by David Linzee
“But I just want the story, not the purse.”
“You just told me the story is worth more to you than the purse. In fact, it seems to me I’ve … ‘got you by the short and curlies.’ ” He chuckled happily.
“Oh … all right. I’ll send you a check. Now where did you find the purse?”
The syrupy drawl turned rueful. “Ma’am, I hope you won’t put me to the embarrassment of explaining why that’s an unsatisfactory arrangement.”
“You sod!”
He chuckled. “I love it when Doc Martin says that.”
Peter took the phone away from her. “Mr. Henderson, I’m a friend of Renata’s, and I think we can work this out.”
Renata rose and walked around the bench, trying to calm down. She did not attempt to follow the negotiations, which involved PayPal. On the fifth go-round, Peter handed her the phone with a nod. She sat down.
Henderson explained that his first delivery of the day had been in Ladue.
“A pair of fine wing-back chairs to a Mrs. Weiss on Picardy Lane. I’ve handed her the papers and I’m bringing in the chairs when her son, five or six, sharp as a tack, comes running downstairs. Says he looked out the window and saw a woman’s purse on top of my truck.”
Renata whispered to Peter. “It was on top of his truck.”
Peter nodded.
“You mean that makes some sort of sense to you?” she said.
“Can I talk?”
“He’s explaining how he retrieved the purse. At length.”
“Okay,” he said. “It’s a way skells get rid of things. Like a gun that’s been used in a crime, say. The hope is that it won’t fall off until the truck is on an interstate hundreds of miles away.”
“Oh. Well, my purse did get far enough, didn’t it? This is no use to us.”
“Ask him where he spent last night.”
She did, and he gave her the name of a motel across from the airport. Then he said he would send her purse to SLO and waive the shipping and handling charge. She gave him a last thrill by saying “Ta.”
Putting away the phone, she said, “You think that when the tattooed man finished with my purse, he just chucked it on top of the nearest truck. He was staying at the same motel. He could still be there. Peter, that’s brilliant.”
“It’s a remote possibility at best.”
Renata nodded. “I understand. I won’t ask you to waste any more of your time on my desperate schemes. Thank you for helping me. Do you have a business card? I’ll send you a check for a hundred dollars later today.”
Peter locked eyes with her. “You’re going to look for the man who almost bashed your head in last night. You are not going alone.”
“You want to come? Fine. I hope you weren’t expecting an argument.”
Chapter 42
Once they were on the highway to the airport, she swallowed hard and broke the silence. “Peter, I have something to say, sort of a confession to make. Please don’t put me out by the side of the road.”
“Okay.”
“I’ve already been so difficult, I know. Out of sheer kindness you came to me with your idea, and I’ve dismissed it. Men don’t like that sort of thing, I’ve noticed.”
“I still say Chase is the guy. He did it. But you said you have to be back at the theater by six, so we’re only going to waste a couple of hours. I figure what we’ll do is drive around the motel’s lot and see if we can spot the car. What’s the year, make and model?”
“That’s just it. I’ve no idea.”
He glanced over at her. “But this was the car you were following last night. You must have gotten a good look at it.”
“Yes. But I know nothing about cars. I’ve never owned one. When I rent one, I forget what it looks like. I have to walk up and down the street, pressing on the key fob till some car beeps and blinks its lights.”
“Okay. Tell me everything you do remember.”
“It was light gray or tan—I couldn’t tell which at night. Medium-sized, bigger than your car. Rather boxy silhouette.” She struggled to improve on that. “Four doors. And it wasn’t an estate, it had a boot.”
“Translation?”
“You’re taking the piss, aren’t you?”
“I try not to in the car.”
“I mean you’re making fun of me. Archibald Henderson knew all these expressions. Don’t you watch Doc Martin?”
“Okay, a boot is a trunk, right? But what’s an estate?”
“A station wagon.”
“We’re narrowing it down. It was a sedan. What was the shape of the grille? How many headlights?”
“It was ahead of me. I didn’t see the front.”
“Okay. What was the closest look you got at it?”
“When I got hit, I was bending down to read the license plate.”
“Did you get any numbers?”
“No. Oh, this is hopeless, isn’t it?”
“Close your eyes. You’re standing at the back of the car, looking at the trunk lid. Was there anything on it?”
“Like what?”
“Like the letters F-O-R-D, for instance.”
“No letters.” She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, which seemed to help her memory somehow. “There was a symbol. Emblem. Whatever you call them.”
“A shield, maybe? Or a cross?”
“No. It didn’t look like anything, really. Just a couple of lines.”
With one hand on the wheel, he dug notebook and pen from his jacket pocket. She drew two curving, intersecting lines.
Peter glanced at it and said, “Saturn.”
“Oh. So this is supposed to be the planet Saturn?”
“Yes. They don’t make them anymore.”
“You mean they’re rare?”
“Not as rare as we would like them to be.”
The motel, across the highway from the airport, turned out to be a sprawling four-story complex with a vast parking lot. They drove slowly up and down seemingly endless rows of cars, their chromework glinting under the afternoon sun. Jets thundered over from time to time, low enough to cast enormous shadows. The smell of aviation fuel was making Renata woozy. They found a tan Saturn sedan, but it had a bumper sticker that said, “I’m only speeding ’cause I have to pee!” and Renata said she would have remembered that.
They pursued their slow, zigzag course, drawing ever closer to the building. Renata kept glancing at the long rows of doors, expecting one of them to open and that tattooed man to step out. She was getting very nervous and had to keep reminding herself that she was in the car with Peter beside her.
Finally they reached the building. They had only to drive slowly around it, surveying the cars of the lucky guests who had been able to park in front of their rooms, and they would be done with this fool’s errand. At least she would make it back to the theater on time. She was looking at her watch when Peter abruptly stopped the car.
“How about this one?”
She leaned forward for a better look at the car on their left. It was a dull, faded silver. It had the Saturn emblem. The license plate was from Illinois.
“Oh lord, Peter. This is it.”
“You really think so?”
“The back of my head is throbbing. What are we going to do now? Knock on the door?”
“Hell no. Call the cops.”
They found a space across the lot and while Renata watched the Saturn Peter called 911. Less than ten minutes later a patrol car pulled up beside them and a lean young black man got out, placing his uniform cap on his gleaming shaved head. His name plate said J. Thursby. With a face as impassive as Detective McCutcheon’s had ever been, he listened to her story. She told him the truth, or part of it anyway, how she had been mugged, and her purse had been found, leading them to this motel, where she recognized the car.
She expected a lot of awkward questions about that last part, but Officer Thursby was a man of decision. He said, “Let’s go see if you can ID the guy,” and set off across the lot.
> Renata decided to make the identification over Thursby’s shoulder. She fell in behind him with Peter beside her. Her stomach seemed to bounce painfully around with each stride.
Thursby gave a resounding knock that would have done credit to the Commendatore’s ghost in Don Giovanni. A voice inside said, “What?”
“Police.”
The door was opened by a middle-aged man with a gray moustache. He was wearing a white undershirt, and his bare arms were well-furnished with hair but devoid of ink. A folded newspaper was in his hand. He took off his reading glasses and looked at them blankly.
Renata’s heart sank. “It’s not him. Sorry.” She wasn’t sure who she was apologizing to. All three of them, probably.
She was ready to turn away but Officer Thursby was maddeningly thorough. He verified that the man owned the Saturn and asked for identification. The man produced it: he was Louis J. Bistouri of Chicago, Illinois. He was traveling alone and had not lent his car to anyone.
At length they left the poor man in peace, but the diligent Thursby kept her and Peter for another ten minutes, verifying details for his report. Renata kept glancing at her watch. She was going to be late to sign in at the theater, for the first time in her career. And all for nothing.
Chapter 43
Shane was lying in the bed in his room, watching television. It was a SpongeBob SquarePants rerun, and he was giggling feebly at it. He ignored the knock on his door, responding only when Bistouri shouted, “Open up.”
Shane did and Bistouri strode past him, glowering at the messy room. He faced Shane, who could barely keep his eyes open. “So you’re having a little party? Just you and your pharmaceutical pals?”
Shane sank down on the bed. “You got a better idea?”
“Yeah. Get dressed. I’m taking you to the airport and you’re catching the first flight to Chicago.”
“What are you talking about? We haven’t seen Bryson yet.”
“I am seeing Bryson tonight. It’s all set. And I want you far away, where you can’t fuck things up anymore.”
Shane wiggled his head as if mosquitoes where whining around him. He shut his eyes. “I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You didn’t do what I told you to do last night. With the purse.”
Shane turned his attention to the television set. Bistouri picked up the remote from the bed and switched it off. “They were here ten minutes ago. The Radleigh woman, some guy, and a cop.”
This brought Shane’s head up. He squinted at Bistouri. “You got rid of ’em?”
Bistouri nodded. “Luckily for us, I know how to keep my head. What did you do with the purse, asshole?”
Shane got up and went into the bathroom. He plugged the basin and filled it with cold water. Then he plunged his head into it. When he returned to confront Bistouri, water was dripping from his brows and chin, but his eyes were wide and alert.
“Listen, Bistouri. I’ve had enough of your fucking Obi-Wan Kenobi routine.”
“What?”
“Like you’re the Jedi Master of the shakedown and I got to do everything you say or I’m out.”
“They would be putting you in the backseat of a cop car right now if I hadn’t—”
“I don’t want to hear any more of that shit. I want to know what you’re up to.”
Bistouri’s face went blank. He said nothing.
“You got something going on that you’re not telling me about. That’s why you don’t want me there when you meet Bryson.”
“I don’t want you there ’cause we can’t afford any more fuck-ups.”
“No. What’s the real reason? I brought you into this thing. And you took over. What’s your game?”
“I’m seeing Bryson, and you’re gonna be rich. Leave the details to me.”
Shane shook his head. He went to the window and pushed aside the edge of the curtain. “I can see your car from here. You’re not going anywhere without me.”
Bistouri opened his mouth, then thought better of it. He turned and left the room.
Chapter 44
A gloomy silence reigned in Peter’s car on the way back to SLO. It was not until they left the highway that Renata said, “What a balls-up.”
“Now there’s a British expression I know.” He shrugged. “It was a long shot. There are a lot of gray Saturns.”
“Or possibly tan. We didn’t even establish that for sure.”
“I guess your brother’s really counting on you? The pressure must be hard to take.”
“Counting on me? No, I wouldn’t say that. We’ve never been close, and this hasn’t brought us together. We had a row this morning. I went to visit him in prison, comfort him, and we ended up fighting. People keep saying to me, ‘Of course you think he’s innocent, he’s your brother and you love him,’ and I want to say, ‘You can’t fob me off that easily, I don’t love him. I don’t even like him. If he was guilty, I’d be happy to see the back of him.’ But that’s it, you see, I can say quite objectively, he could never have killed Helen Stromberg-Brand. There, now you know what a horrid person I am.”
She stopped because she was out of breath. Too much talking. Why was she telling Peter all this? She was appalled to realize that a sob was blocking her throat and tears were prickling her eyes.
Peter glanced over at her. “Hey, look. You couldn’t be doing any more for the guy if you loved him to bits. So stop feeling guilty.”
Renata swallowed hard. She straightened up and squared her shoulders. They were nearing the SLO complex. “Can you take me round to the rehearsal hall? I’m late.”
“Just tell me where to turn.” He hesitated a moment. “I’d like to stay.”
“You mean you want to see the opera? Well … I’m not important enough to merit house seats. I’ll call the box office and see what’s left.”
“Thanks. Any seat will do.”
“I’m afraid it’s rather an odd production. Like no Carmen you’ve ever seen.”
“I’ve never seen it. In fact I’ve never been to the opera.”
“Oh … you mean you want to see me?”
“Yes. I want to see you.”
“But I’m only Mercédès. Blink and you’ll miss me.”
“I don’t think I will.”
Half an hour to curtain, and final preparations were proceeding smoothly. Renata was waiting in line for her turn at the makeup tables. She was wearing her costume and carrying a Styrofoam head with her wig on it. The costume was a red poodle skirt with violently clashing purple top, fishnet stockings, and high heels. The wig was blond, a stiff 1950s pageboy. Renata assumed that the director and designer must have explained to someone why this was an appropriate outfit for Mercédès, but she hadn’t been included in the discussion.
Closing her ears to the excited chatter going on around her, she was concentrating on her role, summoning up every carefully prepared gesture. She had arrived at warm-ups ten minutes late, which was unheard of for her. Even worse, the stage manager had given her not a reproving glare but a melting, sympathetic look. Renata didn’t think she was entitled to any special consideration. She was going to play Mercédès with full concentration tonight.
But it was hard to shut her mind to thoughts of the afternoon’s events. Poor Peter Lombardo. She was certain Chase was going to grass on him. That would make for a difficult day at the office for Peter. She hoped he didn’t lose his job on her account.
Only professionalism stood between her and an utterly degrading feminine flutter about Peter. He was dead dishy, for one, with his greenish-brown eyes and reddish-brown hair. He had all the qualities she liked in journalists: a well-stocked brain, keen ear for nonsense, unassuming, humorous manner.
It was a nice change, a real breath of fresh air, to meet someone who did not think she was delusional. Pathetic. Irritating. In fact, she had given Peter good reason to lose his temper with her, and he hadn’t. Aside from sympathizing with her predicament, he seemed to like her a bit.
&nbs
p; Maybe more than a bit. There’d been that moment in the car on the way back. Ever since he’d instructed her to stop feeling guilty about Don, she had felt better. It was his stern tone that had made the difference. He talked to her the way she talked to herself. But he had kinder things to say.
A place opened up at one of the long tables and a makeup tech beckoned her. As she sat down, she noted that she was back to back with Amy Song. who was sitting at her own small table, attended by three technicians. Glancing in the mirror, Renata noticed that the Endeavor Rent-a-Car Endowed Artist was wearing breast makeup to create the impression of more ample swell and deeper cleft—an expedient Renata had never found it necessary to adopt.
The technician stood behind her, hands on hips, looking at her reflection in the facing mirror. “I’ll have to get something special to cover that bruise,” she said, and turned away.
Ray the irascible super was sitting beside her. He was wearing the khaki uniform of a security guard at a maquiladora, which had replaced a cigar factory as the setting for the first act. As a brutal hireling of American corporate imperialism, he was equipped with a large pistol, and a nightstick dangled from his belt. With his lined, ruddy face and short gray hair, he did look rather scary, and Renata complimented him on suiting the part. He offered a palm full of Hershey’s kisses.
“No, thank you.”
“A gift from the Commie, to all the supers.”
“Oh, yes, directors do tend to realize on opening night that the show is in our hands now. They start to feel a bit guilty about being so beastly to us in rehearsals.”
“I suppose he’ll be taking a curtain call hand in hand with us, all smiles?”
“I don’t know about the smiles,” she said. “In Europe audiences have been known to boo von Schussnigg. Even throw things at him.”
“Thanks, Renata. You’ve given me something to hope for.”
Her technician wasn’t back yet, and she had a question she’d been meaning to ask Ray. Since the fiasco at the motel, Peter’s ideas about Chase were beginning to seem more plausible to her. “Do you remember at the party on Saturday night, when you were carrying the drinks tray, and I came up to you with Bert Stromberg-Brand—”