Pam told me what flight she would be coming in on the next day, for the funeral. We had agreed that she would travel to Minneapolis, first of all because she wanted to be there, and second, because I thought I could probably use some help in identifying the people who showed up and getting a fix on them.
“I can’t believe how hard it is to get away,” she said. “Everything’s in total chaos. People don’t know what to do. I’ll have to leave again right after the funeral.”
I didn’t guess that would be a problem, I reassured her. She sounded pretty wired, and maybe glad, in a way, that she was needed at home. I couldn’t imagine that she felt all that comfortable about spending time in Richmond’s other life.
I went to bed early and got an early start on the next day, but I might as well not have bothered. Neither the cousin nor the brother was at the mill, and, once again, the brother was not answering his home phone. I was meeting the campaign manager at ten, which gave me a little over an hour with him before I had to head out to the airport to get Pam.
– 13 –
RON Lewis seemed like a nice guy, but somehow he didn’t fit my image of a campaign manager.
For one thing, he looked unbelievably innocent. He was a youngish— about thirty-five— man of medium height, with plump cheeks, slender figure, and thin hair. His eyes were pale blue and childishly wide. He had picked me up at the motel and taken me to a place he’d heard of where we could get a “real jack and avocado omelet.”
I’m not that crazy about omelets, but he was so proud of himself for tracking down the restaurant that I ordered one.
He started talking about how anxious he was to get back to L.A.
“I feel all torn up, you know? And before this, with the campaign, I had to be all over the state. That was great, in a lot of ways, but now… I just need to level out.”
“Sure. I can understand that.” I needed to get him on the track, even if he was homesick. “We don’t have a lot of time, Lewis. I’d like to get some of your ideas on what might have been going on in Richmond’s life and in the party that could have led to this.”
He poured cream into his coffee, slowly, watching the color change. Then he added a teaspoon of sugar, exactly level.
“I wish I knew, Jake. I don’t think he killed himself. I guess you know about him and Pam. And his political career was going straight up. Straight up.” He sighed.
I was afraid he was going to start feeling sorry for himself again, so I broke in. “Pam thinks it was a political murder. You must be more knowledgeable about Vivo than nearly anyone else. Give me some of the dirt.”
He looked shocked. “Dirt?”
“Oh, come on. There must have been something, more than one something. If he was murdered, and a lot of us seem to think he was, and if the motive was political, which remains to be seen, then what was the motive, and who was motivated? You must have some ideas.”
He screwed up his face. I wasn’t sure if he was thinking or about to cry. Turned out he was thinking.
“Well, the people who would be motivated, I guess, would be his political opponents.”
I drank some of my fresh-squeezed orange juice, waiting.
“So someone either killed him because they wanted an easy road to the endorsement…” He finished his omelet. I could see that this kind of thought was tough for him. He was a manager, a salesman. “Or because he was more than just an obstacle.”
“That’s good. That’s good,” I crooned encouragingly. “More than just an obstacle?”
“What if,” he said softly, leaning forward across the table, “he was actually dangerous to someone? Like if he knew something about someone that could actually destroy them?”
“Are you making this up because it sounds like a mystery or do you actually have some idea of who that might be?” I couldn’t help it. I expected him to start talking about the Casbah.
He sat back again and sipped at his coffee. “Very funny, Samson.” I wasn’t Jake anymore. “But there was one thing… I’m not saying I really know anything about it, but he did mention to me once, he had some idea, that Phil Werner was planning to sell out to a major party if he won Vivo’s backing.”
“Sell out?” I made a quick note in my notebook.
“Negotiate. Promise to bring in a bloc of votes, and money, in exchange for some kind of office for himself. Jump the fence, turn coat, whatever you want to call it.”
“Did he say where he got that idea?”
“No. And he wouldn’t tell me. Said he didn’t have any proof. What if he got some proof?”
Yeah, I thought. What if?
I looked at my watch. We were running out of time. I needed a couple more things from him.
“Listen, Ron, I’m going to have to take off soon. Can I count on your help in this investigation?” He nodded, serious. “If you come up with anything— anything like that about anyone in the party, will you let me know?” He nodded again. “And I hope you understand I have to ask you this, but where were you the morning Richmond was killed?”
He smiled and shook his head. “I understand. I was in the Bay Area— I suppose you already know that.” I nodded. Pam had mentioned it. “I was in San Francisco, meeting with some money people most of the day.”
“Carl Maddux?”
“No, he wasn’t there. But some of the people on his recipient committee.” He wrote down their names and where they could be reached. I exchanged his piece of paper for mine— my Oakland phone number.
“In case you come up with anything. What are your plans now, anyway?”
He shrugged. He looked very sad. “I don’t really have any. I could get involved in Rebecca’s campaign. She’s operating as her own campaign manager— she could probably use more help. I don’t know. This kind of took the heart out of me, Joe dying.”
I tended to believe that Lewis was okay, but at the airport, with five minutes to go before Pam’s plane was due, I called Rosie and left a message on her machine, giving her the information she needed to check his alibi.
– 14 –
PAM looked tired. She gave me a big hug and asked if I thought we might have enough time for a drink before the funeral. I took her flight bag and told her I guessed we could squeeze baggage retrieval, a drink, and the drive to the church into an hour and a half.
“I don’t have any more baggage,” she said, “and I just feel as if I’d like to sit still for a few minutes. Not be flying or riding or moving in any way at all.”
I could understand that, although whenever I fly— something I’m not particularly crazy about doing anymore— I’m happy to get on the ground and just as happy to get away from the airport.
We found the bar and ordered a beer for me and a glass of wine for her.
“I almost didn’t make my flight.” She took her first sip of wine, sighed, and sat back a little in her plastic chair. “I couldn’t get off the phone, last night, even this morning. People calling with last-minute goodbyes, questions, regrets that they couldn’t make the trip. When was I coming back? Where was I staying in case they needed to reach me? Was there a number where I could possibly get a message today? I left your hotel number, if that’s okay. There was a meeting this morning, and there’s another one tomorrow afternoon. Noel wanted to know if I was going to make tomorrow’s meeting. I never felt so needed before, certainly not at five o’clock in the morning.” She stopped her monologue suddenly and gazed at me in an oddly helpless, bereft way. I patted her shoulder.
“I guess your people are pretty confused about who to support, that kind of thing.” She nodded. I checked my watch. “Want another glass of wine?” She shook her head. I thought the refusal was probably a good thing, since she looked ready to cry already. “So, when are you going back?”
“Six-thirty tonight.” We finished our drinks. I called the hotel. There were no messages for either of us. We went to find the car.
“I had breakfast with Ron Lewis this morning,” I said. “He told me someth
ing about Philip Werner that I wanted to check out with you.” I was driving north toward the suburb where Richmond’s mother lived. The funeral was at a church not far from her house.
“What was that?” She didn’t sound particularly interested.
“He said Richmond thought Phil Werner was planning to sell out. Did Richmond ever say anything like that to you?”
“Yes, but only in passing. He didn’t trust him. He said Philip’s candidacy was as real as Carney’s, but he said all he had was hearsay and his own intuition to back up the charge.”
“That was it?”
“That was it, yes.”
Well, the hearsay part was interesting, anyway.
We found the church with a good fifteen minutes to spare. Not exactly a miracle of detecting. There were half a dozen cops on the sidewalk holding back a small crowd of photographers and reporters anxious to get a shot of or a word with the bereaved who were being allowed in. I figured the excitement was made up of three equal parts: the local importance of the Richmond name, Joe’s way of death, and his latest role as a fringe candidate in crazy California.
The church was spectacular. It was one of those big old Episcopalian jobs. Very respectable, very High. Very aristocratic. I always feel intimidated by ostentatious displays of Christianity. The man at the door let us in when Pam gave her name.
The bronze coffin, nearly buried in flowers, sat on a platform behind and to the right of the pulpit, if that’s what it’s called in a high-class church.
I spotted Ron Lewis about halfway in, sitting near the aisle. There were two seats in back of him and we took them. Pam whispered hello and Lewis turned around. He seemed happy to see us.
What I needed was a quick course in who was who, and between the two of them I got some of the important answers before the show started. Ron pointed out the mother and wife, who were sitting a row apart up in front. Marietta was turned slightly toward the man next to her, so I could see she was still wearing her sunglasses. Emily, the grieving widow, had her head bowed becomingly.
I told Lewis I’d had the pleasure of meeting both ladies.
He said the tall, delicate-looking man next to Emily was her brother, and the man sitting next to Marietta, slouched down and barely visible, was Joe’s brother, Walter. Richmond’s father, Lewis remarked, was long dead. Right, I thought. He of the boating accident. Then there were Emily’s parents and assorted cousins on both sides.
I noticed Rebecca Gelber across the aisle and a few rows toward the front, chatting with some people in her row. “I see Gelber,” I said. “Where are the other candidates?”
Pam looked around. “There he is,” she said. “Phil Werner.” I followed her gaze. The candidate from Sacramento was walking down the aisle, alone. He was young looking, but with gray hair. Terrific bearing. Tall, well built. I guessed he was somewhere in his forties and spent a lot of time in hiking boots. He slid into a seat a few rows to the rear and spoke to no one.
“What about James X. Carney?” I rather enjoyed saying his name.
Pam and Lewis scanned the church. Both pronounced L.A.’s other candidate, the reluctant one, absent.
“You think he’ll show up?” I asked. Lewis shook his head. The priest was approaching his pulpit. “Aren’t people going to think that’s peculiar?” Pam smiled and shook her head. Lewis just smiled.
I’d attended a few funerals over the years. The thing that struck me about them was that most of the time, the officiating rabbi or minister didn’t seem to have even the slightest acquaintance with the deceased. I could understand that. I knew a rabbi once, but we didn’t like each other, and I hadn’t been near a synagogue for a long time.
This funeral was different. It turned out the priest really had known Richmond, as a child and as a man. I couldn’t imagine having that kind of stability and respectability. I also couldn’t imagine that the priest would say anything about who killed the deceased, so, at the risk of being rude, I asked another quick question.
I whispered to Pam, “Who are those people sitting with Rebecca Gelber?” There were several locally active Vivos, she said, and a couple of Gelber’s campaign workers from home. I asked her if Werner had brought any of his campaign people, and, after checking out the row where he sat, she said she didn’t think so, but she thought she recognized a local Vivo or two sitting near him.
So far I knew one difference between the candidates, besides the obvious ones of sex and geography. He traveled light, she didn’t. And Carney didn’t travel at all, not for Joe Richmond’s funeral, anyway.
The priest continued to say nice things. I used the time to watch people. Emily’s parents sat rigid, unmoving, through the whole eulogy. All I ever saw were the backs of two gray heads. Emily’s brother sat very close to her. She turned her head once to whisper something to him and I saw that she was very heavily veiled. So heavily that you really couldn’t tell just how mournful she was. Marietta, who had been leaning toward her remaining son earlier, was now leaning away from him. She seemed to be crying. I saw her poke a hankie up behind her dark glasses once or twice. Some of the cousins, also, cried.
I had a really good view of Gelber and her people. She dabbed at her eyes from time to time. One of her campaign workers blew his nose once. They all looked sad, but I couldn’t tell whether they meant it or not.
I didn’t have anything like a good view of Philip Werner. He was off to the side and a few rows behind us, and any prolonged study would have been pretty obvious and probably not acceptable behavior in the middle of a funeral. An occasional quick glance, though, caught him looking, if not heartbroken, very sober.
When the service was over, I told Pam I’d meet her at the car in ten minutes or so and wormed my way through the crowd after Werner, who was moving fast. I caught up to him just as he was starting his car. He was still alone.
“Mr. Werner,” I said. “I’d like to have a few words with you sometime today. My name is Samson.”
He nodded, pleasant but neutral. “I saw you sitting with Pam. I suppose you’re the detective she hired to investigate Joe’s death?”
“That’s right.”
He nodded again. “Catch me out at graveside, we’ll set up a time.” Then he put the car into drive and pulled away.
Pam and I caught the tail end of the procession and snaked along to the cemetery. I’d seen a few of those, too, and I hadn’t been too impressed.
South of San Francisco there’s a town with more dead inhabitants than live ones. That’s because it has so many graveyards— big ones— inside its limits. Acre upon acre, a crowded supermarket, or maybe it’s more like a bargain basement, of the dead.
None of that for Joe Richmond. Oak Grove was pretty big. I guess most cemeteries are. But it had rolling hills and old trees, big, expensive carved headstones, statues of angels hovering over the dear departed, and several large family tombs for corpses whose names anyone anywhere in the country would recognize. Mostly names connected with food, this being Minnesota. It also had, on this day, some private uniformed cops that kept the few newspeople who had bothered to come this far at a respectful distance.
The Richmond family mausoleum was nestled in some big trees, oaks, I think, and there were a lot of flowers around it. Rosebushes and a border of annuals. The roses were very well cared for. Not a sign of mildew or black spot, diseases I have been forced to think of as ornamental in my own self-reliant yard.
Joe Richmond’s coffin was sitting up on yet another platform, this one in front of the mausoleum entrance. The crowd at the funeral had been fairly large, but only a couple dozen people had come all the way out to the cemetery. There was the bereaved wife, who must have been blinded either by tears or veils, because her brother was steering her around. He looked even more delicate out of doors than he had in the church. Their parents tottered behind. Then there were a few of the Richmond relatives: his mother was still wearing her sunglasses, and his brother looked grief-stricken and angry at the same time. Two weeping co
usins stood with them.
Rebecca had driven out with her small entourage. Philip Werner stood with them, next to Rebecca.
Pam was close beside me, almost touching, during the brief service. Ron Lewis stood with us. Aside from the minister actually having known the dead man, this funeral was providing yet another first. I’ve never been to one where the deceased went anywhere but in a hole in the ground. I watched, fascinated, while they carried that expensive box into the mausoleum. Then the party broke up. On the way back to the cars I got Pam to introduce me to Richmond’s brother, Walter, and asked him if we could have a talk later. He looked at me like I’d just danced out from under a toadstool but said I could reach him at home after seven that night and gave me his phone number. I thanked him. Then I caught Werner before he ducked into his car again and reminded him about our talk.
He scribbled the name and number of his hotel on the back of a card that had nothing printed on it but his name and a Sacramento address and phone number.
“But I won’t be back there for an hour or two,” he said.
“Fine. I’ll call you then. Some time after six.” I handed him my hotel card. “In case there’s a problem.”
Pam was catching a 6:30 flight back to San Francisco, so I drove her out to the airport where we had a decent if unimaginative dinner, patted her on the shoulder, and said I’d see her in a couple of days. Then I called Werner’s hotel. He’d checked out. There was no message for anyone named Samson. There was no message at my hotel, either. No wonder the guy traveled light. He liked to make quick getaways.
So much for avoiding a trip to Sacramento.
Richmond’s brother, however, was reachable where he’d said he would be, but he didn’t want me to go there. He gave me directions to a bar he said was trendy but comfortable. I agreed to meet him there in half an hour.
– 15 –
WALTER Richmond was already there, sitting in a booth near the door, drinking what looked like a double bourbon and water. I slid in across from him, he nodded, I nodded, a waitress in tight jeans and an immense sweater appeared instantly and took my order. The place had shiny pine floors, wainscoting of the same wood, and stark white textured plaster walls. The booths were old and small, dark wood with chips and initials, and obviously came from an entirely different establishment. But the service was good, the waitress was good-looking, and the draft beer was terrific. Couldn’t ask for anything more than that. Except a prettier companion.
Suicide King (The Jake Samson & Rosie Vicente Detective Series) Page 7