by Susan Dunlap
It was in the next room behind it, the former dining room, that I spotted a mountainous dark-haired woman in a red caftan seated at a government-issue desk beneath an oil painting. It was an abstract in various shades of blue, signed a bit too largely and clearly—Donn Day. It was hard to say which was the more arresting, the painting or the woman.
As I walked in, she turned in her chair, noted my uniform and eyed me suspiciously.
In Berkeley the police enjoyed good relations with social workers and eligibility workers. I was surprised at this unspoken hostility.
“Can I help you?” she asked. The dark hair was gathered at the nape of the neck and hung down her back. Her eyes were heavily outlined and shadowed in green; lipstick that had started out red had been eaten away with just traces of its original shade surviving at the corners of her mouth. Whatever image she had hoped the make-up would project was overshadowed by the sagging flesh of her jowls and chin.
Nat had started work here after our separation. I had had no reason to meet his co-workers and, knowing Nat, I was sure if he’d mentioned having an ex-wife at all, he would never have admitted she was a cop.
“I’m looking for Nat Smith,” I said.
“He’s gone for the day.”
“Gone for the day, already!”
“To a meeting in Oakland,” she said. “They’ve all gone. The meeting starts at one. They left early to allow time for lunch and travel.”
“And the meeting lasts all afternoon, then?”
“It’s scheduled to. In any case, they certainly won’t be back here today.”
I sighed, allowing myself to sink down on the folding chair behind me. The fat woman turned over the manila folder she had been writing in, name side down, then swivelled to face me.
Meeting her gaze, I said, “Perhaps you can help me anyway.”
“Now?” She placed a hand protectively atop the manila folder.
“What’s wrong with now?”
“I’m waiting for a client.”
“At ten to twelve?”
“Oh, yes. She works. Some of our clients do. I didn’t want her to take time off. And, besides, it’s so much quieter here at lunchtime. It’s so difficult to talk about emotional problems with all the turmoil during the day.”
I felt certain Nat had told me that in this office they dealt only with eligibility. Still, I asked, “You’re an eligibility worker, aren’t you? I thought eligibility workers dealt with money, and social workers handled problems.”
“They do, but, except for protective cases, where social workers are always assigned, clients have one only if they request it. Every client has an eligibility worker to take care of finances, and many of us have every bit as much training as social workers.”
Offering no comment on that, I said, “I’m investigating the disappearance of Anne Spaulding. What can you tell me about her, Ms.…”
“Day. Fern Day.”
“Are you any relation…?” I looked up at the canvas on the wall over her desk.
She followed my gaze to the blue abstract painting. “To Donn? Yes, my husband.”
“It has a nice feel,” I said.
“Thank you. It’s not one of Donn’s best. But it would be sacrilege to hang fine art in here.”
I couldn’t help but agree with Fern Day. Along with shelves set back-to-back, five desks were crammed into the dining room, three by the windows and the others along the inside wall. Hard light flowed from fluorescent fixtures and notices and clippings were Scotch-taped in a haphazard fashion above the other desks.
“About Anne?” I prompted. “She’s been missing since some time before you came to work yesterday.”
“Missing. Yes.” She rolled the words around on her tongue as if tasting the possibilities they held. Her whole expression showed more intrigue than worry. “We can talk here for a few minutes while I wait for Mrs.…for the client. Confidentiality, you know.”
I opened my pad, wondering what Fern Day thought I might do with this valuable client’s name. And if the woman arrived while I was here, would she enter in disguise? “Where is Anne’s family?”
“She never mentioned any. She’s not the family type.”
“What was her full name?”
“Her middle name was a last name—Martin? Marvin? Something like that. I know it began with M because she had a purse with her initials on it.”
“And a dress?”
“Yes. She wore it Monday. Why do you ask?”
“Would you recognize it again?”
Without hesitation Fern said, “Yes. I have a good visual sense. I am an artist’s wife.”
I arranged for her to stop by the station and have a look at the bundle of clothes found by the Bay. Taking out my notepad, I asked, “Who are Anne’s friends?”
“Besides the men here?”
“Not excluding them. Was she particularly close to someone here?”
“I think she knew Alec Effield, our supervisor, before she started here, and of course she did train Nat Smith. He’s a graduate student, been here only about a year.” Fern looked at the name on my pocket. I asked quickly, “Who did she see outside of work?”
I could almost see the speculations lining up behind her eyebrows. “I’m afraid I don’t know. Anne doesn’t tell me about her private life.”
I asked about Anne’s enemies, but seemingly the informational blackout had been total. “Can you think of any reason she would have left so suddenly?”
Fern’s finger went to her mouth. It was a tapered finger on a long graceful hand, a hand that looked as if it were on the wrong body. “No, I can’t. Poor Alec’s just been swamped, trying to take care of her cases. It was so inconsiderate of Anne. But then Anne’s not really a thoughtful person.”
“She’s been inconsiderate?”
“I wouldn’t want to say that.” She paused. “Don’t think that I don’t like Anne; it’s just that she’s, well, rather immature in some areas.” Fern leaned forward. “Anne hasn’t really learned to care about other people. It’s not that she dislikes people as much as that she’s oblivious to their needs. It doesn’t occur to her to put herself out.” She sighed. “Anne would never see a client at lunch.”
“Didn’t Anne get on with her clients, then?”
Fern bit the finger. “I didn’t say that.”
I waited while Fern went through a string of circumlocutions to arrive at the conclusion that there was no reason Anne’s clients should have liked her but no proof to the contrary. “Of course,” she said, “Anne has more variety in her caseload—some families, a lot of single adults, and a number of clients who have part-time jobs—they’re street artists on Telegraph, waitresses, or such.”
Glancing at the cluttered green desks, I asked, “Which is Anne’s?”
“None of these. Anne’s desk is in the back.”
I stood up. Following my example, Fern raised herself and led me through the kitchen—now converted to a one-desk office—to what had been a laundry room.
“Anne’s,” she said.
The regulation metal desk stood where the big sinks had been. The room was small, dingy, and cold. Despite the desk and chair, it still looked like a laundry room. I wondered what Alec Effield had had against Anne to assign her to this place.
I was about to ask when a woman’s voice called, “Mrs. Day?”
Fern turned.
Taking advantage of her need to rush, I said, “Where were you Monday evening?”
“That’s a strange question,” she said, looking toward the door. “I thought Anne was missing.”
“Missing can cover a lot of ground.”
“You mean it could be more serious?”
I nodded.
“She could be…” There was a long pause as if Fern were seeking a euphemism for the ultimately unpleasant word: “… dead?”
“We don’t know.”
Fern bit down on the flesh below her lower lip so that the center of the lip itself was entirely hid
den by her teeth. Slowly she let the lip back out. “That’s terrible. Poor Anne,” she said without emotion. “Why would someone kill Anne?”
I made a mental note of her interpretation of murder rather than suicide.
“Mrs. Day?” The woman sounded closer.
Recalling my question, I asked, “Monday night?”
“I was at home.” She glanced nervously toward the door.
“Did you go out at all?”
“Oh, no. Donn told me about his day—who he saw, what his ideas were, what innovations he was considering in his work—” She looked past me to the door.
I stepped back, and Fern rushed from the room.
Fern Day had set up an alibi for Donn and for herself. There was something she wasn’t telling me but I didn’t have enough information to decide where to press yet. Whatever Fern’s secret, it, and the presence of her waiting client, had sufficiently unnerved her so that she’d abandoned Anne’s office. I was willing to bet that under normal circumstances she would have stood her ground here against the entire Berkeley police force.
I stood a moment, glancing around Anne’s office. The walls sported neither pictures nor notices; peels of beige paint hung from the ceiling. Welfare manuals were stacked in piles on the desk; uncovered ballpoint pens lay around them. On the left side was a folder marked “To Do” and in it lists headed “Renewals,” “Address Changes,” and “Closings.” All the names on the lists had been crossed out. Anne must have been very efficient.
I checked the desk, and found it divided, as Anne’s apartment had been, into the messy and the meticulous. In the first of the three left-side drawers were jumbles of cups, tea bags, maps, and phone books, and in the other two, carefully ordered groups of agency memos, work forms, and folders. The folders stood in the deep-bottomed drawer in alphabetical order by the client’s name. On a hunch I checked for Ermentine Brown. Maybe she was a welfare client and the “20” had something to do with her case. But if so, her case wasn’t here.
I was just about to shut the drawer when I spotted more folders in a heap at the back. They were much thinner than the others. I pulled them out and opened the first, aware that this was illegal. I’d need a warrant to do it right. The first folder held four legal-size forms. One form gave identifying information—name, address, social security number, marital status; on another Anne had written “O/V” and two dates within the past month. The remaining forms appeared to be some sort of financial worksheets.
The second folder contained the same, plus a few long, brown, curly hairs—obviously not Anne Spaulding’s hair—lying amongst the papers. By the third folder I realized I had no idea what was supposed to be recorded here and what wasn’t, and I could hardly ask Fern Day to explain.
I satisfied myself with making a list of the names—seventeen in all. There were five sizeable families with addresses in two buildings off Telegraph, and twelve single women, who lived in Telegraph-area hotels. One of the hotels was the place I’d chased Howard’s thief through.
Four of Anne’s clients lived at that hotel. Perhaps I’d have a talk with them and find out why Anne had separated out their folders. And I’d have another talk with Quentin Delehanty.
Replacing the folders, I made my way back to the room with the five desks and the shelves of case folders. Glancing around the corner I could see the outline of Fern Day in one of the plexiglass booths. Her client’s voice was soft, the phrasing hesitant. Fern sat unmoving, as if entranced.
I pulled open the top file drawer, but, though there were numerous Browns, there were no Ermentines.
I slipped back into the kitchen. It, too, was now an office, but with a greater complement of green metal government furniture. The supervisor’s office. Notices were tacked in rows at either side of a bulletin board. In the middle was a pen-and-ink print—Suzanne Valadon’s “After the Bath.” And on the supervisor’s desk directly beneath it lay a half-done copy, a very good copy. Presumably Alec Effield, the supervisor here, had a fair amount of free time.
Behind the desk was a file shelf half the size of the one in the next room. It was marked “Closed files.”
It didn’t take me long to find Ermentine Brown’s folder and take down her address and the date her welfare grant had been discontinued because of—if my interpretation of the crabbed writing that could only have been Anne’s was correct—excess income.
A closed case—reason to resent Anne? Ermentine Brown could tell me herself.
Chapter 8
ON THE OFF CHANCE that he might have detoured by the house on the way to his meeting, I called Nat there. He hadn’t.
Ravenous, I stopped at Wally’s Donut Shop and ordered eggs and sausage. Lowering the platter, Wally glanced from the eggs to the hash browns and sausage and up at me. “This is big time for you, isn’t it? I thought you only ate jelly donuts.”
“This is breakfast.”
“Good thing. Most important meal. Though”—he wiped a hand across his apron—“a lot of people eat breakfast in the morning.”
“Wally,” I said, I’m doing the best I can.”
He grinned. It was a variation on an old interchange. Wally’s was close to the station and many a break had been spent here, many a jelly donut consumed, and many a cup of coffee that should rightfully have been tossed out had washed down those donuts. I salted everything, poured ketchup over the eggs and hash browns, and forked off a piece of scrambled egg.
My thoughts were on the case. What did I know, so far? Anne Spaulding had been missing for a day and a half. Her apartment looked like it had been the scene of a fight So presumably, she had fought someone and…and lost. If she’d won she would have been home and I’d have been taking my complaint from her. So she’d lost.
Who was that someone? A psychotic killer who had chosen her at random, dumped her bloody clothes by the Bay and done…what?…with her nude body? A sex killing? If so, the killer would go on attacking women month after month or week after week until we could collect enough data to track him down. How many women would die before then?
I spread strawberry jam on my toast. Once, thoughts of murder had knotted my stomach, but now I could consider what would make a normal person retch and not miss a bite.
Suppose the killer were not psychotic, not random. Suppose it was someone she knew…a friend? So far that meant Nat or Alec Effield, the supervisor. Anne didn’t seem to put herself out to make friends, if Skip Weston and Fern Day were to be believed. And what of Nat’s pewter pen in Anne’s living room? I knew how much he valued that pen. I knew how careful Nat was. The pen wasn’t something he would mislay, unless…but I couldn’t picture him there while the blood was still fresh.
I’d have to get this issue of the pen cleared up soon. It could provide a wedge to force Nat to describe Anne’s life much more thoroughly than he apparently wanted. And I certainly had to have an explanation of Nat and the pen before Lt. Davis read about it in my initial report.
The only other lead was “Ermentine Brown 20,” the notation I had found in Anne’s wallet, the former welfare client whose case had been closed for excess income. I finished the hash browns, paid Wally, ignoring his reproof about the scarcely touched eggs, and headed for my car.
Ermentine Brown lived in public housing. Her unit was at the end of what appeared to be a giant stucco shoebox. Before it, the grass had been trampled and the hard clay soil shone through.
The shades of her apartment were drawn, but the unmistakable crescendos of a soap opera told me someone was home. I pushed the bell.
The door was opened by a small child. She had six pigtails and wore pink pajamas that had attached feet. As she looked at me, her face scrunched in displeasure.
“Momma, there’s a cop at the door.”
I could hear water running and the pans banging. In the living room two older children sat leaning against a threadbare brown couch, the light from the television shining on their motionless faces. A tissue box sat between them. October, and already it w
as flu season.
In a minute a black woman with a large Afro approached. Her hands went to her hips. “Yeah?”
“I’m Officer Smith, Berkeley Police. Are you Ermentine Brown?”
“Why you want to know?”
I repeated the question. The child moved behind her mother.
“Yeah, I’m Ermentine Brown. So?”
“Do you know Anne Spaulding?”
“Miss Spaulding from the welfare? Yeah, I sure as hell know her. Something bad happen to her?”
“She’s missing.”
Ermentine Brown’s eyebrows shot up. “Don’t say!” Her tired face pushed into a smile.
Taking advantage of her mood, I said, “Do you mind if I come in?”
She led me through the small living room to a kitchen of approximately the same size. The walls were pinky beige, the furniture Goodwill, and the aroma, spaghetti sauce.
She moved to a half-empty coffee cup at the table.
I sat. “Was Anne Spaulding your eligibility worker?”
“Right.”
“Why did you choose to go off welfare?”
“Choose! Woman, I didn’t choose nothin’! That bitch, that Spaulding bitch, didn’t count my work expenses. She said I had too much income. From selling feather necklaces! Too goddamned much money from feathers!” She flung up her hands.
“You’re a street artist on Telegraph?”
“Yeah, I’d be up there now if it weren’t for all these sick kids.”
“So Anne Spaulding counted your income, and you weren’t eligible?”
Her chin jutted out. “No way. She said I wasn’t eligible. Any straight worker would have taken off for my supplies. Feathers are free only to birds. But that bitch Spaulding didn’t count nothin’.”
“Couldn’t you have appealed her decision?”
“Yeah, I could have if I wanted to wait six months for a verdict. If I had the time to go down to Legal Aid and wait around to see a free lawyer. If I had the time to go to the hearing. And if I’d got the paper in ten days. They only give you ten days to appeal those things. If the letter gets held up in the mail, too bad. You understand?”