Mermaid

by Margaret Millar

  “Glad to hear it. Now I have to—”

  “George’s weakness was blondes. Any size, any age.”

  “—leave. Goodbye. Keep up the good work.”

  “What good work? What’s the matter with you, junior?”

  He stepped into the elevator and the door clanged shut.

  “Don’t you want to hear about George?”

  “Later,” Aragon said. Much much later.

  When he returned to his car he saw that the lid of the trunk was not completely closed. There were no signs of forced entry and everything was still inside: a box of tools; a nylon jacket belonging to his wife, Laurie; a first aid kit; his beach shoes, the soles encrusted with tar; and an orange that had rolled out of its bag when he’d bought groceries a few nights before. That was the last time he’d had occasion to use the trunk.

  He tried unsuccessfully to close the lid. Then he saw what was keeping it partly open. A large wad of chewing gum had been pushed into the lock.

  Aragon thought of the desperation on Donny Whitfield’s face when they met at Holbrook Hall that morning and it was suddenly clear what had happened. Donny had used the keys, inadvertently left in the ignition, to open the trunk. Then he’d replaced the keys and hidden himself in the trunk. The wad of chewing gum forced into the lock kept the lid from closing tightly and allowed Donny to es­cape.

  Some people would do anything to get off their diets.

  8

  The plane from Sacramento arrived at twilight. Though Hilton Jasper sat in one of the rear seats, he let all the other passengers get off before him. He didn’t want to go back to a house without Cleo, without Ted. From the win­dow he could see Frieda waiting for him at the gate, pac­ing up and down with quick little steps that indicated her impatience. She was always impatient, impatient for night to fall, impatient for morning to begin, impatient to drive him to the airport, to drive him home again. The world moved too slowly for Frieda. She wore herself out trying to hurry it along.

  The flight attendant handed him his briefcase. “We’re here, Mr. Jasper.”

  “Yes. Thanks.”

  “Unless you want to go back to Sacramento with us—”

  “I think not.”

  He stepped out of the plane and Frieda came hurrying to meet him. She took the briefcase out of his hand. It was probably meant to be a loving gesture but there was no love in it. She said, “Everyone got off before you. I thought you might have missed the plane.”

  “Someone has to be last.”

  She frowned, as though she was trying to understand this odd bit of philosophy. Frieda was always the first on a plane and the first off. It was as natural to her as any ordinary bodily function.

  “You look tired,” she said. “Cook made you a lovely din­ner. It will take only three or four minutes to heat it up in the microwave.”

  “I’m not really hungry, Frieda.”

  “Of course you’re hungry,” Frieda said in a tone that meant he damned well better be hungry because she was. “And it’s especially important that you have a good meal tonight.”

  “Why?”

  “Mr. Aragon is coming over at nine. He has something to tell you . . . Now please don’t get excited, Hilton. The doctor warned you to take it easy. Cleo is all right. She’s not dead or injured or any of the dozen things you imag­ined. I repeat, she’s all right. Apparently she just doesn’t want to come home.”

  “Because of Ted—that terrible scene—”

  “For God’s sake, let’s not go into that again. Her deci­sion to leave very likely had nothing to do with Ted. Per­haps she’s been planning it for a long time. The girl never confided in me. I never knew what was going on in that head of hers. When I asked her anything personal she’d just stare at me with those funny eyes—”

  “Be quiet, Frieda.”

  They drove home in silence, and they ate in silence in a small alcove off the kitchen which had a view of the moun­tains. As the sun set each night the mountains gradually turned from violet to midnight blue and finally disap­peared. Lights were springing up along the foothills like strings of Christmas decorations.

  Frieda served the meal herself. The only live-in maid, Valencia, had gone to her room to watch television, or whatever maids called Valencia did in their rooms. Frieda had never bothered to find out. She felt reasonably sure, however, that the woman, who spoke little English, would not be eavesdropping like the cook or intruding to express an opinion like Lisa, the college girl who served dinner.

  “I hate these silences,” she said finally. “They’re mean, hostile. Can’t you think of anything to say?”

  “Nothing you’d want to hear.”

  “All right, I’ll say something and you won’t want to hear it either. Ted came to pick up his things this morning. I gave him some money. Don’t worry, it was from my own bank account.”

  “Your own bank account came from my own bank ac­count. And I specifically asked you not to give him any money.”

  “You commanded me not to.”

  “But you did anyway.”

  “He’s my son. You treated him unfairly, cruelly.”

  “He did something unforgivable. If it weren’t for that, Cleo would be at home right now, safe and secure.”

  “And you know where we’d be, Hilton? Right here with her for the next ten, twenty, thirty years like the last four­teen, babysitting a girl who’s never shown the slightest shred of gratitude, who doesn’t even like us.”

  He dropped his fork on the plate and spit the food from his mouth into a napkin. She knew she had hit him hard and she was almost but not quite sorry that she was going to hit him again.

  “If Cleo walked in the front door this very minute,” she said, “I’d walk out the back. And you and Cleo could live happily ever after.”

  “What are you implying, you bitch?”

  “I’m not implying anything. I’m stating it outright. You and Cleo can live happily ever after as far as I’m con­cerned. I don’t want to be around.”

  “By God, you are a bitch.”

  “It took fourteen years of Cleo to make me one.”

  Outside, the dog Zia had begun to bark, a deep-throated menacing bark incongruous for his size. He paused now and then as if to gauge the effect of his threats, and during these pauses a car engine could be heard.

  Hilton got up so fast he almost knocked the table over, and he reached the front door at the same time as Aragon.

  “Have you found her?”

  “No,” Aragon said. “But I’m pretty sure she’s all right.”

  “Thank God for that. Come in. Come in and tell me about it.”

  They went down the long galleria to the kitchen. Frieda had cleared the dishes off the table and was pouring herself a cup of coffee. She didn’t offer any to either of the men.

  Aragon sat across the table from Hilton Jasper and began to talk. “For the past few months Cleo has been counseled at school by a man named Roger Lennard. He’s in his early thirties and has the reputation of being very conscientious in his work. He evidently gave Cleo some new ideas about herself and indicated some possibilities for her future. At any rate, he and Cleo became involved emo­tionally. I won’t say romantically, because Lennard is a homosexual.”

  Jasper made a strange choking noise as if he had some­thing stuck in his throat. “And she’s with him?”

  “They’re going to be married. Perhaps they already are.”

  “Cleo doesn’t even know what a homosexual is,” Jasper said. “She doesn’t really know what marriage is.”

  Frieda spoke for the first time. “She’s not the innocent little angel my husband imagines she is. He never let me tell her the facts of life. He said she was too young, too simpleminded. I didn’t insist. I assumed they took care of these matters at school. She was certainly no innocent. I know that from�
�—she gave Hilton a long meaningful stare—“from experience . . . Don’t we, Hilton?”

  “Please don’t interrupt, Frieda.” And to Aragon: “Tell me more about this Roger Lennard. Where does he live?”

  “In a mobile-home court down near the beach. It was one of his neighbors who told me about the impending marriage. Lennard asked permission to have his wife come to live in the unit he rented.”

  “He must be a real prize, a counselor in a school like Holbrook making a play for one of his students.”

  “Mrs. Holbrook thinks very highly of him.”

  “Then she’s evidently a poor judge of people.”

  “Just who made a play for whom?” Frieda said. “That’s what I’d like to know.”

  Jasper went over and put his hand on her shoulder. “You appear tired, Frieda. Perhaps you should go to bed.”

  “I don’t want to go to bed.”

  “I suggest you reconsider.” He pressed his hand down hard on her shoulder. “You want to appear all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed tomorrow at breakfast the way you usually are, don’t you?”

  “I’m glad she’s gone. You hear that, Hilton? I’m glad. She’s ruined enough of my life.”

  “You’d better go to bed.”

  “Let her ruin somebody else’s.”

  Aragon watched her leave, her heels clicking decisively on the tile floor. It was the first time he’d thought of Cleo as a ruiner, a destructive force, more of a victimizer than a victim.

  “Forgive my wife,” Jasper said quietly. “This business has put a severe strain on both of us. Frieda is just as de­voted to the girl as I am.”

  He didn’t sound convinced or convincing and seemed to realize it. He let the subject drop abruptly, as though he’d picked up a rock too hot and heavy to handle.

  Aragon rose, ready to leave. “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to solve your problem, Mr. Jasper, but this is the end of the line for me.”

  “Where’s Cleo?”

  “I made it clear that I don’t know.”

  “Then you haven’t done what you were hired to do,” Jasper said. “Cleo must be found and rescued.”

  “By ‘rescued’ you mean brought back here?”

  “Yes.”

  “The law is pretty specific about kidnapping.”

  “Use persuasion.”

  “I’m afraid Roger Lennard has already used persuasion.”

  “She must be rescued,” Jasper repeated. “It’s not the homosexual part that worries me most. It’s the fact that he’s a fortune hunter. Cleo will come into her grand­mother’s full estate when she’s twenty-five. A great deal of money is involved. Cleo is vaguely aware of this, certainly aware enough to have told Roger Lennard about it. But I’m sure she has no idea about the California community property laws or anything involving money. A million dol­lars in the bank isn’t as real to her as a crisp new ten-dollar bill. If someone grabbed the ten-dollar bill from her, she’d resent it and try to get it back or else come crying to me for another one. But a million dollars that she can’t see or feel or buy candy with is nothing to her. To Roger Len­nard it’s everything. He may even be faking a few love scenes. The thought of it makes me sick.”

  He looked sick. His face had a waxen pallor and there was a fringe of moisture across the top of his forehead. Ara­gon had acquired a minimal knowledge of medicine from his wife, Laurie, and Jasper appeared to him like a man set up for a heart attack. A big man, an ex-athlete, overweight, with a sedentary job and under a heavy strain, he was programmed for one. Whether it happened or not was a mat­ter of luck, good or bad.

  Jasper said, “That bastard Lennard is going to regret this. He’ll wish he had stayed in the closet with the door deadlocked!”

  “I advise you to wait for the facts before you take any action.”

  “Then get the facts.”

  “I’m not trained in police work, or psychology either, for that matter. I don’t know where to go from here.”

  “You got this far. Keep going. If you won’t, I will.”

  “Stay out of it personally, Mr. Jasper, at least until you—”

  “Cool down? I don’t cool easily.”

  It wasn’t exactly news. The blood had come rushing back into Jasper’s face and he looked ready to burst his skin. He slapped his hand fiat against the table.

  “When I get through with that bastard,” he said, “he’ll be lucky to get a job as a dishwasher. He’s contemptible, a man without moral decency, to take advantage of a girl like Cleo entrusted to his care. God knows what romantic notions he put into her head.”

  Aragon knew of only one notion, and not by the wildest stretch of the imagination could it be called romantic. He remembered almost precisely the words she’d used on her visit to his office: “My new friend says I got rights, I can do what other people do, like vote.” Vote. Lennard’s approach was certainly unique.

  “I’ll do the best I can, Mr. Jasper. But don’t expect mir­acles. Both people involved, Lennard positively, Cleo prob­ably, must be aware that they’ve asked for trouble.”

  “I don’t expect miracles. I expect results. Go back to where Lennard’s been living, examine his personal effects, his correspondence, bank accounts if any, even the books he reads.”

  “You’re asking me to break in.”

  “No. We won’t call it that.”

  “Others will. Gaining entry to Lennard’s place would require a search warrant issued by a judge to a policeman under circumstances strongly suggesting a crime. I don’t meet any of these conditions.”

  “I have connections.”

  “Don’t try to use them. You’ll cause difficulty for both of us if you do.”

  “Very well.”

  “I take that as a promise, Mr. Jasper.”

  “It’s a promise I may not be able to keep. If I should happen to see them walking past my office building, I’ll knock the hell out of—”

  “It’s a long way from Hibiscus Court to the Jasper building. However, I think they’re still in the city. Otherwise Lennard wouldn’t have asked permission for his bride to come and live in the court with him. There’s another fact: Lennard has a job to keep.”

  “That’s what he thinks,” Jasper said. “As of tomorrow morning Lennard’s name will be off the school payroll and the salary for the two weeks’ notice he’s entitled to will be mysteriously delayed or lost in the mails. The facts sur­rounding his dismissal will be available to any prospective employer. Let’s see how romance thrives on a little adver­sity.”

  “Sometimes it does, Mr. Jasper.”

  Jasper refused to consider this. “It will be three years be­fore Cleo comes into her fortune. I confidently predict that by that time Roger Lennard will be long gone and forgotten and Cleo’s estate will have a conservator.”

  “Your second prediction may come true but I wouldn’t bet on the first one.”

  “He will be gone and forgotten,” Jasper repeated with grim satisfaction.

  When the two men parted, Jasper didn’t offer to shake hands. It was a bad sign, a symptom, Aragon thought, of the paranoia often afflicting rich men, that people who didn’t agree with them were against them.

  Aragon unlocked the door of his car. Donny Whitfield’s morning escapade had taught him to take more sensible precautions against chewing gum in the trunk lock. The gum was still there. He was about to get into the car when he heard a soft, tentative voice from the other side of the eugenia hedge:

  “Señor?”

  He replied in Spanish. “What are you doing over there?”

  “Waiting to talk to you. Most privately.”

  “All right, get in and we’ll go to the end of the drive­way. The Jaspers are probably waiting to hear my car leave.”

  She got into the front seat, a short, plump woman wear­ing what seemed to be sever
al layers of dark clothing. She smelled of oregano.

  He said, “You’re Valencia?”

  “Yes. Valencia Ybarra.”

  “I’m Tomás Aragon. I’m looking for Cleo.”

  “I know. I heard. I hear things they don’t want me to. They think because I don’t speak good English I don’t understand, so they ignore me like a dog.”

  He parked on the street below and turned off his head­lights.

  “It’s not so good talking here. The police are always driving past. I’m afraid they might arrest us.”

  “What for?”

  “They don’t need a reason when you’re Chicano in a rich neighborhood. Chicanos are suspicious characters. How about we go and get some pizza?”

  “Pizza?”

  “Pepperoni. The food they serve in the house is so taste­less I am always hungry. Are you hungry?”

  “Yes.” He couldn’t remember eating dinner.

  “The pizza parlor is nearby, only about five blocks. I’m not dressed to go in but you could go in and bring some­thing out for me.”

  If pepperoni pizza was the asking price for some inside information, he was willing to pay it.

  As they ate he thought of Donny Whitfield. The boy had had nearly twelve hours of non-diet by this time and had probably used every minute to advantage.

  “So you hear things, Valencia?”

  “Many.”

  “Why did Cleo run away?”

  She was amazed by the question. “To get a man. Why not? That is natural. They would never allow her to get a man, especially the señor. He treated her like a little girl and she behaved like a little girl. But not always. Ho, ho, not always.”

  “What’s the ‘ho, ho’ about?”

  “I am thirsty. A large Coke would soothe my throat.”

  Aragon provided the large Coke and waited.

  “The night before she left,” Valencia said, “Ted came home. It was late, everybody was in bed. She and Ted got together.”

  “What do you mean, they got together?”

  “You don’t know? How old are you anyway?”

  “All right, all right, I know. But Ted is her nephew. They’re blood relatives.”