by Janet Dawson
She’s afraid, Lindsey realized. Claire had boasted that her contacts in El Salvador, the Medranos, had eased the adoption, implying some circumvention of the legal process. Did Gretchen have doubts about the legality of Nat’s adoption? The pot’s boiling, Lindsey thought. I’ve turned up the heat and it’s splashing over, burning anyone who gets in the way.
The phone rang. When she answered, a man identified himself as Gary Niebuhr. “I understand you want to talk about the Dunlin case. I live in Alameda. You want to meet somewhere or come over here?”
“I’m in Berkeley,” Lindsey told him. “I’ll come there.” He gave her the address. She put the accordion folders into a tote bag and grabbed her purse.
Niebuhr lived in a Victorian-era bungalow. The retired detective was tall. He’d lost most of his hair and what remained was thin and gray.
“Thank you for seeing me, Inspector Niebuhr,” Lindsey said.
“I haven’t been an inspector for a long time. I was a captain when I retired. Just call me Gary.” They sat in the living room and his wife brought them tall glasses of iced tea with lemon. “I don’t often get calls about a cold case. How do you know Annabel?”
“We lived in the same house while we were in school at Berkeley,” Lindsey said. “Did you keep in touch with her after her mother died?”
“Not exactly,” he said. “She came looking for me when she was a teenager. How is she?”
“She had a stroke two months ago. She’s in rehab.”
“A stroke? You think of an old guy like me having a stroke, not a young woman—well, middle-aged. I know she married that fellow who runs the company now, and they’ve got some kids. Where is she? I’ll visit her.”
“I’m sure she’d appreciate that.” Lindsey gave him the convalescent hospital address. Then she removed the folders from her bag. “I’m going through some of Annabel’s papers, at her daughter’s request. I found a copy of the case file you gave her.”
“Annabel contacted me when she was a senior in high school,” he said. “She wanted information about her mother’s death, all the reports, including the autopsy. And she wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
“She wasn’t satisfied with the official ruling of accidental death,” Lindsey said.
Niebuhr snorted. “Official ruling be damned. George Dunlin murdered his wife.”
28
San Francisco, California, April 1961
She must have been a looker. Gary Niebuhr gazed at the body on the polished wooden floor. Her head lay in a pool of dark congealing blood. Brown eyes stared unseeing at the ceiling. She wore a gray linen suit and a pink blouse, both stained with blood. Her long slender legs were splayed out in an awkward posture. The corpse wore one shoe, a gray high-heeled pump a shade darker than her suit. Where was the other shoe?
China, metal and glass scattered the floor around the body. Pineapples. People collected the damnedest things. The newel post was another pineapple, smeared with blood. The stairs were covered with a carpet runner. Another shoe lay on its side, a few steps below the second floor landing.
Mulcahy, the uniformed officer who’d been first on the scene, gave the details to Niebuhr and his partner, Aldo Colluci. “Inez Dunlin, thirty-two. Sister-in-law found the body. She’s in the living room. Husband’s on the way home. There’s a housekeeper, Mrs. Lily Hsu, but she’s not here.”
“Food imports,” Colluci said. “The Dunlin Building, downtown. I’ve seen her picture in the papers. Best-dressed society dame at the symphony opening or some such thing.”
“I didn’t know you read the society pages, Aldo.”
Colluci pointed at the shoe on the stairs. “So she catches her heel on the runner, takes a header, smacks her head on the post, then hits the table? It’s damn pineapples everywhere.”
“I don’t know.” Niebuhr looked at the newel post, then the wrecked table that must have stood at the foot of the stairs. He peered at the wall, looking for marks indicating the table hit the wall. He didn’t see any. Then he knelt and scrutinized the body, looking for patterns of blood on the clothing, bruises on the skin.
They walked up the stairs for a closer look at the shoe. The heel was caught in a thread that had pulled away from the edge of the carpet runner. “Thread’s loose all along here,” Colluci said. “Accident waiting to happen.”
Niebuhr straightened. “The newel post is on the right and the table’s on the left. How does she fall, whack her head on the post, take out the table, and wind up in that position? Angle’s wrong. Doesn’t feel right. Got a hunch.”
“You and your hunches,” Colluci said. “This Dunlin guy is plugged in with the mayor. They go to the same parties. If you call this anything but an accident, you’re gonna need more than a hunch. You need evidence.”
“Give me time. We just got here.”
The master bedroom was clean and orderly, with a pristine dressing table and nothing out of place on the chest of drawers or the matching nightstands that bracketed the big bed with its carved oak headboard. Colluci opened the jewelry box and whistled. “Get a load of these baubles, bangles and beads.”
Niebuhr glanced at the jewelry, checked the walk-in closet, then walked to the bathroom. It looked freshly scrubbed, from the green, blue and white tile on the floor to the walls and ceiling. The green towels hadn’t been used and the matching rugs looked as though no foot had trod on them. “Bathroom’s clean as a whistle. Like nobody ever used it.”
“That’s why they got a housekeeper,” Colluci said.
If the woman had been killed up here, there’d be blood. Niebuhr didn’t see any. He leaned over the bathtub and ran his fingers around the drain. Dry. He’d need probable cause and a search warrant to dismantle the drain. He didn’t have either.
They descended the stairs and headed down the hall. Under the staircase a door on the right, slightly ajar, revealed a desk and bookcases. Opposite this, on the left, a door opened onto a big, old-fashioned kitchen. It was warm back here. The scent of vanilla tickled Niebuhr’s nose. The table in the middle of the kitchen held an open round tin filled with cookies, surrounded by crumbs and a glass with a trickle of milk. Surely the housekeeper who had left the master bath and bedroom so tidy wouldn’t have left crumbs and a dirty glass on the table. Someone else had been here.
The back door opened onto an enclosed porch with washer and dryer. An oval wicker basket sat on top of the dryer. The washing machine was empty, but the dryer contained blue terry cloth towels.
Colluci went out to the backyard, where a detached double garage opened onto Washington Street. He talked with a uniformed officer at the back gate and returned to the house. “Two-car garage, no cars. They got one of those electric garage gizmos, but somebody forgot to shut the door.”
“My guess is, Dunlin has one car and the housekeeper has the other,” Niebuhr said. “As soon as they get here, I want to talk with them. I’d like to know where the husband was when this happened.”
“Murder?” Colluci shook his head. “Are you nuts? Dunlin has friends at City Hall.”
“I see things that don’t fit with an accident.”
“I don’t,” Colluci said.
They went back to the entry hall. The medical examiner looked up from the body. “She took a blow to the head. As to what caused it, you’ll have to wait for the autopsy for anything more definite.”
“Time of death?” Niebuhr asked.
“Same answer, Inspector.”
Niebuhr turned to Mulcahy. “The sister-in-law found the body?”
“Mrs. Megarris, yeah. She made the call. She says the little girl, Annabel, was in the hall when she arrived.”
“Where are they?”
Mulcahy hooked a thumb over his shoulder, pointing toward the back of the living room. Niebuhr saw the woman first. Mrs. Megarris wore a green suit, matching hat perched on her blond hair. She was in her mid-forties, sharp-featured, her lips pinched together, wringing a handkerchief with her hands. A wide doorway led to th
e study, where a little girl sat in a big chair. Annabel had untidy dark hair, and she wore a white blouse and plaid skirt, knee socks and black shoes.
“Poor kid,” Niebuhr said. “What a thing to come home to. Where’s Dunlin? I thought he was on his way.”
“That’s what she said. She called him after she called the cops.”
Niebuhr introduced himself to Mrs. Megarris. “Please tell me what happened.”
“Well, I don’t know exactly.” She raised the handkerchief to her eyes. “I came over to check on Annabel, my niece. She attends the Simpson School a few blocks from here, along with my daughter Claire. They’re both nine. Annabel wasn’t feeling well. Miss Simpson called me because she couldn’t reach my sister-in-law or the housekeeper. I assumed they were out. I drove over to the school. But Annabel had gone without anyone seeing her. I came over here. I have a key. When I opened the front door, I saw my sister-in-law lying there at the bottom of the stairs and Annabel standing and staring.” Mrs. Megarris took a deep breath. “I called the police, and then my brother.”
Niebuhr made a few notes, covertly watching Annabel, who stared at her aunt as though Mrs. Megarris had told a whopper.
The phone on the desk rang. Niebuhr picked up the receiver. “Dunlin residence.” He heard background noise, no voice, then a dial tone. Was the caller expecting Mrs. Dunlin?
“George!” Mrs. Megarris swept past Niebuhr and embraced the tall gray-haired man who’d just entered the house. She put her sleek blond head against his and whispered something in his ear. Words of comfort? Then Mrs. Megarris released her brother and stepped back. Niebuhr got his first good look at the dead woman’s husband.
George Dunlin was on the far side of forty, maybe even pushing past fifty. He wore a suit of charcoal gray, tailored for his tall frame. His sharp features echoed those of his sister. He stared at his wife’s body. Then he looked at Niebuhr with eyes like chips of ice, faintly blue and devoid of emotion. Shock at the sight of his wife lying dead on the floor in front of him?
“Mr. Dunlin, I’m Inspector Niebuhr, San Francisco Police Department. This is my partner, Inspector Colluci. I’d like to ask you some questions, please.”
Dunlin gave him a flinty glare, the “how dare you question me” look. Niebuhr had seen it before, especially with people in Dunlin’s tax bracket.
A second man stood next to Dunlin. “What sort of questions?” he asked.
“And you are?” Niebuhr countered.
“Max Brinker, Mr. Dunlin’s assistant.”
“Routine questions,” Niebuhr said. “I’m sure we’re all interested in finding out what happened to Mrs. Dunlin.”
Just then a uniformed officer brought in the housekeeper, Mrs. Hsu, a small, slender Chinese American woman in a flowered housedress. She looked tired and stressed, as though her day had started early and wouldn’t be over until late tonight. When she saw the body, she gasped. Shock and fright warred on her face, then she reined it in, masking her emotions.
“Mrs. Hsu, I’m Inspector Niebuhr and this is my partner, Inspector Colluci. We’ll ask you some questions later. The little girl’s in the study. Please take her—”
Mrs. Hsu rushed to the study and enveloped the child in her arms. Annabel buried her head in the folds of Mrs. Hsu’s skirt. Niebuhr waited to see if Dunlin would comfort his daughter, but the man made no move. “Mrs. Hsu, pack a suitcase for Annabel,” he ordered. “She’ll go home with her aunt.”
Niebuhr raised his hand. “She’s not going anywhere until I talk with her. Mrs. Hsu, please take Annabel to the kitchen. Wait there until I’m ready to talk with both of you.”
“You’re not going to question my daughter,” Dunlin snapped, as the housekeeper took Annabel to the kitchen.
“Like it or not, she’s a witness,” Niebuhr said. “I need to know what she saw.”
“She’s a child. She’s had a shock,” Dunlin said. “She can’t tell you anything.”
Niebuhr looked at his partner, hoping Colluci would back his play. If Dunlin called his lawyer, questioning the kid could be a problem.
“It’s routine, Mr. Dunlin,” Colluci said. “We have to talk to everybody, to get a clear picture of what happened to your wife.”
“It’s clear to me she fell down the stairs, and you’re trying to make more of it than there is.” Dunlin scowled. “If you’re going to question her, get it over with, then.”
“All in good time,” Niebuhr said. “When was the last time you saw your wife?”
“This morning, before I left for work.”
“Where’s that?”
“I’m president and chief executive officer of the Dunlin Corporation. We have a building on the corner of California and Montgomery.”
You’re an arrogant bastard and I don’t much like you, Niebuhr thought, trying hard not to leap to any conclusions. “What time did you leave the house this morning?”
“About eight-thirty.”
“Where was your wife at that time?”
“Still in bed. She wasn’t a morning person. Her custom was to have breakfast in bed while she read the newspaper.”
“Who got your little girl off to school?” Niebuhr asked.
“The housekeeper.”
“You drive to work?” Colluci asked.
“Yes.” Dunlin crossed his legs and brushed the knife-sharp crease in his dark gray trousers. “The Cadillac outside is mine. My wife and the housekeeper drove the Ford.”
“When did you arrive at work?” Niebuhr asked.
“About a quarter to nine. I had meetings much of the day, starting at nine.”
“I can vouch for that,” Brinker added.
“Did you talk with your wife during the day?” Niebuhr asked.
Dunlin’s chilly manner slipped and he showed a flash of impatience. “No, I didn’t. See here, Inspector, I don’t understand the reason for all these questions.”
“I’m trying to establish Mrs. Dunlin’s movements during the day,” Niebuhr said. “Last night or this morning, did she say anything to you about her plans for today?”
Dunlin’s self-control reasserted itself. He shrugged. “Last night she mentioned shopping.”
“The housekeeper was using the Ford this afternoon,” Niebuhr said.
“I don’t pay much attention to the day-to-day running of the household.”
“Mrs. Hsu does the marketing on Fridays,” Niebuhr said. “And the laundry.” Dunlin looked uninterested by this domestic detail. Brinker, on the other hand, stared hard at Niebuhr. “If Mrs. Hsu had the Ford, how would your wife get downtown?”
“A cab, I suppose,” Dunlin said.
Niebuhr glanced at Colluci. If Mrs. Dunlin had called a taxi, that would be easy enough to check with the local cab companies. Perhaps one of the neighbors had seen a cab roll up to the house. Of course, it was possible she’d changed her mind about going shopping, although she had certainly dressed for an outing.
“Where were you when you were notified about your wife’s death?”
“In a meeting. Mr. Brinker was there, along with several others.”
“I called him,” Mrs. Megarris said. “After I called the police, of course.”
“My secretary informed me that I had an urgent phone call from my sister,” Dunlin said. “I left the meeting and took the call in my office. My sister told me my wife had taken a tumble down the stairs, she appeared to be dead, and the police were on their way.”
The guy had turned downright voluble, Niebuhr thought. “What time did you get the call from Mrs. Megarris?”
Dunlin and Mrs. Megarris traded looks. Then Dunlin spoke, irritation simmering under his words. “I didn’t look at the time, Inspector. I was involved in the meeting, and then shocked by the news that my wife was dead.”
“What does it matter what time it was?” Mrs. Megarris broke in.
Brinker stared at her. Niebuhr realized the younger man didn’t much like his boss’s sister. “I’m not sure of the time either, I
nspector,” Brinker said. “I was in the meeting with Mr. Dunlin. As soon as we got the call, we headed down to the parking garage.”
“We left the office right after my sister called,” Dunlin said.
“Did you?” Niebuhr glanced at his watch. “You made it in fifteen minutes this morning. Why did it take you so long to get home?”
Dunlin glared at Niebuhr as though he couldn’t believe the inspector’s insolence. Brinker, on the other hand, seemed to be expecting the question. “We were delayed at the garage. A delivery truck had pulled up to the loading dock and was blocking Mr. Dunlin’s car. The driver had to move the truck.”
Dunlin’s façade didn’t slip much, but when it did, there was a nasty temper underneath. Niebuhr probed further but elicited nothing else. Besides, he was eager to talk with the housekeeper. From the sound of it, she was the last person to see Mrs. Dunlin alive. Unless his hunch was correct and the woman had been murdered—by her husband.
“Were you surprised to learn that your daughter was here?” Niebuhr asked.
The role of concerned parent didn’t fit Dunlin. “Of course I was. A shock, to find her mother like that. All the more reason she should be taken out of here as soon as possible. This isn’t the first time she’s cut school. She’s going through a rebellious phase. She says she doesn’t like school, and wants to be here with—”
“Her mother?”
“The housekeeper,” Dunlin said. “She’s excessively attached to Mrs. Hsu, in my opinion. There will be changes.”
Changing housekeepers or detectives? Niebuhr wondered.
“You didn’t need to antagonize the guy,” Colluci said as they headed for the kitchen. “We’re walking a fine line here. He’ll be on the horn to the chief and we’ll be off this case.”
“I’m doing my job,” Niebuhr said.
The kettle on the stove whistled. Mrs. Hsu offered them tea. Colluci shook his head, but Niebuhr nodded. “I would, thanks. It’s a cold day.” When she handed him a cup, he took a sip. “That’s good. Hits the spot. Please sit down, Mrs. Hsu.”