The Man on the Washing Machine

by Susan Cox

  “It’s some sort of rattle,” I said, and handed it to Ben. I was more puzzled than ever.

  “I’ve seen them in Africa,” he said unexpectedly.

  “Africa?”

  “Two years. Peace Corps,” he said briefly. I waited for him to go on, but he didn’t.

  “It must be something Nicole was planning to add to the store.” But even as I said it, I knew it didn’t make sense.

  Ben was making dull little thwocks on the tube with a tapping finger, then he tugged at one end of the rattle and it popped open. A shower of rice fell around our feet. He peered inside the tube and looked up at me with a startled expression. “Not unless you were planning to feature rhino horn,” he said.

  “What!”

  He tipped the rattle and something—looking undeniably like a hacked-off rhinoceros horn—fell into his hand. He put the tube on the floor and hefted the curved horn thoughtfully in both hands before handing it to me.

  I stared at it incredulously. “Lichlyter asked—but isn’t this illegal? Isn’t there some sort of international agreement?”

  “The CITES treaty,” he said absently. He broke open another crate and found another two rattles nestled side by side. I helped him lift them out of the crate and he pried off the end caps and looked inside.

  “More of the same,” he said.

  Oh, Nicole.

  With one crate left to open we had a row of four amputated horns. Four animals had died in agony somewhere in Africa for these things to be lying on my garage floor in San Francisco. It was repulsive. From Ben’s expression, he was also finding the experience less than wholesome.

  “These aren’t yours,” he said finally as we stood in what I assumed to be an atmosphere of identical disgust. I was glad he hadn’t made it a question. He sounded furious. I shook my head. He made a neat pyramid of the rattles and the torn-off end caps. The rice and wood shavings would need to be swept into a pile. A breeze under the garage door was blowing tufts of it around already. It reminded me of something. I made a small choking noise. Ben turned around. “What’s wrong?”

  “The painter, Tim Callahan. There were wood shavings in his hand. These crates were in the attic room he fell from; he must have been looking in one of these when…”

  “When the owner interrupted him?” There was something odd in his inflection.

  “Nicole? She wasn’t a violent person.” Besides, I knew Nicole couldn’t possibly have thrown Tim Callahan from that attic window. It took a man—or a woman—of considerably more strength than she possessed. Although, as I remembered Lichlyter’s demonstration with the broom, maybe it hadn’t taken much strength to knock him off balance. And he wouldn’t have been on his guard with someone he knew. I looked around at the strange place my garage had become and at the crate remaining to be opened. I moved toward it, claw hammer in hand. I shoved it away from the wall to make the opening easier. The top was badly gouged.

  “Someone’s opened this one,” I said. “There are big splinters missing from the side.” I easily slid the top planks sideways.

  This crate contained a bonus. In addition to two more rhino horns, we found a paintbrush, stiff and crusted with yellow paint.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “I suppose I’d better call Lichlyter,” I said grimly.

  “You don’t sound too happy.”

  “Oh? I’m overjoyed about implicating my dead partner in a—a rhinoceros horn smuggling gang. I can’t believe this. It’s ridiculous.” I slammed the back door of the garage.

  “You don’t have to tell her about the rhino horn,” he said abruptly as we made our way up the back stairs. “Possession isn’t illegal; only importing it is. Once the stuff is here, there’s nothing anyone can do. It has to be stopped at customs.”

  “What kind of a protective treaty is that?”

  “Over a hundred countries signed the CITES treaty. It’s hard to get that many countries to agree on anything. The idea was to arrest the guys shipping it out of Africa and into Japan and Vietnam and wherever, to stop the trade at its source.”

  “But what’s it for?” I wailed. “Is there a hot market in San Francisco for Arab knife handles or something?”

  “Like Lichlyter said, the horn is ground into powder and used in some Asian medicines. It’s supposed to be good for fevers and arthritis and it’s a heart tonic. The Vietnamese think it’s a cancer cure.”

  I unlocked the back door to my flat. “Why ship it whole? Wouldn’t it be easier to ship as a powder and pretend it’s spices or something?”

  “Quacks have tried to pass off counterfeit powdered horn; people insist on seeing the horn so they know it’s authentic.”

  “You know a hell of a lot about this stuff,” I said sourly.

  “I’m putting together a library for the ecological center; you wouldn’t believe the things I know!” He sobered. “I know one more thing. At today’s prices, those horns are worth about two hundred thousand dollars each.”

  I thought of that row of dismal dead things, looking like detritus from a theatrical property department, and did some quick arithmetic. “That makes the entire haul worth more than a million dollars?”

  Ben nodded, looking uncomfortable.

  “Wow. Worth a phone call, anyway,” I said. “And she asked us about rhino horn! How did she know? And how in hell does this fit in with anything?”

  But Inspector Lichlyter was out of the office. I asked if she could be reached, but the voice on the other end of the telephone wasn’t encouraging. In the end, I left my name and number and a message and asked her to call. “Tell her I’ve found some rhino horns and a paintbrush,” I said. Then I had to do some fast talking to convince the cop that I wasn’t a prankster.

  “A few hours isn’t going to make much difference,” I told Ben as I hung up.

  “I hope you’re right.” He looked uneasy.

  “I’ll grant you things are getting weird, fast.”

  He took my hand in his and stroked the tips of my fingers thoughtfully. My stomach curled. God, this was getting complicated. I pulled my hand away with an effort.

  “And maybe dangerous,” he agreed, as if nothing had happened. As if I hadn’t stopped breathing. He looked unaffected, which was galling. “I wish I didn’t have to be away tonight.”

  I thought of saying that having him downstairs in the studio wasn’t all that helpful anyway, or that I was accustomed to taking care of myself, but all I said was: “Away? Where are you going?”

  “I’m flying to Los Angeles in”—he checked his wristwatch—“ninety-seven minutes. I have a morning meeting. I’ll be back around lunchtime tomorrow.” He hesitated. “I wouldn’t go, but—”

  “Of course you have to go,” I said, and tried not to sound wistful.

  “Isn’t there someone you could stay with?” he said in sudden frustration. “Do you have to be here alone?”

  “Being alone isn’t what worries me,” I said.

  But he refused to smile. “For God’s sake, be careful,” he said. And then he was gone. I couldn’t be used to having him around so I told myself I didn’t feel abandoned, even though I did, a little.

  I took Lucy down into the garden for her evening outing, carefully locking the back door behind me. The light was failing and the garden was deserted. The fire engine’s heavy tire tracks still defaced the rose garden. I expected the professor and his helpers to be cleaning up. Maybe the police had told them not to. Preventing them would practically take a court order.

  I heard Nat before I saw him; he was toying with the pendant around his neck and I followed its faint, clear chiming around a shrub to find him sitting moodily on a bench with his long, elegant legs stretched out in front of him. He was holding the pendant and swinging it in front of his eyes like a hypnotist.

  “Hey, Nat.”

  He brightened. “Hey, English.”

  “You’ll put yourself in a trance.”

  He dropped the pendant and it nestled into the pale pink cashme
re on his chest. “And do embarrassin’ things, like eat dirt or cluck like a chicken?”

  “That’s the idea—all inhibitions released.”

  “How about releasin’ your inhibitions with a drink at Chez Nat and Derek?”

  I grimaced and shook my head. “I’m going back upstairs in a few minutes, lock all the doors, bar the windows, load my little gun and stick it under my pillow, and sleep for a week.”

  Nat stirred restlessly. I gave him an inquiring look, but he only shrugged. I watched Lucy rustling in the flower bed. “Come back with me,” he coaxed. “Everyone and his brother is up in our flat. Derek is tellin’ us all about Nicole’s heroism as an activist fifteen years ago; Sabina and Helga are taking the position that activism does more harm than good, so Derek and Sabina aren’t speakin’. Haruto is suckin’ all the air out of the flat praisin’ the virtues of Asian versus Western medicine. You’d expect Kurt to be pissed off about that, but he’s just drinkin’ Scotch as if he’s crawled on his hands and knees out of Death Valley. I had to get out for some fresh air.”

  “What does Haruto know about Asian medicine?” I said blankly.

  “Turns out he’s turned himself into an expert herbalist by takin’ courses all over town and he and Derek are chewing the fat—if herbalists chew the fat; maybe they chew ginkgo leaves instead—like a couple of old cronies. Derek is ready to invest in anythin’ to make his hair grow back.”

  “Invest?”

  “Emotionally speakin’.”

  “Is that the only reason you wanted to talk to someone about Chinese medicine?” I felt relieved of a nagging little worry.

  “I wanted to make sure he wasn’t poisonin’ himself. Mr. Choy told me the things he’s takin’ are okay. They contain plenty of shou wu. Or maybe they don’t contain any shou wu. I’m unclear on the details. Whatever. He said they might even do some good. He also told me about ginkgo leaves–you cook ’em up with a bunch of other disgustin’ stuff to improve your memory. He implied mine could use improvin’.”

  I shook my head and smiled.

  “Come on,” he said. “Bring Lucy. It’s a kind of impromptu wake.”

  “I’m not in the mood, especially if everyone’s being crabby.”

  “Come with me, or I go up to your place with you and Derek tracks me down and everyone follows him and ends up in your kitchen.”

  I sighed. “Who’s there again?”

  “Everyone! Haruto of course—practically weepin’ because he’s lost all his precious compost. Sabina, too—she’s taking Nicole’s death hard for some reason and it’s comin’ out in bitchiness. She’s almost invisible under that yellow thing she’s crochetin’.” He gave a delicate mock shudder.

  “What is it, anyway?”

  “Illinois, I think. Helga suggested it was sorta shapeless and Sabina went for her throat. Let’s see, anyone else?”

  “It’s already way too many people for me.”

  “Prefer the company of one, eh?”

  “Who are you talking about?” I said repressively.

  “You know damn well. The handsome one with the earring. Where is he, by the way? I could invite him over.”

  “He’s in L.A.”

  His face fell comically. “For good?”

  “Overnight. Do you honestly think he’s handsome?”

  “Let’s say I wouldn’t throw him out of—”

  “Jesus, Nat. Give it a rest.”

  He gave me a surprised look from underneath his eyelashes, raised an eyebrow, and said thoughtfully: “Well, well, well. Today’s paper said the icebergs are breakin’ up. Spring is a dangerous time of year in the North Atlantic.”

  I concentrated on looking noncommittal. With Nat in this mood anything I said was going to get me into trouble.

  He looked disappointed. “Not playin’ today, hmmm? At least you’re over Dr. Kurt.”

  “I’ve been over him for a long time.” And as I said it, I realized it was true. My heart hadn’t been broken but my anger had been hard and real and hot. Not feeling it in the background was a relief of sorts.

  “Come on over. I think we’re all huddlin’ together pretendin’ not to care that some madman—” He abruptly shut up. “Sorry,” he muttered. “My springs are loose today.”

  “Anyone else?” I said.

  “There’s no room for anyone else,” he moaned. “Professor D’Allessio called—”

  “That’s it—I’m not coming!”

  “—but he only wanted to talk to Derek about the big secret anniversary gift, so you’re safe.”

  “Why wasn’t I invited earlier?” I said vaguely. Why did I have the feeling that I was being stupid about something? Something about Nicole and the professor? Or did mention of him remind me of something else?

  “No one was invited; they just all arrived! I was goin’ to call you when it looked like you were the only person who wasn’t goin’ to show, but if you ask me we’re all ashamed because none of us had been exactly gettin’ along with Nicole lately.”

  “I didn’t know,” I said unhappily.

  “No one wanted to upset you. Besides, if anyone had said anythin’ you’d have frozen them out. You’re very loyal. Upright, honest, and true,” he added with a grin.

  “Nice way to put it, but what you’re saying is that everyone was too polite to point out the obvious to the village idiot,” I said with a sigh.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  He called out as we walked through the French doors into their two-story living room. “Look who I found!”

  A chorus of welcoming cries greeted my arrival. Everyone was already pretty well oiled, judging by the general hilarity. Derek seemed relatively sober; at least he had coordination enough to apply a tiny screwdriver to a pair of glasses from his perch on the arm of the couch. He looked up to blow me a kiss. He looked more like the frog footman than ever.

  Sabina was sitting slightly apart from everyone else, crocheting busily. Her afghan, or whatever it was, flowed over her lap and onto the floor in great yellow waves.

  Haruto was arguing with Kurt about—saints preserve us—the compost taken by the police.

  “You wouldn’t use it on the garden anyway, after—” Kurt was saying with a distinct slur in his voice. I wasn’t so sure.

  “Another Coke, Sabina?” Nat said.

  “Sure. Thanks,” she drawled.

  “Nothing stronger?”

  She shook her head.

  He picked up some paper cocktail napkins and a couple of empty glasses and took them out to the kitchen. He was compulsively tidying up as usual. Sabina leaned over and turned on the MP3 player. Someone sang “What Becomes of the Brokenhearted.” Haruto and Kurt wrangled about whether it was the Four Tops or the Temptations. Neither of them bothered to get up and look. I knew it was Jimmy Ruffin, who was related to one of the Temptations, but I didn’t say anything.

  “What shall we do about the D’Allessios’ anniversary party?” Haruto said to the room at large as a pause in the chatter was in danger of letting thoughts about Nicole and her killer creep into the room.

  Sabina turned to me with a smile. “Theo’s here, maybe she can tell us the right thing to do.”

  “What?” I took a grateful swallow of the gin and tonic Nat handed me.

  “The fiftieth anniversary party,” Haruto said. “Do we go ahead as planned next week or should we postpone? Ruth D’Allessio didn’t like Nicole—sorry, Theo—but she thought it might be more appropriate to postpone it, for at least a couple of weeks.”

  “I guess it doesn’t make much difference,” I said with a flash of temper. “No one seems to be mourning her anyway.” My sore conscience made me angry; I couldn’t be said to be mourning her myself.

  “At least we’re not hypocritical,” Sabina said with surprising venom. But she wasn’t looking at me, she was watching Kurt.

  “I liked her,” Derek said, breaking the spell but with his eyes still on Sabina. “She’d still be coming round except—”

  �
��Go ahead, blame me!” Nat said, surprisingly not making a joke of it. “Because I thought your little friend was a bitch—” His voice wavered. He took out a handkerchief and turned it into a campy gesture, and everyone laughed, if a little uneasily.

  I started to get up to follow Nat out to the kitchen, but he threw me a wink over his shoulder and, not entirely reassured, I sank back into my seat. Derek finished his eyeglass repair and gave them to Haruto with a hand that shook a little. He and Nicole were friends and he was prevented from mourning her by Nat’s jealousy. And Sabina’s eyes were red. And Kurt was drinking in a way I’d never seen before. And Nat’s nerves were jumpy. And Helga was wearing a thousand-yard stare. No one looked particularly festive. I guess we were all mourning her in our own fashion.

  “Sorry, everyone,” I said contritely. “The last few days have been…”

  “Yeah. They sure as hell have,” Haruto said, and everyone looked relieved.

  “We could all use some chamomile tea to soothe our nerves,” Derek said, obviously trying to lighten the mood. “Remember that time Nicole made some and we decided to make rum coolers out of it? Yuk!”

  We all laughed. “I remember when she was a firebrand, not a staid businesswoman with a sideline as an artist,” Derek said fondly. “We even got arrested together in art school—man, she could get a crowd revved up quicker than anyone I ever saw! Believe me, at the end of one of her demonstrations, we all needed more than chamomile tea!”

  “I’d rather have a Valium. All this herbal hocus-pocus—medical science has come a ways since ground-up lizards,” Kurt said piously.

  “No one gets addicted to lizards,” Derek said, looking hurt.

  “Besides, medicine and surgery can’t cure everything,” Sabina purred. She laughed and one or two of us joined in a little nervously. Kurt, the surgeon, didn’t laugh.