suspicious. This could be a legitimate Missing Person’s report.
“She lives just this side of Claremont,” Nat said. I’ll check the house number.”
Another truck passed. The operator demanded another payment. The coins clanged.
Nat came back on the line, reading off the street number. I got out a form and said, I’m taking this down as a report.”
“Don’t do that. Anne might not like it.”
“Look, Nat, either she’s missing or not. If it’s not serious enough for a report, maybe you should wait till tomorrow.”
It was a moment before he said, “No. That’s too long.”
“Okay, have you called her relatives?”
“She doesn’t have any. I asked Alec—Alec Effield, our supervisor. Anne came from back East, two or three years ago, and if she had any family they’d be back there. But she certainly never mentioned anyone.”
“What about friends, lovers?” It was a legitimate question, one I would have asked in any investigation. Over the phone, though, there was no way to tell whether Nat’s silence was due to chagrin at the possibility of lovers or at my bringing it up, or whether he was merely attempting to remember who Anne knew.
“She never mentioned friends. In fact she talked very little about her personal life.”
“So what you’re saying is that you don’t know any more than her address?”
There was another silence that I took for acquiescence.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll check, but it’s probably no big thing. Most likely she’ll be home, exhausted from a rushed day in San Francisco, and annoyed to have to talk to the cops.”
Again Nat was silent, and I wondered if he were reconsidering the whole thing.
“Jill?”
“Yes?”
“Will you call me when you get back?”
This was important to him. “Sure,” I said. “I’ll call.”
“Thanks. I’ll be home by nine.” He hung up.
I sat staring at the phone, feeling my resentment mount. Nat was concerned, all right, but not worried enough to interrupt his evening’s plans.
I had given Nat special treatment. I hadn’t made him come to the station, or wait for an officer to come out. In truth, had he been a stranger, I wouldn’t have taken a Missing Person’s report from him at all, but told him to find someone closer to Anne to make it.
Be that as it might, I was committed. I still had half an hour before I was to meet Howard. I got the keys for one of the patrol cars and headed for the parking lot. There I climbed in, moved the seat forward, called the dispatcher, and pulled into traffic.
It was nearly seven o’clock. The sun was dropping toward the bank of fog that pushed steadily in from the west. On Shattuck, students wrapped heavy Peruvian sweaters around the halters or T-shirts that had been ample four hours ago. I headed east crossing the still-crowded area around Telegraph Avenue. The street vendors who had filled the sidewalks earlier were gone, but university students still hurried to night classes and the Avenue regulars still propped themselves along walls and begged for spare change.
I drove past People’s Park, empty now, and turned south on College.
The building Anne Spaulding lived in was a quarter of a mile north of the blocks of small shops—butchers, flower shops, bakeries and fashionable used-furniture stores—the area most people thought of as College Avenue.
Making a U-turn, I parked in front of Anne’s. It was an apple-green duplex circa 1930. Above the double windows on both floors the stucco was embossed with stylized fruit designs. On the building’s twin across the fence to the south, the fruit had been painted rust and saffron, the leaves aquamarine, a color scheme echoed by the doors and window frames. But this building was just apple green. Even the effect of the lattice windows was muted by the white lining of the drawn drapes behind them.
The morning newspaper lay on the stoop. I rang the bell and waited. There was no answer. I rang again, scanning the door for signs of forced entry. There were none.
Starting up the driveway, I checked the windows and the bushes under them. The foliage was thin and yellowed by the dry summer, but showed no signs of having been disturbed. Anne Spaulding’s flat was four steps up and the windows were higher than eye level. Curtains still covered them, on this side, too. Either Anne was very cautious or she hadn’t been home during the day.
There was no garage at the end of the driveway. The two lanes of cement merely stopped at the property line; from there a macadam path cut between houses to the next street. Paths bisecting long blocks were not uncommon in Berkeley, but they normally went all the way from one street to the next; ending in a driveway was unusual.
Anne’s backyard, to my right, was enclosed by a five-foot-high wooden fence. I glanced over the top, checking for occupants, pushed open the gate and made my way through ankle-deep weeds and ivy to the steps.
The back door stood open.
Chapter 4
I MOUNTED THE STEPS, calling Anne’s name. The kitchen was dark. Dirty dishes from a pile in the sink spilled onto the counter. Ahead there was a light on.
“Anne!” I yelled. Still no reply. I hurried into the living room and stopped.
Nat was right to be worried. A chair lay overturned. The bedroom door was half open. A shattered porcelain lamp lay on the floor before it, its pieces brown, bloodstained. Dried blood marked the wall.
Involuntarily I swallowed, preparing myself for what I
might find in the bedroom. Using a tissue to avoid smearing any possible fingerprints, I pushed back the door and walked inside, checking in the closet, the bathroom, and under a pile of bedclothes.
The room was a shambles, but there was no body—no stench of death. At least that was a relief. I made my way back to the living room and called the dispatcher for a back-up unit and the lab crew.
There was nothing to do till they arrived. I stood away from the stains, trying to picture what had happened, and the person it happened to. But as I searched my memory for an impression of Anne Spaulding, I realized that Nat had said very little about her (he had not met her till after we’d separated) and what ideas I did have came more from my reactions at the time than from facts. My best move would be to start from scratch.
I looked around the living room. Drawn curtains blocked the windows, but the ceiling light had been left on. A leather loveseat stood opposite the fireplace; matching Barcelona chairs, one overturned, flanked it, and before it was a glass-on-chrome table partially covering a small oriental rug. By the kitchen an étagère held the stereo, albums, and a nine-inch television, but no books and no plants.
Despite the predominance of brown, it was a cold room, more like a display model than a home.
But the bedroom was just the opposite. This had to be where Anne did her living. Heaps of clothes littered the floor and the unmade bed. The walls were white, the bed and dresser had a Salvation Army look, and a third of the room had been made into a sort of gymnasium with dumbbells, exercycle, bust developer, sunlamp, and pulleys attached to a giant hook. The only decoration was a poster for “Theater on Wheels.”
In the closet, stacked with care amidst a pile of lace nightgowns and soiled bikini pants, were two pairs of skis—downhill and cross country—and a Wilson tennis racquet endorsed by Chris Evert.
This was the room of someone who viewed her body as one might a sportscar—a machine that, well maintained, will provide pleasure and excitement.