"Garter belt and stockings," I said. "That was the look."
Susan nodded to herself and hung the jacket on the back of a chair. She scuffed off her heels and stepped into the skirt. Then she stepped back into her heels and put on the jacket.
"Everything new isn't necessarily better," I said.
Susan shook her head, took off the jacket, took off the honey-colored blouse, put on a gold necklace with some kind of amber stones in it, put the jacket back on, buttoned it, looked in the mirror, patted her hair a little, and turned toward me.
"Okay," she said. "I'm ready to go."
"So quick?" I said.
L'Orangerie had a bouquet of flowers in the center of the room that was about the size of a sequoia. Susan and I had roast chicken and a bottle of Graves.
"So has the trip been successful?" Susan asked me.
"All trips are successful when we go on them together," I said.
"Yes, they are," Susan said and gave me her heartstopping smile. "And did you learn anything that will help you find Lisa?"
"I gathered a lot of information," I said.
"Useful information?"
I shrugged.
"Don't know. You can pretty well guarantee that most of it won't be useful. This case, any case. But you can't usually know it beforehand. I just trawl up everything I can find, see how it works."
Susan carefully cut the skin off her chicken.
"Aren't you the babe that ate more Mexican food the other day than Pancho Villa?" I said.
"This isn't Mexican food," she said.
"Oh," I said. "Of course."
"We cannot spend the rest of our lives together without sex, Angel," he said.
It was the first time he'd brought it up directly. She felt her chest tighten and the sharp jab o =f anxiety in her stomach.
"We cannot spend the rest of our lives together, period!" she said.
She was wearing a plaid shirt and a buckskin skirt with cowboy boots and feeling like a chorus dancer in Oklahoma.
"We have had sex many times."
"I liked to think of it as making love, Luis."
"And you do not wish to make love anymore?"
"I do not love you, Luis. Remember? I don't love you."
"Love does not alter when it alteration finds," he said.
My God, she thought. He must have been preparing for this discussion. He must have looked that up in some quotation manual. She knew it was a line from some famous writer, but she didn't know which one.
"It should," she said. "If you change, your love changes."
"And you have changed?"
"Yes."
"I have not," he said.
He stood over her in black western clothes. She never remembered how tall he was. His childishness, his odd, sadistic vulnerability made him seem smaller to her than he was.
"I cannot, Luis."
"You cannot? Perhaps you will have to."
She shook her head stubbornly, knowing the futility of saying no in her situation but insisting on it, grimly, doggedly.
"I cannot, Luis."
Chapter 24
The morning after Susan and I came back from LA, I drove up to Haverhill, on a bright and charming spring Tuesday, to look for Angela Richard's parents.
I bought some decaf and two Dunkin' Donuts. I thought you got more if you bought the Dunkin's because of the little handles. The donuts made the decaf taste more like coffee and the weather made me feel good. Thinking about the trip to LA with Susan made me feel good, too. I'd found out some things and we'd had a good time. The things I'd found out didn't seem to be getting me any closer to finding Lisa St. Claire/Angela Richard. But I had learned when I was still a cop that if you kept finding things out, eventually you'd find out something useful, which was why I was heading for Haverhill. In my lifetime I'd had little occasion to go to Haverhill. I knew that it was a small city north of Boston on the Merrimack River, east of Proctor. I knew that John Greenleaf Whittier had been born there.
I parked out front of the public library and went in and got hold of the local phone book. There were five Richards listed. Four of them were men. One was simply listed as M. Richard, which usually meant a female. I left the library and got in my car and got out my street map book and did what I do. Three were nobody home. One was a young couple with a ten-month-old baby. M. Richard was it.
I said, "Do you have a daughter named Angela?"
She paused and then said, "Why do you want to know?"
She was a tall, stylish woman in a belted cotton dress. She had short salt-and-pepper hair and a pair of gold-rimmed glasses around her neck on a blue cord.
"I'm a detective," I said. "She's been reported missing.
"I'm not surprised," M. Richard said. "She has been missing much of her life."
"May I come in?" I said.
"Do you have some identification?"
I showed her. A short pale woman in a blue denim shirtwaist appeared behind her. She looked at me with no hint of affection.
"Everything all right, Mimmi?"
M. Richard nodded without speaking while she looked at my license carefully.
Then she said, "He's here asking about Angela."
"That's ancient history, Bub," the pale woman said. She wore her short blonde hair in a tight permanent.
"That may be," I said. "But she's still missing. May I come in?"
I gave them my killer smile.
"We can't help you," the pale woman said. So much for the killer smile.
"It's all right, Marty," M. Richard said. She stepped aside.
"Come in, Mr. Spenser."
It was a big old house with dark woodwork and high ceilings. The oak floors gleamed. The shades throughout were half drawn. To my left was a living room with sheets over the furniture. To the right was some sort of sitting room with heavy furniture and a cold fireplace faced with dark tile. There was a long sloping lawn in front, which set the house back a ways from the street. The walls were thick and there was very little sound inside the house when she closed the door.
We went to the sitting room. Marty kept her eyes fixed on my every movement in case I decided to make a grab for the silverware.
M. Richard said, "Will you have coffee, Mr. Spenser? Or tea? Or a glass of water?"
"No thank you, Mrs. Richard. When is the last time you saw your daughter?"
"Nineteen eighty," she said. "The night before she ran off with the Pontevecchio boy."
Beside her Marty snorted.
"Little Miss Round Heels," Marty said.
"Have you been in touch with her at all during that time?"
M. Richard's mouth was very firm. "No," she said, "I have not."
"How about her father?"
"Mimmi, you don't have to go through this," Marty said.
M. Richard smiled at her gently.
"I'm all right, Marty," she said. "Her father lives or lived in Brunswick, Maine."
"Address?" I said.
"None, merely an RFD number," she said. "He wrote me a letter some years ago. I did not reply. Vaughn ceased to be of any interest to me years before his death."
"Vaughn is his first name?"
"His middle name actually, but he used it. His full name is Lawrence Vaughn Richard."
"Tell me a little about Angela," I said.
"She was a recalcitrant, disobedient child," M. Richard said. "She and her father drove me nearly insane."
"Tell me about it."
"He was a drunk and a womanizer."
"A man," Marty mumbled on the couch beside her. I'd probably wasted the killer smile on Marty.
"And she was his daughter," M. Richard said. "The stress of them drove me to alcohol addiction."
"From which you've recovered?"
"The addiction is lifelong, but I no longer drink."
"AA."
"Yes. It's where I met Marty."
"And how come you've not been in touch with your daughter in all this time?" I said.
&nbs
p; "She has not been in touch with me."
"And if she were?"
"I would not respond."
I nodded. The walls of the sitting room were a dark maroon, and dark heavy drapes hung at each window. There was a dark, mostly maroon oriental rug on the floor. Somewhere, perhaps in the draped living room, I could hear a clock ticking.
"All of that is behind me," M. Richard said. "Husband, child, marriage, alcohol, pain. I am a different person now. I live a different life."
I looked at Marty. She looked back at me the way a hammer eyes a nail.
"Did you know your daughter was married?"
"No."
"You ever hear of anyone named Luis Deleon?" I said.
"I have not."
"Lisa St. Claire?"
"No."
"Frank Belson?"
"No."
"Your daughter is also a recovering alcoholic," I said.
"That is no longer a concern of mine."
"Mimmi has no interest in your world any longer," Marty said. "Why don't you just get up and go back to it?"
Marty was very tense, leaning forward slightly over her narrow thighs, as she sat on the couch next to M. Richard.
"I never realized it was mine," I said.
M. Richard rose gracefully to her feet. Her voice was calm.
"I'll show you to the door, Mr. Spenser. Sorry I couldn't be more helpful."
"I am too," I said and gave her my card. "If something helpful should occur, please let me know."
M. Richard put the card on the hall table without looking at it and opened the front door. I went out.
She said, "Goodbye," and closed the door.
As I walked down the walk toward my car parked at the bottom of the sloping lawn, a bluejay swooped down, clamped onto a worm and yanked it from the earth. He flew back up with it still dangling from its beak and headed for a big maple tree at the side of the house. I got in my car. Be a cold day in hell before I gave either one of them a look at my killer smile again.
"Vaughn," I said to the jay. "Son of a gun!"
Chapter 25
The drive to Brunswick took about two hours, and locating Vaughn Richard's address in the city directory at the Brunswick Public Library took me another forty-five minutes. Fortunately there was a donut shop in town near the college and I was able to restore myself before I went out the back road, south toward Freeport, and found Richard's RFD box, with a pheasant painted on it along the left-hand side of the road. I turned off and drove down a two-rut driveway that ran through a stand of white pines and birch trees. The driveway turned past an unpainted garage with an old Dodge truck in it, and stopped in front of a small weathered shingle house on a hillside that looked out over Casco Bay. I got out of the car. A couple of long-boned hunting dogs, sprawled in the sun on the deck facing the ocean, shook themselves awake and barked. A tall guy with a long body and short legs came out of the house and squinted at me in the near noonday sun. He had shoulder-length gray hair, and a week's growth of white stubble. His white vee neck tee shirt stretched kind of tight over his stomach and his wrinkled khaki pants hung low on his hips, below his belly.
"Vaughn Richard?" I said.
"Yeah?"
I walked toward him. The dogs continued to bark, but they were merely doing their job. There wasn't much menace in it.
"My name's Spenser," I said. "I'm looking for a woman named Angela Richard."
The dogs circled around and began to sniff at me. I scratched one of them behind the ear, and the other stuck his head in to get scratched too.
"Why?" Vaughn said.
There was the smell of booze on his breath. "She's missing. Her husband's worried about her."
"She got a husband?"
"Yeah."
"Shit, I didn't know that."
"Now you do," I said. "She your daughter?"
"You could say so."
"I could?"
"I mean, yeah, she's my daughter, but I ain't seen her in fifteen, twenty years. The old lady wouldn't let me near her."
"You wouldn't have any thoughts where she might be?"
"Hell no."
"You heard from her in the last few months?"
"'Course not," Vaughn said. "She didn't want nothing to do with me."
"She told people she'd like to find you," I said. "She doodled your name on her calendar pad."
"My name?"
"Vaughn," I said.
"Yeah. That's me. Middle name, actually. You know? First name's Lawrence, but I never used it. She wrote it down on a pad?"
"Un huh."
"Why'd she say she wanted to see me?"
"Far as I know she didn't say. People she told assumed she wanted to come to some terms with her family, maybe put her childhood to rest."
The dogs got through sniffing and having fulfilled their contract went back to sprawling in the sun. There was a sliding door between the deck and the living room of the small house. I could see a quart bottle of vodka standing on the table, and beside it one of those jumbo plastic bottles of Mountain Dew. There were lobster pots piled against the house beyond the deck, and firewood in a wooden rack someone had cobbled together out of two-by-fours. At the foot of the sloping hill a skiff jostled on a short rope against a small jetty that looked no better built than the wood rack.
"She wanted to find me?" Vaughn said.
"So she said."
"What do you mean she disappeared?"
"Her husband came home one day and she wasn't there. No note, nothing. She was gone."
Vaughn frowned. "You a cop?"
"Private," I said.
"Her husband hire you?"
"Yes."
Vaughn had a prominent lower jaw and he shoved it out now so that he could chew on his upper lip with his lower teeth.
"You think she run away?"
"I don't know. Her purse is gone. And the clothes she was wearing. Nothing else. She didn't take any money out of the bank. There haven't been any ATM transactions. She hasn't used her credit cards."
"You think something bad might have happened?"
"I don't know what happened," I said.
"Shit, I wouldn't want nothing bad to happen to her."
"That's nice," I said.
Vaughn's eyes looked a little moist.
"Well, I wouldn't. I ain't seen her awhile. But shit, she is my little girl, you know. I had her with me for a while, 'fore the old lady got the cops on me, wouldn't let me keep her."
"And you been a regular busy beaver ever since trying to stay in touch," I said.
"I never knew where she was," he said. "I didn't know she wanted to see me."
His eyes were squinched up and he was actually crying. Tears and everything.
"I didn't know," he said.
I'd have been touched if I hadn't smelled his breath and seen the vodka on the table. I'd seen too many crying jags by too many drunks to be impressed with Vaughn. It was the kind of sorrow another vodka and Mountain Dew would fix right up. On the other hand, I saw no need to mention that his son-in-law had been shot.
"Ever hear of anyone named Luis Deleon?" I said.
Vaughn shook his head.
"Frank Belson?"
He shook his head again.
"Elwood Pontevecchio?"
"What kinda name is that?" Vaughn said.
"Ever hear of him?"
"No."
"Lisa St. Claire?"
"No."
"Ever talk with Angela's mother?"
"Hell no."
"What do you do for a living up here?" I said.
"Lobster a little. Some firewood. Mow some hay. Unemployment. I make out."
"You have no idea where your daughter might be?"
"No."
He was talking all right now. His grief seemed to have subsided.
"What are the dogs' names?" I said.
"Buster and Scout. Buster's the one with the white on his face."
"They hunt?"
"Sure. Good hunters.
Put some nice birds on the table in season."
I gave him my card.
"You hear anything, think of anything, get in touch with me. There may be a reward."
He nodded. I had made up the reward part, but I didn't want to depend too heavily on father love.
"You find her, you tell her where I am," he said. "Tell her I love her."
"Sure," I said. "I'll do that."
He was starting to tear up again. I got in my car and backed around and headed out his driveway. I could see him in the rearview mirror, standing on the deck watching me. Then he turned and went through the sliders back into his house. Vodka and Mountain Dew. Jesus!
Chapter 26
Chollo showed up at my office on Thursday morning. I told him what I was doing on the ride up to Proctor. If he found any of it interesting, he didn't say so. We got out of the car in front of Club del Aguadillano at 11:30 on a rainy April morning. There were three cars in the parking lot. Frost heaves had buckled the hot top years ago and weeds grew vigorously up through the cracks. The club itself was a cinder-block building, with a flat roof. The sign above the glass double doorway spelled out the name of the place in flowing pink neon script. On either side of the doorway someone had planted small evergreens in wooden tubs. The evergreens had never gotten big and now stood spindly and bare of needles in the spring rain. A blue Dumpster, overflowing with green garbage bags, stood at the corner. A railroad tie served as a step for short janitors. Beyond the club, the river ran a sullen gray, pocked by the rain and blotched with clusters of yellowish foam. From upstream, out of sight around the bend, came the unremitting sound of the falls. And from the club came the sound of salsa music.
Chollo stared at the club. He was slender and relaxed, with black hair to his shoulders, and a diamond earring. His thin dark face was more Indian than Spanish. He wore a black silk-finish raincoat, belted at the waist, the collar up.
"You fucking Yankees know how to do ugly," Chollo said. "I'll give you that."
"Hey," I said. "This is an Hispanic joint."
"It's Yankee Hispanic," Chollo said. "You could have more fun at the podiatrist."
"We're not here for fun," I said.
"That's good," Chollo said.
We went in. The room was brightly lighted, painted pink, and full of small tables and rickety chairs. The juke box was loud. There was a bar across the far end. Behind the bar was a huge bartender with thick forearms, a big belly, and a bald head. As he moved down the bar toward us, I could see the sawed-off baseball bat stuck in his belt slanting across the small of his back. He didn't took at me. He spoke to Chollo in Spanish.
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