by Ron Goulart
“McCleary claims there’s nothing, outside of the usual stuff a burglar might want,” said Easy. “Nothing obvious like that is missing.”
“The old guy’s part of Beverly Hills is still moderately sedate,” said Hagopian. “Unlike around here, burglars or trespassers would stand out. Anybody see anything?”
“McCleary’s place is surrounded by a handsome jungle of weeds and LA foliage. Which not only provides good cover for any burglars but annoys his immediate neighbors. I asked the more affable ones or their servants some questions after I left him. All I found out between door slams is that no one recalls seeing or hearing anything odd.”
Hagopian yanked out a manila folder. “Suicides, July, 1965. A lot of them,” he said. “What about the two letters the old guy got?”
“I dropped copies off at a handwriting man’s, along with an authentic letter from Jackie McCleary.”
“Any chance they’re really from her?”
“To me all the writing looks pretty much the same.” Easy shook his head. “I just don’t think Jackie McCleary is still alive.”
“‘Model Takes Life In Sea Riddle,’” read Hagopian off the top newspaper clipping in the wad of them he was handing to Easy.
“That’s it.” Easy took the clippings back to the parlor and sat next to a tiffany lamp. From his coat he took a small steno pad and began making notes. After a few minutes Easy stopped and unstapled the clippings, kneeling down on the flowered rug to spread them out.
Hagopian had been sitting in the rocker, holding his bottle of beer in his lap. “Something?”
Easy reached into the parcel and took hold of the framed photo of the San Amaro gang. He fished out a couple of snapshots, then flipped back a few pages in the notebook. He frowned. “The same question comes up again. Who’s this guy?” He poked at the framed beach shot.
Hagopian came over and looked. “Jackie McCleary was pretty,” he said. “Nice willowy brunette, with that mean look in the eyes. The kind of girl I always get involved with. I even married two like that. Which guy?”
“This boyish one who’s actually thirty or so,” said Easy. “He’s got his arm around Jackie.”
“Didn’t her father give you the names of all her crowd?”
“Except this guy. He didn’t know who he was.”
“Group pictures are like that,” observed Hagopian. “Some guy walks by on the beach, runs over and cops a feel and is gone again. Wait, though.”
Easy narrowed one eye. “What?”
“I know who that is.”
“Who?”
Hagopian stood silent for a moment. “I’ll have to think about it. I’ve seen him recently I think. Is he important?”
Easy shrugged. “This group picture was taken a week or so before Jackie died. The rest of these people I have names on and, with the exception of the two who weren’t involved in the actual boat trip, they’re all mentioned in these newspaper stories. With pictures. Except for him.” He tapped the face of the boyish man again, just above the wide grin. “Maybe it’s nothing.” He grunted once, sat again next to the lamp. He wrote a list of names on a blank sheet, tore it out and flipped it toward Hagopian. “Show business people and peripheral show business people, at least back in 1965. Dig out what you can on each and get me current addresses. McCleary thinks most of them still live in the LA area. I haven’t had time to check phone books and directories yet.”
Hagopian said, “I can do that, too. Whole job might take an hour or so. Want to wait around and then have dinner? I doubt Pam will get back until late, and probably she won’t be in any mood for a quiet tête-à-tête meal. I found a new Mexican place off LaCienega, called La Causa.”
“Nope,” said Easy. “I want to drive out to Manzana and see if I can find out something about the phantom lady who booked the room at the Golden Apple Inn.” He gathered up his collection of photos. “I’ll check back with you tomorrow.” He stood. “Listen, Hagopian, bill me this time.”
“Didn’t I on that last case?” His eyes ringed. “Oh, because Pam was going to help me straighten the books out. Instead she threw the ledgers at me. A feisty girl.”
“See you tomorrow.”
Hagopian walked him through the high rows of filing cabinets. “TV Look has got me set up to interview some new gay cowboy in the morning. I’ll call your office when I’m finished and we can meet someplace for lunch,” he said. “Don’t let the parade trample you.”
“What parade?”
“I read they’re having some kind of patriotic parade out in Manzana today.”
“I won’t get there till after dark. Parade should be over by then.” He gave a loose salute and left Hagopian’s warehouse.
IV
TWO UNCLE SAMS AND an Abraham Lincoln were standing by the decorative fountain, passing around a bagged fifth of red wine. Easy drove slowly by them and parked in the gravel-covered guest lot of the Golden Apple Inn. The last of the daylight was falling away from behind the inn’s sprawl of adobe and tile buildings. Easy turned off the engine of his dusty, black Volkswagen, patted his shoulder holster and swung out of the car.
The inn was built around a graveled courtyard, spotted with dry fountains, dwarf palms and shaggy Joshua trees. Parked alongside the unlit swimming pool was a red, white and blue parade float with Manzana Loyalty Day Parade spelled out on its side in crepe flowers. The many-armed Joshuas were festooned with patriotic bunting, and little rayon American flags fluttered softly in the palms. The courtyard was sparsely lighted, and it was alternately gray and pale gold. The gold light came from the flashing neon apple hanging over the arched entranceway.
“Heil Hitler,” called the smaller Uncle Sam, when he’d finished his latest turn with the wine bottle.
Easy raised his left eyebrow a fourth of an inch and continued walking across the gravel toward the inn office.
Abraham Lincoln, a large fat man, came crunching across the gravel after him. His face was red and perspiring, and his false mole and part of his beard were slipping downward. “Where’s your flag?”
Easy waited, standing wide footed. “I always take it down at sunset.”
“Your car sticker flag I mean, peckerhead,” said Lincoln.
The two Uncle Sams were drifting over to him. The taller, a giant sad-eyed man, was tugging nervously at his white crepe beard. “Wait. We might not want an American flag stuck in a Nazi car.”
The smaller Uncle Sam cleared his throat, drank from the red wine and then spit in the general direction of the pants cuff of Easy’s $200 gray suit. “Dressed up like one of those Jewish Hollywood liberals. Come driving in here on Loyalty Day of all days without any flag sticker. Got a German-made little piece of crap of a car.”
Lincoln reached out and touched Easy’s arm. “I bet you’re a pacifist, too. Where did you serve?”
Easy grinned at the three drunks and asked, “What do you fellows do in civilian life, when you’re not in costume?”
“None of your peckerheaded business,” said the fat Lincoln as he turned briefly golden-colored.
“What I mean is,” continued Easy, “none of you is connected with the San Bernardino County Sheriffs Office, the highway patrol or any local law enforcement group?”
“We’re honest citizens of Manzana, not cops,” the heavier Uncle Sam told him. “Why?”
“I have a rule about never tangling with the law,” said Easy. He grabbed the hand Lincoln still had on him and twisted the fat man’s arm up behind his back. He bent him over and brought a knee up into his groin. Lincoln’s beard dropped all the way off and his stovepipe hat followed it to the ground. Easy clutched the howling man up and spun him into the two Uncle Sams.
All three men ended up sprawled in the gravel. The bottle of red wine popped out of its brown sack and went rolling, spilling pink froth, away toward a dead fountain.
“Now that’s all the time I have for you tonight,” Easy said.
The smaller Uncle Sam said, “We were just horsing around, f
or Christ sake. You know, razzing the city slicker. It’s a time-honored small town custom.”
The taller Uncle Sam said, “We really were just going to ask you if you could see us to a new bottle of wine. Fooling around, funning. We simply like to kid around.”
“Me, too,” said Easy. He walked away from them. In the brightly lit inn office a thin forty-five-year-old woman in a knit pants suit was standing near the glass door, biting at a knuckle. “Did those Anmar twins give you a bad time?”
Easy glanced back outside at the three men, who were getting themselves up and dusted off. “Which two are the twins?”
“Lincoln and the biggest Uncle Sam,” replied the woman. “My husband, Mr. Flanders, is off helping the parade cleanup committee, and those three wouldn’t go away when I asked them. Before you came they wanted me to let them go for a ride on Mary Jo’s float.” Mrs. Flanders smiled briefly, watching the lopsided trio leave the courtyard. She went back behind her registration counter.
“Your daughter had a float in today’s parade?”
The spare-bodied woman nodded and took a registration card from a slot. “That’s it parked by the pool. Supposed to be the Ship of State but I don’t think it looks much like a boat at all. Do you?”
“Hard to tell in this light.”
“Some friends of hers from the junior college helped to build it. My notion is they were, most of them, high on marijuana most of the time, and the whole float came out cockeyed. At least I’ve kept Mary Jo off drugs. ‘You can’t be Columbia the Gem of the Ocean in the Loyalty Day Parade and smoke pot,’ I told her.” She shook her head. “I hope you won’t get the wrong impression from those rowdies. The Golden Apple is usually a quiet and restful place.” She slid the card across the brown formica counter top.
Easy reached into the inside pocket of his coat and came out with two photos and his flat wallet. “I don’t want a room,” he said. “My name’s John Easy. I’m a private investigator from Los Angeles.” He showed her his identification. “A man named Frederic McCleary has hired me.”
Mrs. Flanders shook her head again. “The poor old man. Why did his daughter do that, do you think?”
Easy placed the two pictures on the counter top. “Were you here when the girl calling herself Hollis made the reservation?”
“I was on duty, yes. My husband, Mr. Flanders, was at a meeting of the water study group that morning.”
Easy pointed at a photo of Jackie McCleary. She was a pretty brunette, slender, about five feet seven. Smiling faintly, squinting a little in the summer sun. “This picture was taken five years ago. Do you recognize the girl?”
The innkeeper brought the photo up close to her face. “Hair’s about the same. Worn long like here.” She shook her head several times. “This is poor old Mr. McCleary’s daughter?”
“Yes.”
“At first he didn’t talk about her,” said the thin woman, rubbing her fingers over the picture. “After awhile, though, he got so lonely. Waiting all that time, you know. So he’d come over and talk to me. An attractive enough looking girl, isn’t she? Spoiled I’d guess, from the look of her. And from talking to him.”
“Could she be the one who made the reservation on the 21st?”
“I don’t know.” Mrs. Flanders pressed the photo against herself. “People can change so much in five years. My Mary Jo was a skinny little tomboy when she was sixteen and now at twenty-one, well, you ought to see her.” The photo dropped to the counter. “I really don’t know, Mr. Easy. The girl who made that reservation was only here a few minutes. She had on dark glasses. I don’t know.”
“Did she have to sign anything?”
“Not to make a reservation,” replied the woman. “She paid down twenty dollars and I gave her a receipt and penciled her onto the chart for 14B on the 24th.”
Easy pushed the second photo toward her. It was the group shot of the San Amaro gang, out of its frame now. “Take a look at these people.”
Mrs. Flanders said, “There she is.”
“The girl who made the reservation?”
“No, I mean poor Mr. McCleary’s daughter again. Right next to this puckish looking young fellow.”
“But you’re still not sure she’s the one who was here?”
“I don’t know.”
“Study the rest of the people. Anyone else you know?”
The woman brought the picture up close and hummed to herself. “Would it be this young woman here?”
Easy leaned. Mrs. Flanders was indicating a rangy brunette in a short terry robe. “Her name is Eva Lerner. You recognize her?”
“Her hair’s very much like that of the girl who made the reservation, isn’t it?”
“Is it?”
“Well, in a way.” Mrs. Flanders touched a finger to the Lerner girl’s face. “She’s wearing the same kind of dark glasses, round with thick frames.” She hummed a little more. “Still, it might also be this girl here, mightn’t it?” She tapped a tall blonde in a two-piece, black bathing suit.
“Her name is Perry Burley. Have you seen her before?”
“It strikes me there’s something a little bit familiar about her, though the hair is the wrong color.”
“You mean she might be the one who was here on the 21st?”
“The bathing suit is skimpy, isn’t it? I try to discourage Mary Jo from going around like that. We have the pool right here, though, and she points out swimming is good for the heart. I think you can watch your health without wandering around naked. Well, I suppose you’re more used to naked than I am, coming from Los Angeles.”
Easy said, “Could Perry Burley have been the girl?”
“It really might have been any one of these three girls,” said Mrs. Flanders. “Or none of them. I’m trying to be objective but my imagination keeps running away with me.” She returned the photos. “I’m not actually certain I’ve ever seen any of them. I’m sorry, because I’d like to help poor old Mr. McCleary.”
Easy asked, “Was the girl who came in here alone?”
“Yes, all by herself. Tall girl with dark hair, worn long. Dark glasses. Little short skirt and white blouse. Very simple, though showing too much leg for my tastes. Could his daughter really be alive after all these years?”
“Nobody can come back to life.” Easy turned and studied the gravel courtyard. He could see his VW, dented and dusty, sitting over in the parking area. “What kind of car did the girl drive?”
The thin woman frowned. “I can’t tell a Rolls Royce from a Volvo. My husband, Mr. Flanders, is the car expert. He even fixes ours.” She bit at a new knuckle. “Wait a second. She didn’t have any kind of car.”
“None?”
“Came in on foot. Must have parked somewhere else and taken a walk around town. People do that. Like to see Manzana.”
Easy returned the photos to his inner pocket. “The girl. Forget about the pictures. Had you seen her before that day? Is she someone who may have stayed at your inn before?”
Biting at the top knuckle of her little finger, the woman replied, “I’d say no.”
“Anything else you remember about her? Appearance, voice?”
“She didn’t say much. No, I can’t think of anything else.”
Easy drew from his pocket the envelope to the first letter McCleary had received. “I want to talk to somebody in your local post office. It was closed when I passed. Can you tell me who works there and where I can find them?”
“Why, you can talk to Mary Jo,” said Mrs. Flanders. “She works at our little post office every morning for four hours and all day Saturday. Some people don’t see the postal field as one that promises for a brilliant future, but it keeps her away from her pothead friends.”
“Where’s your daughter now?”
“She should be in her cottage, getting ready for the Loyalty Day Ball later on tonight.”
“She lives here at the inn?”
“In her own private cottage since she turned twenty. This way, her father and I
feel, she’s got the illusion of independence while still living at home. Cottage 15C, out behind the main building here in our little orchard. I’ll ring her up and see if she’s home.” She moved to the switchboard and plugged in a jack. “Mary Jo? This is Mom. No, I can’t right now. Dad’s still out with the cleanup boys.” She smiled at Easy. “I have a nice detective from Los Angeles here trying to help poor old Mr. McCleary, and he’d like to come over and talk to you. Well, maybe he can help.” She broke the connection. “You look to be trustworthy, Mr. Easy. Mary Jo seems to be having trouble with a zipper in her Columbia the Gem of the Ocean costume. Could you help her and then ask your questions?”
“Sure.” Easy started for the door.
“I’ll ring up over there every few minutes to see how things are going.”
“A wise precaution.” Easy grinned at her and left her office.
The night wind was warm and the sky clear. He strolled through the courtyard and then down a rosebush-bordered lane. Six separated tile-roofed cottages were scattered back here, surrounded by a small apple orchard. The door of cottage 15C was half-open and soft yellow light was spilling out.
A slightly plump, blonde girl looked out as Easy approached. She was pretty and wide eyed, wrapped in several yards of spangled white and blue silk. “Are you the private eye.”
“John Easy,” Easy told her.
“Come on in, Mr. Easy. Sit down in that chair there. Oh, wait, don’t sit yet.” She backed and snatched a pointed tin crown off the leather and wood chair. “My Columbia the Gem of the Ocean crown.”
“I figured as much.”
Mary Jo licked her upper lip. “I’d be very glad to help you, Mr. Easy. First, could you lend a hand with this son of a bitch of a zipper?”
Easy turned the girl around and took hold of the zipper tab she’d pointed to. The zipper ran from midback to the top of her buttocks and was stuck just below a patch of tiny brown freckles. “You work in the Manzana post office?”
“Yes. Every damn day of the week, except Sunday. Is that what you want to talk to me about?”