As a Favor

by Susan Dunlap

  “And now?”

  “Right on. Everyone knows those places are drops. I’m surprised you don’t—and you a police officer.”

  “Do the eligibility workers at the welfare department know?”

  “If they don’t they should.”

  “And they send money there anyway?”

  “Not without checking, they don’t.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “I mean, they come out, they look at your rent receipt, and they look at your room, with you in it.”

  “Anne Spaulding did that?”

  “Believe it. She was the last one to trust you. I was hardly out of the welfare office and she was checkin’ on me.

  I made a note of the procedure. “It’d still be pretty easy to fake. All you’d need would be a friend living there, and a receipt book.”

  Ermentine Brown shrugged. “Maybe you’re on the wrong side of the law.”

  As I headed back to the car, I wondered why Anne Spaulding had checked on Ermentine Brown and not on others. Was the rule intermittent? Or was she already aware that they didn’t live there? I needed to know the policy. What was printed in the welfare manual I could read, but what I had to find out was how the workers translated that into practice. And for that I’d let Mona Liebowitz start helping me.

  Chapter 17

  IN FIFTEEN MINUTES I was knocking on the door of the house in front of which I had left Mona Liebowitz. But Mona didn’t live in a house either. She lived in the “rear cottage.” I was beginning to wonder if this type of living arrangement were a prerequisite of welfare work.

  I hurried up the driveway, but the backyard held no cottage, no rear flat attached to the main house, only a garage that had been amateurishly converted to a dwelling. I knocked on one of the double doors.

  “Mona,” I called.

  It was a moment before she pushed open the door and invited me in. One ceiling light shone dully on the grayed cement walls. The room held a threadbare overstuffed chair, a queensize mattress covered with an old sampler quilt and shelves of record albums that extended over the entire wall. The stereo equipment looked expensive. Maybe Mona had been casing the Bank of America.

  “That’s some collection,” I said.

  Mona collapsed in the chair. “It keeps me broke, but it’s worth it. Sit.”

  The floor was covered with worn oriental rugs and several large throw pillows, and despite its general shabbiness, the room seemed cozy. It suited Mona. Mona and this place: there was the internal consistency Skip Weston had mentioned. If Mona had made the smallest effort to fit in a Bank of America, if she’d worn a brassiere or even a jacket, Sri Fallon would never have noticed her. All she’d have needed to do was disguise her body; she had a face that simply was not memorable. With proper costuming she could have enjoyed internal consistency anywhere.

  I looked at the shelf-after-shelf of albums. Could they have been bought with only an eligibility worker’s salary? Or was Mona also taking bribes? Or blackmail? Mona had been arguing with Alec and Anne. She was making a considerable effort to find out about Anne. Could that have been why Mona was at the bank, because Anne was? Could Mona have been blackmailing Anne?

  I sat on one of the pillows. “Mona, what do you know about the Telegraph Avenue transient hotels?”

  She frowned. “They’re a nuisance, for one thing. We get a lot of clients in those hotels. You have to go out and see them. Then two weeks later they move and you have to verify residence again.”

  “How do you normally do that?”

  “Rent receipt.”

  “And in the hotels?”

  “There we do both. We need the visit to see that the clients are actually there and we have to see the rent receipt to make sure they’re not just using someone else’s room.”

  “But how do you know the receipt isn’t faked?”

  Mona pulled a bare foot up under her, adjusting herself with the movements of a cat in the sun. “The landlords cooperate. We’re their major source of revenue. They’d better be straight with us. They use special receipt books. If you saw one you’d know what I mean.”

  “Do you take the receipt from the client? Could I find one in a case folder?”

  “It’s optional. I don’t but some workers do. That means you’d have to plow through all the case folders till you lucked across one.”

  I could imagine Alec Effield’s reaction to my doing that!

  “Or you could check with someone who’s lived there. Welfare clients keep everything.” She paused, watching as I wrote down what she had said. “Jill, why are you asking all this?”

  “I have to know the procedure to judge what people tell me.” It was hardly a satisfactory answer. Mona had been helpful. I was sorry I couldn’t level with her. “This is going to sound a little strange—”

  “Good, I like strange things.”

  “Okay. Where do you bank?”

  Mona sat up straight. “Jesus. That’s not the type of strange I had in mind.”

  I waited but she didn’t go on.

  “Do you have an account at Bank of America?”

  It was a moment before she said, “You’re really serious, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I’m kind of embarrassed to admit it, but I don’t have an account anywhere. I have albums.” She glanced toward the rear wall.

  “You’ve never considered an account?”

  “You sound like my mother.” She pushed herself up, walked over to the stereo and turned the record over. Leaving it poised silently on the turntable, she said, “Listen, what do you think of Anne and Donn Day?”

  Recalling Fern Day’s lack of an alibi, I decided to see where this diversion would lead. “Did Anne have something going with him?”

  “I don’t know. It’s possible. At least Fern acted like she thought it was possible.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “It’s no big thing, but Fern used to listen to Anne’s phone calls. That’s not hard in our office.”

  “But Anne had that little room in the back.”

  “She didn’t before Nat Smith came. She used to have his desk, right next to Fern. All Fern had to do was pay attention to every word Anne said.” Mona had paused momentarily as she said Nat’s name. I was again thankful that, whatever his reason, he’d never mentioned his ex-wife was a cop.

  “Did Donn call Anne?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, but I wouldn’t be surprised. Anne and Donn were really suited, birds of a feather, or whatever cliché suits you. Donn’s after anything with tits. Seems to think it’s his artistic right. I don’t know if he follows through or just puts on the act.” Her skeptical expression suggested a vote for the latter. “One time I was at his studio to meet Fern. She was due in twenty minutes and he came on to me! Maybe I should have taken him up on it just to see what he’d do.”

  Pereira, Mona, probably Anne Spaulding. Donn Day certainly had catholic taste.

  Mona laughed.

  “What?”

  “It’d just be so fitting. Donn’s after women for the body count. And Anne—mind you, this is just my observation—was a sophisticated tease. She might tantalize Donn Day, but I’ll bet she wouldn’t bother to sleep with him. She wouldn’t have become another body on his list.”

  “Do you think that would be Fern’s assessment?”

  “It’s what she fears, but she’d die before she’d admit it.”

  I stood up.

  “Do you have to go?” Mona asked, pushing herself up and moving to the door. “Well, come back again.”

  “One more thing,” I said as I got to the door. “You never did tell me what you were doing at the bank.”

  “Well, uh…” Mona looked wistfully at the albums.

  “Yes?”

  “Well, what it was was that I made a difficult decision. I suppose you could call it a rite of passage.”

  “In the bank?”

  “The decision was here, the implementation was in the ban
k.” Mona moved back to a large pillow and sank down. “I decided it was time I saved money. I mean, I am twenty-five years old. I probably have more albums than half of Berkeley. There are some I haven’t played in months. I can’t just go on buying every sound that appeals to me. I have to grow up, be responsible, like my mother said. So, I decided to open an account.”

  “You were in the bank on the first of the month. You don’t get paid till the tenth.”

  “I know. It was a bad move. Not because of my paycheck—I was going for information that day. I mean, I didn’t know what I’d need to open an account. I’d never had one, not even a savings account as a child. But I’d forgotten what a zoo the bank is on the first, with every welfare client in there cashing checks.”

  “And?” I leaned back against the doorway, looking down at Mona.

  “And I gave up.” She sat forward, as if the remembrance of defeat cheered her. “You can probably tell that I had real mixed emotions about the whole project. Giving it up wasn’t hard.”

  “But you went back to the bank again on the first of the next month.”

  Mona laughed. “Yes. Same project. I forgot about the first of the month again. Or maybe I just wanted to sabotage the plan. Or maybe all the clients calling about money on the first had brought the issue to my mind. When I got there, the bank was jammed, but I did force myself to at least pick up brochures.” She laughed again. “And I rewarded myself with three albums on the way home that night. You want to hear one?”

  “And that was the only reason you were in the bank?”

  Mona looked startled. “Yes. It was a big thing, for me.”

  I waited, but Mona did not go on. Then I said good night, and left.

  I didn’t believe Mona. I couldn’t prove her story wasn’t true; considering Mona, it could have been. Still, I doubted it.

  The stereo started. The sounds of the Preservation Hall Jazz Band floated out over the driveway.

  In the car, I opened the window and sat listening to the music, contemplating the case. I reviewed my notes. And I wondered: What had Anne Spaulding done with her clients’ rent receipts? There was no indication in any of the case folders I had seen. I hadn’t thought to ask Ermentine Brown if Anne had kept her receipt, and I certainly didn’t want to tackle her again to find out.

  Perhaps, I thought, I’d have more success with Yvonne McIvor.

  As I drove south, I asked myself…was I wasting my time detailing Anne’s abuses at the welfare department when her death might have been a simple crime of passion? Had Fern killed her to avoid losing Donn? Nothing in Anne’s bloodstained living room suggested otherwise.

  But McIvor would take only a few minutes. She was a loose end. And her apartment was on the way.

  Unlike on my previous visit, there was no soul music blaring from Yvonne McIvor’s apartment. I rang the bell.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Officer Smith.”

  “What do you want?” the angry voice yelled through the closed door.

  “I won’t keep you long.”

  “Okay. Okay. Just a minute.”

  The minute stretched into three or more. I wondered what Yvonne had been doing at nine o’clock on a Thursday night that would take this long to recover from. Was she letting a John out the back door or trying to air out the smell of grass? I glanced down the dark stairway, again noting what an ominous, closed place it was. Yvonne McIvor was lucky no one had hidden here, waiting for her return some night.

  When she opened the door, the music started, but it was turned low. She was still wearing the green dashiki she’d had on this morning. Her face was tense, her small features drawn down in a scowl.

  “Are you alone?” I asked.

  She planted her hands on her hips. “Yeah. Why you askin’? The welfare don’t care ’bout men friends no more.”

  Walking in, I said, “You used to live at a hotel off Telegraph. I need to see your rent receipt.”

  “Why didn’t you look before? You were here long enough. I don’t keep shit forever.”

  “It was only from last month. You keep things the welfare might want longer than that.”

  “Yeah, most stuff. But I don’t have that. I mailed it to Miz Spaulding. She said she had to send it to the copy machine at the main welfare office in Oakland. And when Miz Spaulding take, honey, she don’t always give back, you understand?”

  “Didn’t she send you anything? A receipt for it? A note?”

  “Maybe. Like I said, that was more than a month ago. I moved again. When I moved outa there I threw out all the stuff from that dive.”

  “Okay,” I said, “then let me see what you got from Anne Spaulding in return for the rent receipt on this apartment.”

  “Why?”

  “You told me you mailed her your rent receipt on Saturday. It’s Thursday now. She must have sent something back to you.”

  When Yvonne McIvor didn’t answer, I said, “I’d hate to have to start over on this.”

  She stood, shoulders moving to the hard beat of the music, eyes averted as if considering whether the effort of searching was worth the prospect of being rid of me. “Okay. Okay. I’ll look. I got so much shit spread here, I don’t know where nothin’ is. You better take a seat.”

  I sat, watching her look in drawers, among piles of papers. As she headed toward the kitchen I followed and leaned against the doorway while she went through the cabinets.

  “Don’t seem like it would be here, but I can’t say no.” She headed back toward the living room, stopped. “I gotta go. Bladder infection.” With that, she rushed to the bathroom, grabbing her purse.

  I glanced into the bedroom, catching the reflection of the room in the marbleized mirror squares that covered the far wall. Sheets and blankets hung from the bed, clothes lay in piles on the floor, intermingled with copies of Ebony, Jet, and a skiwear catalog. On the dresser were several pairs of long beaded earrings, a parched ivy plant, and a pile of batik scarves that drooped over a cheap picture frame containing a newspaper photo of a young black girl—Yvonne’s niece or sister? As I moved closer to check the resemblance, the toilet flushed.

  Had I made a mistake in letting her in the bathroom alone? Had she flushed something I’d needed?

  I had just gotten back to my chair when Yvonne McIvor hurried in.

  “When you got this bladder stuff, you gotta go fast.” Perching next to me, she held out a paper. “I didn’t waste no time. I emptied my purse out. That’s what I shoulda done first. I keep all my business there. Everyone on the welfare does.” She patted the bulging plastic purse. “And, honey, you are in luck.”

  I took the paper. On it was a statement, on NCR paper with the county logo, acknowledging that a rent receipt for the date in question had been submitted to the welfare department. The signature said, “Anne Spaulding.”

  It looked legitimate, but I’d have to check it. And the one who could tell me was Fern Day.

  Chapter 18

  “THAT’S ANNE’S SIGNATURE,” FERN Day said, settling in the one comfortable chair. By her arm was a jar of peanuts, half gone, and a glass of what appeared to be sherry. Her living room walls were covered with canvasses—Donn Day’s. In the dining room stood an easel, surrounded by rags, tubes of paint, a bottle of linseed oil, and brushes soaking in a can. The smells of paint and turpentine filled both rooms.

  I sat opposite her on a church pew. It was after ten o’clock. That late night last night was catching up with me. My eyes wanted to close and even the hard surface of the pew was inviting. Inhaling deeply, I said, I’m going to ask you again, where were you the night Anne Spaulding…Monday night?”

  Fern’s dark penciled eyebrows rose. Her hand moved toward the peanuts, but she caught it and brought it back to the chair, empty.

  When she didn’t speak, I said, “I know you were at Alec Effield’s party. But after that…”

  She bit her cheek, kneading the flesh between her teeth. I could almost see the conflict as she decided between
the truth and a stubborn reiteration of what she had told me.

  “I was home with Donn.”

  “That’s not what he says.”

  “Donn must be mistaken.”

  “He’s not. He was at the gallery preparing for the show. The workmen were with him all evening.”

  “They must have meant another night.”

  “No, they didn’t. Come on, Fern, why did you say you were with Donn?”

  She opened her mouth to protest, but she must have seen the futility of it, for she let it shut, and sat staring over my head. She ran her teeth over her lower lip, biting hard enough to leave the skin red.

  “Fern?”

  She said nothing.

  “Were you protecting Donn? Did you think he might have been with Anne?”

  “No. No. Donn is just friends with Anne.”

  “That’s not what I’ve heard.”

  Her head started to shake; the loose chin quivered.

  “Look, Fern, you know Donn comes on to women, don’t you? Where it counts, you know. Don’t waste energy pretending.”

  Her hand went for the peanuts. She looked at it as it poised over the container. Then she picked up the jar and flung it to the floor. “How can he?” she screamed. “I’ve given him everything. I take care of him; I love him; he’s my life! How can he do this?”

  Her face was deep red. Tears hung precariously at the corners of her eyes. In her hands she knotted the crimson cloth of her caftan.

  On the floor between us the peanut jar, unbroken, rocked back and forth, mocking Fern.

  I asked, “Do you think he was sleeping with Anne?”

  “I don’t know. Anne, the girl at the gallery, the girl at the paint store, any flighty little blonde with…with…”

  “With what?”

  “With a skinny little body, like yours!”

  The tears rolled freely. She raised an arm to wipe them, stared at the hanging fat, and dropped the arm to her side.

  “Fern,” I said softly, “it’s better to face the truth, even when it seems unbearable.” It had taken a divorce to teach me that. “Crying it out would be best, but I have to find a murderer. I don’t have time to let you cry. Pull yourself together.”