by Sue Grafton
“She isn’t here on weekends and Andrew’s currently out of town.”
“What sort of work does he do?”
“He’s an attorney. Mergers and acquisitions. He’s in Chicago until Wednesday.”
“When’s the new baby due?”
“Technically, not for three weeks yet, but he’ll probably come early. All the other ones have.”
In the family room, a toy chest stood open, its contents flung in every direction: dolls, teddy bears, a bright yellow school bus filled with brightly painted spool kids with round painted heads. There was a wooden bench and mallet for pounding wooden pegs, crayons, picture books, Tinkertoys, small metal cars, a wooden train. A playpen had been erected in the center of the room. I spotted a mechanical swing, a circular walker with surrounding rubber bumpers, a high chair, an infant seat, and a portable crib. Every wall socket in view had been blanked out by plastic inserts. There was nothing on any surface below see-level, every breakable object removed to a high shelf as though in preparation for a coming flood.
From outside, I could hear a piercing shriek go up, this at a higher decibel level than the earlier shrieking in the hall. Amanda started screaming, “Mommy! Mom!! Heather pushed Josh off the jungle gym and he has blood coming out of his nose…”
Blanche said, “Oh, lord. Here, take him.”
Without pausing, she handed off the baby like a forward pass and waddled into the kitchen. Quentin was surprisingly heavy, his bones dense as stone. He watched his mother depart and then his eyes moved to mine. Though Quentin was as yet incapable of speech, I could see the concept “Monster” forming in his underdeveloped brain. The enormity of his plight began to dawn on him, and he pursed his small mouth in advance of a round of howls.
I called, “Can I put him in his playpen?”
“No. He hates that,” she yelled as she went out the backdoor. The screaming in the yard was taken up by a second child apparently vying for equal time. As if in response, Quentin’s mouth came open in a cry so deep-seated he made no sound at first. He curled his body inward while he gathered his strength. Without warning, he flung himself outward like a diver in the midst of a back flip. He might have torn himself entirely out of my grasp if I hadn’t grabbed him and swung him up from the floor. I said, “Wheel” as though the two of us were really having fun. The look on his face suggested otherwise.
I tried jiggling him as she had, but that only made matters worse. Now I was not only a monster, but a Monster Baby Jiggler, intent on shaking him to death. I walked around in a circle, saying, “There, there, there.” The child was not soothed. Finally, in desperation, I lowered him into the playpen, forcing his stiff legs to bend until he was fully seated. I handed him two alphabet blocks and part of a half-eaten soda cracker. The howling ceased at once. He put the cracker in his mouth and banged the letter P against the plastic padding under him. I stood up, patting myself on the chest while I moved into the kitchen to see what was happening.
Blanche was just banging through the backdoor with four-year-old Josh on her hip, his legs hanging way past her knees. I could see a lump on his forehead the size of an egg and copious blood on his upper lip. One-handed, she dampened a kitchen towel, opened the freezer, and took out some ice cubes, which she wrapped in the towel and pressed against his head. She carried him into the family room and sank into a chair. The minute she sat down, he worked his way through a flap in her tunic and began to nurse. Taken aback, I averted my eyes. I thought kids his age had been twelve-stepped out of that.
She indicated a nearby chair, paying him not the slightest attention as he suckled her right breast.
I glanced down at the chair and removed a half-consumed peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich before I settled on the edge. Josh’s medical emergency apparently entitled all of the children to escape the chill and dark outside. The next thing I knew, a cartoon show blasted from the TV set. Heather and Amanda sat cross-legged on the floor, and Josh joined them moments later holding the towel – wrapped ice cubes to his head.
I tried to concentrate on what Blanche was saying, but all I could think about was that even at my age, a tubal ligation probably wasn’t out of the question.
Chapter 8
*
I glanced at my watch, a gesture that wasn’t lost on her.
“I know you’re in a hurry so I’ll get to the point. Has Mother filled you in on Crystal’s past?”
“I know she was a stripper before she married your dad.”
“I’m not talking about that. Did she mentioned Crystal’s fourteen-year-old daughter was born out of wedlock?”
I waited, wondering at the relevance. I leaned forward, not from avid interest, but because the whistles, bangs, and manic music from the television set were loud enough to cause permanent hearing loss. I watched Blanche’s lips move, putting the sentences together belatedly like the subtitles on a foreign film.
“I’m not even sure Crystal knows who the father is. Then she married Lloyd somebody and had another child by him. That boy died when he was eighteen months old, an accidental drowning – this was four or five years ago.”
I squinted. “And you think this is somehow connected to your father’s disappearance?”
She seemed startled. “Well, no, but you said you wanted all the facts. I wanted to fill in the picture so you could see what you’re up against.”
“Meaning what?” A commercial came on, the sound ratcheted up a notch so the little children who lived across the street wouldn’t miss the pitch for a vitamin-rich cereal that was supposed to look and taste like licorice.
Blanche was saying, “Doesn’t Crystal’s behavior strike you as odd?”
I was largely lip-reading by now and her comment had gone completely over my head. “Blanche, could we turn down the sound on the television set?”
“Sorry.” She reached for the remote control and muted the sound. The silence was heaven. The children continued to sit on the floor, arranged in front of the set as though gathered around a campfire. Frantic images danced across the screen in colors so vivid they left an afterimage if I glanced away.
Blanche returned to her commentary. “I don’t know about you, but Crystal doesn’t seem at all distraught about what’s happened. She’s cool as can be, which seems inappropriate to me.”
“It has been nine weeks. I don’t think anyone can be distraught for that long. Defenses kick in. You manage to adjust or you go insane.”
“I just think it’s interesting that Crystal’s never made a public appeal for information about Daddy. She’s never offered a reward. She’s never sent out any flyers. No psychics have been consulted…”
That caught me up short. “You think a psychic would help?”
“It wouldn’t hurt,” she said. “My friend Nancy’s uncanny. She has this amazing, quite incredible gift.”
“She’s a psychic? Is that why she’s offering to consult with me on the phone?”
“Of course. When I lost my diamond ring, she was able to pinpoint the exact location.”
“How’d she do that? I’m really curious.”
“It’s hard to describe. She said she smelled something sweet. She saw glimpses of white, maybe something nautical. She did two separate… readings, for lack of a better word… and the images were the same. Then I realized the last time I remembered seeing the ring, I’d taken it off to wash my hands at the bathroom sink. I’d already searched that area half a dozen times. As it turned out, I’d set the ring in the soap dish and it was embedded on the underside of the soap, which is exactly what she smelled.”
I said, “What was the white part? Was that the bathroom sink?”
“Not in that bathroom. The sink is hunter green in there, but the soap was white.”
“Got it. What was the nautical part?”
Blanche’s tone was defensive. “Not everything’s literal. Some of the images she sees are metaphorical… you know, associative.”
“Nautical… faucet water,” I suggeste
d gamely.
“The point is, Nancy’s offered to consult with Crystal, but she refuses to cooperate.”
“Maybe she doesn’t believe in psychics.”
“But Nancy’s fabulous. I swear.”
“How much does she charge?”
“Oh, she doesn’t want money. Ordinarily, she does, but this is strictly out of friendship with me.”
“Why does Crystal have to be involved? Can’t Nancy do a reading and simply tell you what she sees?”
“She has to have access to the house so she can pick up on Daddy’s vibes, his psychic energy. I took her over to his office and let her sit in his chair. She keeps getting this picture of him approaching a house and going through the front door. Then nothing. This has to be Crystal’s beach property because she visualizes sand.”
“Could be the desert.”
Blanche blinked. “Well, I suppose it could.”
“Anyway, go on. Sorry to interrupt.”
“But that’s it. She sees a door and then blank. Without Crystal’s help, she can only go so far. We think he left the office and drove out to the beach house as usual, only something went terribly wrong. Of course, Crystal denies this. She claims he never arrived, but we only have her word for it.”
“So you think she knows where he is and she’s covering?”
“Well, yes,” she said, as though surprised I’d ask. “Nancy can feel his presence. She gets the strong impression he’s been hurt. He’s definitely surrounded by darkness. She says he’s trying to reach us, but something’s holding him back.”
“He’s alive?”
“She’s sure he’s alive. She’s very clear about that. However, she says there are some very negative forces at work. She says he’s distressed because he doesn’t know where he is. He’s encompassed by this oppressive spiritual consciousness. She can feel his confusion, but that’s as much as she gets. Nancy says Crystal’s very connected to Daddy’s plight. In fact, she probably caused it.”
“How?”
“Well, she could have knocked him out and driven him away somewhere.”
“And done what with his car? I don’t mean to argue. I’m genuinely puzzled.”
“There could have been two of ‘em. She could have hired someone. How do I know? I’m just telling you… nothing would suit her better than to have him out of the way.”
“Why? I mean, just for the sake of argument, let’s say she had him kidnapped and he’s being held against his will. What’s her motive? Can’t be money. There hasn’t been a ransom note and no contact from anyone offering to make a deal.”
Blanche leaned forward. “Listen. Before she married my father, she signed a prenuptial agreement, according to which she gets absolutely nothing if they divorce.”
“Wait a minute. Back up. You still haven’t told me how she intends to profit if she had him snatched.”
“I didn’t say she had him kidnapped. I said she knows where he is.”
“What’s that have to do with a pre-nup?”
“She’s been having an affair.”
“Your mother mentioned that as well. This is Glint Augustine?”
“Exactly. Now she wants her freedom, but she wants the money, too. If she tries to divorce him, she’ll end up with nothing. The only way she benefits is if Daddy dies.”
“Which, according to Nancy, he hasn’t done yet.”
“That’s right.”
“Why would she risk anything as blatant as an affair with her personal trainer? Wouldn’t word get out?”
“He was her personal trainer; he’s not now. Once she started screwing him, I guess they decided to discontinue the public aspects of their relationship. The rumors started flying in any event.” .’,”. “How did you find out?”
“From Mother’s friend, Dana Glazer. She and her husband have a house in Horton Ravine. Joel’s one of Daddy’s –”
“Employers. Yes, I heard about that.”
“The Glazer property backs right up to Daddy’s with just a little fence in between. They have a guest cottage back there, and Crystal asked if they’d consider renting it temporarily to a friend of hers. She claimed he’d bought a house he had to renovate and the work wouldn’t be finished until early fall. This was back in January. Anyway, the Glazers don’t use the cottage, so they decided, hey, why not? They asked eight hundred dollars a month, and the guy never batted an eye. Of course, once Dana realized what was going on, she was horrified. She found it thoroughly repulsive, which is why she hated having to tell my mom.” V “Why’d she tell you?”
“She didn’t. I heard it from another friend. Dana confirmed the story, but only because I pressed. Believe me, I don’t gossip.”
“A lot of people don’t. It doesn’t seem to stop them from passing stuff on. Why didn’t Dana evict him if she found the situation so repellent?”
“Because he signed a six-month lease. He’s gone now and good riddance. You’re welcome to talk to her if you don’t believe me. I mean, Dana ought to know. It happened right under her nose. Poor mother. She still thinks Daddy’s coming back to her. Bad enough he left her for such a… tart, but the fact that Crystal’s still doing it makes Daddy look like a fool.”
“Which leads us to what conclusion?”
“Crystal wants him dead. She wants him out of the way,” she said with the first flash of feeling I’d seen in her. Her mouth trembled and she began to blink rapidly. She looked off toward the hallway, taking a moment to compose herself. Under her maternity tunic, I saw a knot move across her lap, probably the baby’s foot. I could see why people reached out impulsively to lay a hand on such a belly. Blanche directed her comments to the far side of the room. “Believe me, she married Daddy for his money. The pre-nup was just a ploy. She might have meant it at the time, but then she ran into Clint and got involved with him. Like I said, if Daddy dies, she inherits the bulk of his estate and then she’s home free. If she divorces him, she gets nothing. It’s as simple as that.”
“Blanche, you don’t know for a fact your father’s dead. None of us know that. Even your friend Nancy claims he’s still alive.”
Blanche’s gaze swung back to mine, her blue eyes ablaze. “Don’t say ‘even Nancy’ like she’s a charlatan. I resent that.”
“Not my intention. I withdraw the word. The point is, she has an image of him helpless, but alive, at least from what you say.”
“But for how long? The man’s nearly seventy years old. What if he’s tied up, what if he’s gagged and can’t breathe?”
“All right, all right. Let me see what I can do to check it out. So far, this is pure theory, but I can appreciate the worry.”
The minute I got home, I went to my desk and began taking notes, writing down the list of possibilities for Dowan Purcell’s fate. I’d dismissed the notion that he’d been kidnapped, but maybe I was wrong. He might have been forcibly removed and carted off somewhere, in which case, he was either dead (sorry, Nance) or being held against his will. I detailed the other options, writing them down as quickly as they occurred to me. He could have left voluntarily, departing of his own accord, on the run or hiding out. He could have met with an accident while driving under the influence. If he were lying at the bottom of a canyon, it would certainly explain the fact that his Mercedes hadn’t been spotted yet. He could have been subject to any one of a number of fatal incidents: aneurysm, heart attack, stroke. If so, it was puzzling that no one had stumbled across the body, but it sometimes happens that way.
Or what? He could have established a secret life, having slipped from one persona into the next. What else? Fearing disgrace, he could have killed himself. Or, as Blanche suggested, someone could have killed him for gain, or to cover something worse. I couldn’t think of any other permutations. Well, two. Amnesia, though that felt like an old ’30s movie plot. Or he might have been assaulted by a mugger who overplayed his hand and then disposed of the body. The only other possibility was his having been arrested and jailed, but according to Detectiv
e Odessa, Purcell hadn’t shown up in any law enforcement computer system. From this, I surmised that he hadn’t been identified as the perpetrator of his own crimes or the victim of anyone else’s.
I studied the list. There were certain variations I had no way to pursue. For instance, if Dow had been taken ill, if he’d been injured or killed in a fatal accident, I had no way to know unless someone stepped forward with information. The cops had already canvassed hospitals in the area. This was one of those times when being a small-town private investigator (and a lone operator on top of that) made the job difficult. I had no access to airline, immigration, or customs records, so I couldn’t determine if Purcell had boarded a plane (or a train or a boat) in his name or someone else’s (using a fake driver’s license and a fake passport). If he were still in this country, he might well evade notice as long as he didn’t use his credit cards, didn’t rent or buy property, didn’t apply for a telephone or utilities, didn’t drive with expired tags, or in any other way attract attention to himself or his vehicle. He couldn’t vote, couldn’t do work that required his true Social Security number, couldn’t open a bank account. He certainly couldn’t practice medicine, which is how he’d earned a living for the past forty years.
Of course, if he’d cooked up a false identity, he could do as he pleased as long as his story was plausible and his bona fides checked out. If this were the case, finding him would be next to impossible after only nine weeks. There simply hadn’t been enough time for his name to surface in the records. My only hope was to plod my way systematically from friend to friend, colleague to associate, current wife to ex, daughter to daughter, in hopes of a lead. All I needed was one tiny snag in the fabric of his life, one loop or tear that I might use to unravel his current whereabouts. I decided to focus on the areas over which I had control.
Sunday went by in a blur. I gave myself the day off and spent the time puttering around my apartment, taking care of minor chores.
Monday morning, I got up as usual, pulled on my sweats and my Sauconys, and did a three-mile jog. The cloud cover was dense and the surf was a muddy brown. The rain had eased, but the sidewalks were still wet, and I splashed through shallow puddles as I ran the mile and a half to the bathhouse where I did the turnaround. The earthworms had emerged and lay strewn across the sidewalk like lengths of gray string from an old floor mop. The path was also littered with snails traversing the walk with all the optimism of the innocent. I had to watch where I stepped to keep from crushing them.