An Equal Opportunity Death

by Susan Dunlap

  I glanced out the window. The sheriff’s car was across the street.

  The library did have a back door behind the check-out counter, a private door for the staff. I walked over to the counter and looked in its direction.

  “Can I help you?” the librarian asked. She was about my age. She looked familiar, as most people in this area did. I’d taken a class with one, chatted with another in the market, or failing that, read their meter.

  The library was empty now but for the second librarian in the back room. I said to the woman at the desk. “I need to ask you a big favor. Not money,” I added quickly.

  She smiled warily.

  “My truck’s at the garage. I feel truly lousy. I just can’t face the walk across town. I know it’s asking a lot, I mean we hardly know each other—weren’t you in the film class at the college last year?”

  “Right. I thought I knew you.”

  “Anyway, I wondered if you could drive me to my truck. I’d really appreciate it.”

  She hesitated, looking around at the empty room. “I guess so. We’re not exactly crowded today. Georgia can handle any rush in the next five minutes. Come on, my car’s out back.”

  I followed her through the office, out the rear door, and into an ancient blue Pontiac. From there it was easy to direct her out the right-hand exit, the one farthest from the deputy. I thought he glanced at the car, but if so she was between him and me. And in any case he didn’t move. At the garage, I thanked her, hopped out, collected the keys for my truck, and drove off.

  When I was buying the truck, my personal statement of country life, I had eyed a bright red model. The friend I took with me laughed. “A little red wagon?” he asked. Reluctantly, I agreed that it was a bit much, and in reaction bought the plainest one in the lot, the brown. But now as I drove through town, garnering no notice at all, I silently thanked him. Maybe when this was all over I’d have him over to dinner. And the woman from the library. And all the people in Henderson I’d offended. I’d have to rent a hall.

  I made it to Route 101 in reasonable time. North Bank Road was crowded. I didn’t want to speed, but on 101 I felt safe. Here I was no longer Vejay Haskell of Henderson, but an anonymous Californian driving along one of the main north-south freeways.

  I stopped looking in the rear-view mirror and considered how I would approach Walucyk.

  The Chronicle referred to his address only as “in Pacific Heights,” an old moneyed section of San Francisco. But our local paper, less sophisticated, or less concerned about the privacy of city folk, had given it out, street and number. Both papers carried a description of the plates, a set of ten antique bronze religious plates, decreasing in size from forty inches in diameter to five (mine, presumably). Etched into each one was an ancient religious symbol. They were valued at three hundred thousand dollars. A very lucky find for Frank.

  Or as it turned out, very unlucky.

  A four-color article in the Chronicle, which originally ran during the time Walucyk bought the plates (and was reprinted after the burglary news thinned), reviewed Walucyk’s history as a collector, listing several coups which had astounded fellow art lovers. In fact, his discovery and purchase of the Chinese bronze plates aroused jealousy as far away as England. The report quoted a Professor Everson of Leeds University in England as saying his school had eyed the plates soon after China had been reopened to the West, but Walucyk had beaten them to it. Everson had made Walucyk an offer for the plates (amount unspecified in the article) and was rejected.

  As I headed across the Golden Gate Bridge, I wondered if Frank could have been on the payroll of this Professor Everson. It was farfetched. But then Frank’s death still seemed unreal.

  I stopped at the toll gate. The sky was overcast, but compared to the Russian River area, it was almost bright. I drove past the sailboats in the marina and turned right, up into Pacific Heights, hoping Walucyk would be home.

  When I found his house, a beautiful plum-accented blue and beige Victorian, a Mercedes was pulling out of the driveway.

  CHAPTER 16

  ON THE DRIVE OVER to the city I had considered how to approach Walucyk. A man who had recently lost his prized Chinese plates might not be anxious to invite a strange woman into his house to view his remaining collection. What would reassure him? Getting inside someone’s house had never been a problem for me. When I worked in the city my clients were always anxious for my help. In Henderson I simply showed my PG&E identification.

  After rejecting several possibilities, I recalled a friend, a freelance writer who did articles “on spec.” She’d phone and say “I’m writing an article on spec for West Coast magazine …” “On spec,” she explained, meant not requested by the magazine. But the prospective interviewee never noted the “on spec,” only the West Coast magazine. Secondly, she added, interviews were much easier to get than one might think. People liked to talk about their work; they loved to talk about themselves; and they adored the idea that others were waiting to read about their favorite subject.

  I’d see.

  I jumped out of the truck and ran to the Mercedes. Tapping on the driver’s window, I said, “Mr. Walucyk?”

  The man, middle-aged, small, and almost completely bald, rolled the window down half an inch. “Yes?”

  “Are you Martin Walucyk?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Merle Dubrow. I tried to call you. I’m writing an article on spec for West Coast magazine about Asian art collections and art collectors. I’ll only be in San Francisco today. I would really like to talk to you.”

  He hesitated, then nodded, closed the window, and pulled the Mercedes back up the driveway.

  The house was square, large, three stories. The doorway faced the drive. Approaching the hulking dwelling, Walucyk looked even smaller. He was perhaps five feet four. As with many bald men he looked as if his head had been spun violently and all his features resettled together by centrifugal force, leaving large areas of untenanted skin. His pate had a muted shine. His suit was brown, the turtleneck under it camel. It looked expensive, befitting the owner of the house and the Mercedes.

  Using two keys Walucyk opened the door, then, motioning for me to wait, he adjusted several switches on the wall.

  It seemed ridiculous to invest in such security if he had the habit of inviting people in off the street.

  I followed him into the living room, a large room created by merging the front and rear parlors. It was darkly panelled, a room that no amount of sunshine could brighten. The floors were covered with oriental carpets; the sofas, loveseats, and chairs reminded me of the furnishings of minor European palaces open to the public. These were not pieces that invited one to sit down.

  Against each of the walls were lighted cases, each holding display collections. For a moment I forgot my purpose as I stared at the elaborate and delicate ivory carving of a small hillside village. The whole work was no more than a foot high. “Amazing,” I said.

  “It’s thirteenth-century Japanese. From Hokkaido. It does look amazing even to those who know nothing of Asian carvings. But experts have seen and agreed that the craftsmanship was exceptionally subtle for so early a period.”

  I nodded, not knowing what to say.

  But there was no need for response. Walucyk motioned me to another display case. In it were six rice paper fans edged with gold. “These, you may not realize, are from the Tang Dynasty in China. From the court, of course. No one has seen anything like it here since the Boxer Rebellion. A few amateurs tried to get Chinese artifacts when the country reopened, but all they got was junk. One of those men, a dealer,”—he emitted the word rather like a noxious gas—“even saw these and passed them by. Looking for something flashier, no doubt. I spotted them instantly, and if I do say so, got an exceptional deal.”

  I nodded again.

  “Over here are my smallest carvings. Even the museums have some of these netsukes. Japanese work has been easier to come by. Of course, the museums are inclined to the less
subtle. But their budgets are limited.”

  And their visitors peasants, I was tempted to say. For such a little man, Walucyk was certainly one big pain in the ass.

  In the corner was an empty display case. I walked toward it. “Was this where you kept the Chinese dishes?” That would be a reasonable question from a writer.

  “Devotional plates,” he corrected.

  “Devotional plates.”

  “But that is what you’ve come to discuss, isn’t it? Do you realize that that particular set is nearly five hundred years old. Before the present revolution those plates were kept in places of honor in the temple and used as vessels during sacred ceremonies to contact ancestors.”

  “They were used outside, exposed to the atmosphere?” I said, amazed.

  Had Walucyk been taller he would have looked down his nose at me. “The city was in the mountains. The air was dry, the area arid. Perfect conditions for preservation. Many people don’t realize that much of China is mountainous and dry. Even in our own country many people fail to understand why parchments are preserved better in Arizona than New Hampshire.”

  “Could you describe the plates?” I said, anxious to get on with it.

  He looked surprised. “Yes, I suppose so. They are a set of ten, which in itself is extraordinary. The normal religious set would be nine. With these, the tenth was made for good luck.”

  “Sort of ‘one to grow on’?” I was sorry as soon as I said it.

  Walucyk ignored my comment. “Each plate has the temple insignia in the center. The set, as you know, is bronze, and also,” he said, gazing at me almost in supplication, “as you know, oxidizes rapidly without proper care.”

  “Do you have a picture of them?”

  “A picture? Why do you want to see that?”

  “I may want to illustrate my article,” I said.

  Walucyk tensed. “Very well. The photographic work is over here.” He removed a portfolio of twelve-by-fourteen photographs from a cabinet and laid it on a table, turning plastic-enclosed pages of photos until he came to one showing the ten plates. The photo was in color. The plates glistened green-gold in the light. The design so muted on my own little dish showed up strong and clear here. And it looked the same. I was struck by the beauty of the plates in their original condition. I hoped the other nine had fared better than mine.

  “Is the design unusual?”

  He looked surprised and annoyed.

  “I mean, would this be the only set of plates with this design?”

  “Of course. It is the temple insignia.”

  “And you bought them right after China was reopened?”

  “As I said, I knew what I was doing. Many men pay too much or sell too cheaply, and then they are put out. That is their own fault. I know my field.”

  “I understand a Professor Everson wanted to buy them from you.”

  He closed the portfolio. “Could we get on with this, Miss, er, Dubrow?”

  He seemed so annoyed now that I wondered if he was beginning to doubt that I was really a writer. “Certainly,” I said. “I will remember what you’ve told me so far. It all seems very clear, but perhaps it would be best if I did take some notes now.” I took a pad from my purse. “What are the joys and the sorrows of being a collector?”

  “You mean, how did I feel when these plates were stolen?”

  I nodded, delighted with his choice of response.

  “As even you might expect, I was worried for their safety and enraged over the theft.”

  “You didn’t feel any danger in taking them to your Russian River home?”

  “Surely …” He shrugged. “As I told the sheriff and the state police, a colleague of Professor Everson’s called, a man named Smithson. Or so he said. He said he worked for a collector in London and would be interested in seeing the plates. He mentioned that as a Londoner he was always delighted to get out of the city. So I suggested he come to my weekend house. It had a display case. That was one of the reasons I bought that particular house: there was a display case already installed. I bought the house from a friend who kept Egyptian work.”

  “And this Smithson?”

  “I was to meet him at the Santa Rosa Airport Saturday morning, at seven. He said he was flying in from Portland.” He paused. “Surely we can skip this.”

  I hesitated to push him. Still I said, “I do need to know.”

  Again he shrugged. “As you say. I guess I have no choice. I drove to Henderson Friday night and brought the devotional plates into the house. When I went to the airport Saturday morning, I left the crates stacked right beside the devotional plates,” he said in disgust. “Of course, there was no Smithson on the flight. By the time I checked with the airline and found that Smithson had not merely missed the flight, but had never had a seat on it, over an hour had elapsed. I called the number Smithson had given me. There was no Smithson there. Everson never heard of him. And when I got back to the house the plates were gone. Is that sufficient?”

  “Originally, had Smithson written you or called?”

  “He called. Do we really need—”

  “Did he have an English accent?”

  “No. He said he was raised in Canada.”

  “So, you assume Smithson was connected with the theft,” I said.

  Walucyk nodded in disgust.

  “What about local connections in the Russian River area. Who are you familiar with there?”

  Walucyk seemed about to retort, but instead swallowed, and with enforced calm, said, “I have neither the time nor the inclination to consort with the locals.”

  “You don’t go to restaurants or bars there?”

  “Restaurants, yes. I must eat. But only the Johnson House. Bars hardly.”

  The Johnson House was far beyond my means. It was located east of Guerneville. “Are you saying you’ve never been to a bar or restaurant other than the Johnson House?”

  “That,” he sighed, “is what I am saying.”

  “What about repair work on your home, or plumbing, or carpentry? You must have had some work done.”

  “If you’re trying to figure out what I told the sheriff, I’ll tell you. I don’t know anything more than the obvious. I told the sheriff what I knew. The sheriff did nothing for me. My main concern is my devotional plates.”

  “So you didn’t have work done on the house?”

  “No. Nothing. It was in good shape when I bought it. That was only three years ago. I spend enough money keeping this place in repair.”

  I made a show of jotting down his comment. “One last thing: have you been contacted by the thieves?”

  Walucyk stared at me. “Of course. Twice.”

  “And those times were …?”

  He gave me the same annoyed and confused look. “I don’t know why … but whatever you say. The first time was a week after the theft.”

  “A man called you?”

  “Yes,” he said, still looking at me with disgust. “A man.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Three hundred thousand dollars. He told me to pay it if I planned on seeing the plates again.”

  “Did he say what he would do if you didn’t pay?”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  “And did you agree?”

  “As you know,” he said slowly, apparently using considerable control, “I said I’d have to see if I could raise it.”

  Involuntarily, I glanced around the room.

  “Possessions are not cash,” he snapped. “Raising three hundred thousand dollars takes time.”

  “Did you get the money?”

  “For all the good …” He compressed his hands into fists.

  I waited.

  He did likewise.

  Finally, I said, “What do you mean ‘For all the good …’? Hasn’t the thief called back?”

  “Oh yes. He called.”

  “When?”

  “He called this week.”

  “This week! When?”

  “Monday. At tw
o-seventeen in the afternoon.”

  The afternoon Frank was murdered. “What did he say?” The excitement rang clear in my voice.

  “Four hundred thousand dollars.”

  “What? You mean he raised the price?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  His hands squeezed tighter.

  “Did he say why?”

  “He said, Miss, er, Dubrow, that he had changed his mind. I could take it or leave it. I told him he’d never fence the plates. He laughed. He said that wasn’t my affair. I need only concern myself with whether I wanted to see them again or not. But you know all that.”

  “No.”

  “Let’s not play games.”

  I decided to let that one pass. “You talked to the same man both times. Just one man?”

  Walucyk hesitated.

  “There was more than one man?” I prompted.

  “Yes and no. There was a voice in the background the second time.”

  “A man?”

  “I don’t know. Oh God, I shouldn’t have said anything. It was just a voice. Believe me, I couldn’t identify it. Just sounds.” He looked terrified. “Look, I just want my collection back.”

  “But what did the thief say? Was he going to contact you again?”

  “By this weekend. He said he’d be in touch.” For the first time he looked directly at me. “I have the money. I told him I didn’t have it. But I do now. All the money. I’ll pay the four hundred thousand. But I can’t get more. I’ve borrowed all I can. This is it.” All Walucyk’s condescension had vanished. He looked like all the ransom victims I’d ever seen on the news. I was glad I wasn’t going to be here when the week ended and Frank didn’t call back.

  There was nothing more to say. I closed my pad. “Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Walucyk. You’ve been a great help to me in writing my article. And I hope your plates will be returned to you very soon.”

  “Is that all?” He sounded amazed.

  “Yes, but thanks again.”

  “I will be called …”

  “I’m sure—”