“Not at first.” She laughed madly, lurching a bit and clutching the stairway rail. “At first I thought it was a joke. There are some very macabre people living in this canyon, you know.” She laughed again. “I told him to get up and come out of there. Of course he didn’t.” She drained her wineglass and we plodded back up the stairs. I accepted another half glass of wine when she took her next refill.
“Then what did you do?”
“Well, I’ve never found a body before. So I wasn’t sure what to do about it.” She shuddered and frowned. “I decided to call Charles— up there.” She pointed upward. I remembered noticing a house behind and above hers, on the up-side of the path, and another one slightly beyond that. Charles, she said, had told her to call the sheriff.
“God, I thought the least he could do was call, or help me call. I was, of course, totally unnerved. He didn’t get out of bed at all until the sheriff’s men were coming up to see me. I was alone, all that time. It must have been at least fifteen minutes.”
Now we were getting to the important part. “About your identification of the man, the one you saw running. Are you absolutely sure it was Artie Perrine’s nephew Alan?” Alan had already admitted he had been down there, but maybe someone else had been there, too.
“Oh, yes,” she insisted. “It was he.” She said “It was he” as though she were very much aware that she was speaking correctly.
Occasionally, throughout our conversation, she had tossed in a touch of what sounded like an English accent. I figured she was probably from a small town in Indiana. Maybe Ohio. I was having a hard time lasting through this session with her. Part of the increasing, sandpapery irritation I was feeling came from the confusing signals I was getting from her. They kept leaping out of her skin, sexual signals of some kind. But they didn’t quite hit me, if I was, indeed, the target. She just seemed to pop open every now and again like a full seed pod, shooting off in all directions. I got up from the loveseat and strolled around the room, wondering what it would feel like if one of the seeds hit me by accident. Carlota, meanwhile, was making her way, a little clumsily, back toward the decanter. I shook my head when she waved the thing at me.
“Yes,” she was repeating, “I’m sure it was he. I’m sorry if this has created difficulty for Mr. Perrine, but the boy shouldn’t have lied to the police.” I agreed with her. I was standing in front of the artfully arranged exhibit of paintings, wondering if she’d seen anything down there besides Alan and the body, wondering if she would have noticed anything else if there’d been something else to see. How early had she started drinking?
“I see you’re enjoying our artwork,” she said.
“Oh, yes. Very good. I can’t make out the signature.”
“Nona Delvecchio.” She said the name as if it had special significance. I’ve been to a few art shows here and there, and I don’t think I’m a complete moron when it comes to painting, but I’d never heard of the woman.
“Local?”
“Very.” She flashed a crooked smile. “She lives here with me.” Carlota pointed at the portrait near the piano. “That’s a self-portrait.”
I took another look. Dark hair, full lips, angry eyes. “Has she had many shows?” I was just making conversation while I thought about what else I could ask this woman, but she wasn’t pleased with the question.
“Not many. It isn’t easy, you know, to get recognition.”
“I understand that,” I said reassuringly. “Was she here when you found the body?”
“No. As I said, I was alone. Nona was at work. She’s here now, but she’s painting.” She waved vaguely toward a door in the living room wall. “In her studio.”
“Who plays the piano?”
“I do.” She warmed up again.
“That’s wonderful,” I said. “Professionally?”
Another wrong move. I was trying to keep her on my side, but paying occupations seemed to be a sore point with her. The room had chilled again.
“I teach. But primarily I am a filmmaker.”
I nodded. “It isn’t easy to get recognition.”
She lifted her chin. She was still standing near the decanter and stretched out an arm to pull a magazine off the bookshelf. She waved it at me.
“But I’m about to get some,” she said. “In this.”
I walked over to look at what she was holding. It was a slick little item called The Marin Journal of the Arts. A monthly. I cocked my head inquiringly.
“They are going to print a review of my films. In fact, the critic is stopping in to see me later this afternoon.”
I was impressed. “Where are they showing?”
“They are being shown twice this month at the film society in Mill Valley.”
“That’s terrific,” I said. “I’ll go to see them.” I didn’t really think I would.
“Yes,” she said. But she wasn’t focusing on me; she was frowning at the journal.
The pod wasn’t popping anymore. She was getting tired of having me around. I thought I’d better get in a quick question or two before she fell asleep or wandered off. She was a little put out when I asked her if she was sure she hadn’t seen anything else down around the ditch that morning. She was sure she hadn’t. I asked if I could come and talk to her again if I needed to. She wrinkled up her forehead, looked nervous, and said that would be all right. I didn’t think the nervous look— or any of her looks, for that matter— had much significance.
She escorted me to the kitchen door, and I made my way back along Hummingbird Lane, across the bridge, and up the path to Artie’s.
* * *
He was waiting for me with more coffee and settled us cozily at the kitchen table. Jennifer joined us, accepted a cup, and gazed pathetically at me.
“Well?” he asked.
I threw another question back at him. “Did you talk to the lawyer?”
“Couldn’t reach him. But I did leave a note for Charlie.”
“Another witness?”
“Oh, no. No, didn’t I tell you he’s got a spare room he might be willing to rent? He’s a neighbor.”
I sipped my coffee. It cut through the coat of wine on my tongue. Carlota had mentioned someone named Charles.
“See,” Artie continued, “I figured you wouldn’t want to be running back and forth across the bay all the time, and it would be more convenient for you to stay over here when you’re working late on the case.”
I thought that was very considerate of him, and I told him so.
“You should be able to wrap things up faster that way, and I figure we’ll break even by saving on your mileage and restaurant meals and things. Unless, of course, the police find the real killer right away and stop badgering Alan. Then we won’t need you.”
“Meals? Saving on meals?”
“Sure. You can just plug in a hot plate over there, or come here for lunch. Maybe you could even stay there tonight. If he comes home and sees the note. Or we could put you somewhere…” he looked around the kitchen.
“No,” I said quickly. “That’s okay. I’ve got to get back to the East Bay tonight. I’ll come over tomorrow. With my own car.”
“Okay.” He grinned happily. “But stay for dinner. To seal our bargain.”
I stayed for dinner, even though he was the only one who seemed to be getting a bargain.
5
It was after nine when I pulled up in front of my house. The flatlands of Oakland looked awfully damned flat and desolate after Foothill Canyon. Houses all on the same level. Streets. I felt deprived and tried to concentrate on the pluses. Occasionally, even in winter, my yard dried out. I didn’t have to stumble down a clay and rock incline or a hundred shaky wooden steps to go to the grocery store. Not to mention going up again.
Also, I had never found a corpse in my front yard. Not yet, anyway.
Rosie’s light was on, so I knocked. She and Alice were alone, and she invited me in. Rosie was wearing her favorite at-home outfit: cutoffs, cowboy boots, and
Gertrude Stein T-shirt. I handed her the truck keys, she handed me a beer. Now, I do try to control my intake of beer, because in the past couple of years what used to be normal amounts of food and drink have begun to create abnormal conditions in my midsection. Somehow, my spare tire had become more easily inflatable. But my hesitation was brief. I figured that if I was going to spend the next couple of weeks hiking around in nature, I could probably afford a few more calories.
I sat down in Rosie’s one easy chair, and she sat on her bed, leaning back against the giant pillow that served as a bolster. I began to tell her about my new case. As she listened, she grew very still. The look she was giving me could have been misinterpreted as seductive if it had come from another woman, or, more to the point, if the look had been directed by Rosie at another woman. But she was looking at me, her old buddy, and I knew the speculative gleam in her eye was professional.
She’d worked with me once before, on the case of the previous fall, and had come up with some important leads by infiltrating a right-wing campus group. She’d nearly gotten her neck broken in the process, but it looked like old danger hadn’t discouraged her from the prospect of new adventure.
Maybe the lack of pay would discourage her, though. She’d gotten a percentage of a nice fee last time for a few days’ work.
She’d get a percentage of nothing this time, and I didn’t think Artie’d be willing to cover expenses for two. I could get by; I had the rent she paid for the cottage, another small piece of income from a trust fund my mother had set up for me before she died, and a few thousand left over from the last job. Rosie had only what she earned week to week, and maybe a little in the bank. I told her there was no money in it.
She grinned at me. “So? I don’t have anything much to do for the next couple of weeks, anyway.”
“I thought you had a basement to finish.”
“Not until April.”
“What about that addition you were telling me about?”
“After the basement.”
I explained about the expenses. She told me she could buy her own lunch.
I thought of something else. “Artie’s going to try to get me a room over there so I won’t have to travel back and forth all the time. Got any friends in Mill Valley?”
She got up to get us both another beer. “I used to,” she snapped, “but it doesn’t matter. Alice and I can commute.” She handed me my beer and put hers down on the table beside my chair. She didn’t sit down again, but stood over me, glaring. Now Rosie’s not tall. Only about five foot five. And she’s not muscular. And she’s not mean. But she’s got one hell of a powerful personality. And I knew what she was thinking.
“What is this, anyway?” she wanted to know. “Don’t you want my help?”
“Of course I do, you know—”
“Are you pulling that protective male shit on me again, Jake?”
“Jesus, Rosie—”
“I thought so.” She picked up her beer and sat down on the bed. “Look, you know I can take care of myself. I’m not talking about following you around every damn day. It’s your case. But there may be some angle you’ll want me to handle, and if there is, I’d be interested. Do you want me to help or not?” The glare had softened a little, but not much.
“Yeah. I do. And I’m not being… careful… because you’re a woman. It’s because you’re my friend.”
She laughed at me. “Drink your beer, friend.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Okay, so tell me more. What about the nephew? Could he have done it?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know, and I haven’t met the kid.”
“He sounds like a real jerk. Screaming and running away and lying to the sheriff. What about the woman who saw him running away? Is she a good witness? Is she nearsighted? Did she see anything else?”
I laughed. “I think you’ll have to meet her.”
Rosie sipped at her beer and nestled a little deeper into the pillow. She was looking pleased. “This is really going to be fun,” she said. “Maybe as much fun as the last time.”
“Maybe,” I agreed. “At least this time it will be far enough away from home so we can escape if we have to.”
“Oh, come on. You know it’s fun.”
I shook my head. “Maybe. But I’m not crazy about risking my life. Not for free, anyway. Let’s not forget, in the midst of all this fun, that whoever killed the guy is a killer.”
“We can handle it,” she said confidently. “Oh, you’re not going to need my truck tomorrow, are you?”
“They swear my car will be ready in the morning, so maybe not. Why?”
“I’ve got a couple of estimates to do in the next day or so. By then, you should have a better handle on things, so we can figure out the plan of attack.”
Somebody very short scratched on the door about a foot above the threshold. My cats had found me. I got up and let them in. Ignoring me, they said hello to Alice, then to Rosie. The implication was clear. I had been gone for several hours more than what they thought was appropriate. They were wondering if Rosie or Alice knew where I might be, and who was this tall stranger standing near the door, anyway?
“I think I’ve just been collected,” I said. “See you in the morning. Come on, you two.” The cats looked at me with sudden recognition and followed me out the door.
After slapping some gooey, expensive food in their dishes, I checked my answering machine. A message from Artie that Alan was home but felt as though he was still under suspicion. A message from my father that said I could call any time before midnight, his time. That gave me fifteen minutes. I hoped nothing was wrong. Usually, since he calls collect “just to say hello,” he leaves no messages. The man doesn’t call collect from Chicago because he’s poor, but because he’s devious. He says if I can afford to accept a long-distance call, he knows I’m not starving to death.
Anyway, I figured I’d better call him, if only to let him know I was going to be in and out for a while. I dialed his number.
“Yeah?” That was the way he answered the phone.
“Hello, pa.”
“Oh, so there you are.”
“Yeah. Is everything all right?”
“What’s not to be all right?”
“Good. So, you called?”
“Sure I called. Two nights. I tried to call Thursday, too, but I didn’t talk to your machine.” Thursday night I’d had a date in Berkeley with my close friend Iris. “What’s the matter, you’re not living at home?”
I explained that I’d been kind of busy, and that I might not be home much for the next couple of weeks because I’d be spending a lot of time in Marin County, across the bay. Working.
“A job? You’re sleeping at a job?”
“I work late sometimes, it’s a long drive back here.”
He grunted. “So, you’ve got a nafke. So what’s the big deal?”
“Pa,” I said, laughing, “I’m working. I’m not staying with a woman.”
“Working, huh? What kind of work this time?”
“Same as last time. The magazine.” That was a mistake.
“So how come I never saw the write-up you did before? You’re working for a magazine and you don’t write anything? Are you ashamed to show it to me?”
I wasn’t about to tell him I was investigating a murder. He had nearly disowned me when I’d joined the Chicago police force. When I quit doing that in favor of wandering around California, he was sure I had become a dope fiend. He’d been relieved, in recent years, that I was at least staying at the same address for a while. He’s a pain in the ass, but I love him and would rather he didn’t worry.
“Mostly I just do the research, pa. There’s not much to show for that.”
There was a brief silence while he decided to drop the job subject. “Listen, your stepmother and I, we’re thinking of maybe coming out and visiting around the end of the year. She’s got a niece someplace out there, too, we can kill two birds.”
“Yeah? Th
at would be terrific.”
“Maybe the niece isn’t married, you could meet her.”
“Sure. Where does she live?”
“Someplace out there. I’ll have to ask your stepmother.”
She took the receiver from him. “Hello, Jake.”
“Hi, Eva.” I’m fond of Eva. I was glad when my father remarried, some ten years after the death of my mother, because he was a man who needed to be married, needed to have someone to love. He and Eva were close, and, I thought sometimes, almost too much alike. The two of them together could be overwhelming.
“Listen,” she said, “it’s a good thing you called back. He almost called that friend of yours, that Rosie. Your tenant.”
A couple of years before, I’d given them Rosie’s number for emergency messages. They’d used it once when I’d spent two weeks at Tahoe without calling them.
“She’s still there, the tenant? What was her last name again?”
“Yeah, she’s still here. Her name is Vicente.”
“Such a nice girl. She’s good-looking?”
“Very.”
“And smart?”
“Yes.”
“You’re such good friends, maybe you should get married? A forty-year-old man, it’s time again. An Italian’s not so bad.”
“I’m thirty-nine.”
She snorted. “Thirty-nine. Like Jack Benny.” Then she handed the phone back to my father.
“So? You’re going back to this job tomorrow?”
“That’s right, don’t expect to get me at home for a while, okay? I’ll give you a call in a week or two.”
“Okay, okay. Listen, I’m going to say goodbye. Your stepmother’s got something she wants to say before we hang up.”
“Jakey?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I mean it. You should think about the Italian. If you got married, you wouldn’t have to run to nafkes fifty miles away.”
“I’ll consider it,” I told her. “Goodbye, Eva.”
“Goodbye, Jake.”
6
Alan sat slumped forward on Artie’s couch, elbows resting on his thighs, wrists dangling, brown eyes peering out at me through a lock of straight brown hair that hung to his eyebrows. Everything about him drooped: his mouth, his hair, his hands. He was pale and he looked sick and scared.
Free Draw (The Jake Samson & Rosie Vicente Detective Series Book 2) Page 3