by Sue Grafton
She nodded solemnly, her eyes huge.
I wrote down, Dead man in daughter’s bed, but I wasn’t really sure what to ask next. So many questions crowd about when someone says something like that. “Do you know the man?”
“Oh, yes. It’s Gerald,” she said.
I noted the name. “Your husband?”
“My lover,” she said. “I’m divorced.”
“And where is your daughter at this point?”
“She’s with him. My husband. But she’s probably on her way home. He really isn’t supposed to take her on weekdays. It says so in my decree, but he’s been out of town and I thought it was all right. Just this once.”
“I’m sure it is,” I said, hoping to reassure her on this one small point. “And when did you notice”—I checked my notes—“Gerald?”
“This morning at about six. Well, closer to ten of, actually.”
“What kind of dead is he?”
“What?”
“I’m wondering if you noticed the cause of death.”
“Oh. Yes, I did. He was shot.”
I waited for her to go on, but she didn’t. “Where?”
She pointed to her heart.
I made another brief note. This was like pulling teeth. “And you’re sure he was dead?”
“I’m not positive,” she replied uneasily. “But he was cold. And stiff. And he didn’t breathe at all.”
“That should cover it,” I said. “What about the weapon?”
“A gun.”
“You saw it?”
“It was right on the bed beside him.”
“Do you happen to know the make?” I thought the technicalities would throw her, but she perked right up.
“Well, it’s a little High Standard two-shot derringer, a .22, with dual barrels and double action, so it’s safety-engineered. I mean, it can’t fire accidentally, even if it’s dropped. And let’s see. It’s polished nickel with black grips and it’s just about that wide,” she said, holding her thumb and index finger about an inch apart.
I was staring at her. “The gun is yours?”
“Of course. I just bought it last week. That’s why I was so upset when I realized he’d been shot with it. And right in Althea’s bed. She’s only four, but she’s big for her age. She takes after my ex-husband’s side of the family.”
I really didn’t think we’d exhausted the matter of Gerald quite yet. “Why did you buy a gun?”
“It was on sale. Half off.”
“Is that what you told the police?” She paled and I didn’t like this new expression on her face. “You did call the police, didn’t you? I mean, when you discovered that Gerald was dead?”
“Actually, I didn’t. I know I should have, but I didn’t think anyone would believe me because we quarreled last night and I walked out. I never lose my temper, but I just blew my stack. I stood there and screamed at him. It was awful. I told him I’d kill him. I actually said that. Then I burst into tears and ran out the door and drove around all night.”
“Did anyone hear you make this threat?”
“Just the neighbors on both sides.”
I had a strong desire to groan, but I repressed the impulse. “I see. And what did you do besides drive around all night? Did you talk to anyone? Can anyone verify your whereabouts for the time you were gone?”
“I don’t think so. I just drove. I was trying to work up the nerve to kick him out. We’ve been living together for about six months, and it’s been heaven. Just wonderful. I can’t think when I’ve been happier.”
“Usually people don’t get killed when things are that good,” I pointed out.
“I know, then I found out he’d been cheating on me with a woman right in the same apartment building, which is what made me see red. I was a basket case. I really was. Can you believe it? The man has borrowed thousands of dollars from me and then to find out he was f— Well, doing you-know-what with Caroline.”
“And you knew nothing about it until last night?”
“No, no. I found out about Caroline weeks ago. I won’t even tell you about the scene I had with her. It was horrible. She was so hysterical, she moved out. I don’t know where she went, but good riddance.”
“Had Gerald ever done this before?”
“Cheat? I’m not sure. I suppose so. Actually, he has. I know he’s been involved with dozens of women. Gerald was a bit of a Don Juan. He cheated incessantly from what he said, but I never thought he’d do it to me.”
“What was the attraction?” I asked. I’m always curious about women who fall in love with bounders and cads.
“Gerald is—”
“Was,” I reminded her.
“Yes. Well, he was very good-looking and so . . . I don’t know . . . tenderhearted. It’s hard to explain, but he was very loving and sentimental. Such a romantic. I adored him. Really.”
She seemed on the verge of tears and I allowed her a few moments to compose herself.
“What did you quarrel about last night?”
“I don’t even remember,” she said. “We went out to have a drink and one thing led to another. We got into some silly argument at the bar and next thing you know, the whole subject of his past came up—this woman Lorraine he was crazy about years ago, Ann-Marie, Trish, Lynn. He kept talking about how wonderful they were. He got ugly and so did I. We came back to the apartment and things just went from bad to worse. I had to get out of there so I left. When I came back this morning, I thought he was gone. Then I noticed Althea’s bedroom door was ajar and there he was. Right in her bed, like Goldilocks.”
“What was he doing in her room?”
“Well, I’d locked him out of mine. He kept banging on the bedroom door, insisting that I let him in, but I refused. I told him if he so much as set foot in there again, I’d blow his ba— I indicated I’d injure him where it counts. Anyway, it looks like he took a glass and a bottle of bourbon into her room and drank ’til he passed out. I waited until I could hear him snoring and then I unlocked my bedroom door and slipped out the front. When I came back this morning, I could see he was still stretched out on Althea’s bed. I stood in the doorway and told him he’d have to move out. I thought he was listening to me, of course, just pretending to be asleep, but when I finished and he didn’t say a word, I got furious and started shaking him. That’s when I realized he was dead, when I pulled the covers down and saw all the blood.”
I was taking notes as fast as I could and I didn’t realize she’d stopped. When the silence stretched, I glanced up at her. She was beginning to dissolve, her mouth trembling, eyes brimming with tears. “Take your time,” I murmured.
“Well,” she said. She fumbled in her handbag for a tissue and dabbed at her eyes. She blew her nose and took a deep breath. “Anyway, when I saw the gun on the bed, I just did the first thing that occurred to me.”
I could feel my heart sink. “What was that?”
“I picked it up.”
“Mrs. Culpepper, you shouldn’t have done that. Now your fingerprints are on the gun.”
“I know. That’s why I put it right back down and left. My goodness, I was so upset.”
“I can imagine,” I said. “What next?”
“Well, I got in my car and drove around some more and then I stopped and looked up your number in the phone book and came here.”
“Why me?” I said, trying not to sound plaintive.
“You’re a woman. I thought you’d understand. I’ll pay you anything if you’ll help me straighten this out. I mean, if you could explain it all to the police . . .” She twisted the tissue, looking at me helplessly.
My eyeballs were starting to bulge with pain. I wanted an Alka-Seltzer in the worst kind of way. I slid my desk drawer open a crack and spied a packet. I wondered what would happen if I opened the foil and slipped an Alka-Seltzer onto my tongue like a Necco wafer. I’ve heard it kills you to do that, but I’m not sure it’s true. The rumor circulated through my grade school one year, along with
the yarn about the mouse tail that showed up in a bottle of soda pop. I’ve been uneasy about pop bottles ever since, but who knows how stories like that get started.
I tried to bring my battered intelligence back to the matter at hand. I knew I was secretly hoping to avoid dealing with Emily Culpepper’s problem, which was a whopper.
“Emily . . . May I call you Emily?”
“Please do. And I’ll call you Kinsey, if that’s all right.”
“Perfect,” I said. “I think what we should do at this point is deposit you in the offices of a friend of mine, an attorney right here in the building. While you’re bringing her up to date, I’ll take your keys and go over to your place and check this out and then I’ll call the cops. They’ll want to talk to you, of course, but at least they’ll be forced to do it in the presence of legal counsel.”
I made a quick call to Hermione, apprising her of the situation, and then I walked Emily Culpepper across the hall and left her there, taking her house keys with me as I headed down the back stairs to the municipal lot where my VW was parked.
IT WAS “WINTER” in Santa Teresa, which is to say California at its best. The day was sunny, the town lush and green, the ocean churning away like a washing machine on the gentle cycle. While most of the country endured rain, sleet, hail, and snow, we were in shirtsleeves and shorts playing volleyball at the beach. At least, some people were. I was on my way out to Emily Culpepper’s apartment building, reciting to myself a litany of the troubles she had brought down on herself. Not only had Gerald been shot with her little derringer, but she’d picked the damn thing up, thus (probably) smudging any latent prints and superimposing a clear set of her own. And then, instead of calling the cops right away, which at least would have made her look like a conscientious citizen, she’d run! The whole situation was so damning, I wondered if she was setting me up, providing herself with an elaborate (though preposterous) alibi of sorts. Maybe she’d actually killed him and had cooked up this bizarre tale to cover her tracks. Her behavior throughout had been so dumb, it might almost pass for smart.
The address she’d given me was on a shady side street not far from downtown Santa Teresa. There were twenty apartments altogether, ten down, ten up, arranged in a square. The building was done in that mock Spanish style so prevalent out here: red tile roof, whitewashed stucco walls, arches, and a central courtyard with a fountain in the center. Emily’s apartment was number two, on the ground floor, right next to the manager’s. I scanned the premises. There wasn’t a soul in sight, so I took out the keys she’d given me and unlocked her front door, feeling guilty somehow and very tense. Dead bodies aren’t fun and I wasn’t sure quite what was in store.
My heart was thudding and I could feel a drop of sweat trickle down the small of my back. She’d described the layout for me, but I still took a few moments to orient myself. The room I’d stepped into was a combination living room–dining room, with a kitchen counter jutting out to my right and the kitchen beyond. Everything was done in greens and golds, with comfortable-looking upholstered furniture. There were a few toys scattered through the room, but for the most part the apartment was clean and orderly.
I crossed the living room. To the left, there was a short hallway with a bathroom visible at the end and a bedroom on either side. Emily had indicated that her bedroom was on the left, Althea’s on the right. Both doors were closed. I found myself tiptoeing down the hall and then I stood for a moment outside Althea’s room. I placed a tissue over the knob to preserve any prints, and then I opened the door.
I peered around the frame, being careful not to touch anything. A quick glimpse showed pale pink walls, toy shelves, stuffed animals on the window ledge, a child-sized flouncy white canopied bed.
And no body.
I pulled my head back into the hallway and stared at the door with puzzlement. Was this the right room?
I opened the other bedroom door and stuck my head in briefly. Everything looked fine. No evidence of a body anywhere. Emily’s room was just as tidy as her daughter’s. Maybe Emily Culpepper had flipped her tiny lid. I went back into Althea’s room, feeling utterly perplexed. What was going on? The bed looked absolutely untouched, the coverlet a pristine white, the pillows plump. Cautiously, I pulled the spread down and examined the linens under it. No sign of blood. Under the fitted sheet, there was a rubber sheet, apparently to protect the mattress from any bedwetting misdemeanors on Althea’s part. I peeled back the rubber sheet. The mattress itself showed no evidence of blood or bullet holes. I remade the bed, smoothing the coverlet back into place, rearranging the ruffled throw pillows on top.
I backed out of the bedroom, mentally scratching my head. I found the telephone, which I’d seen on the kitchen wall. Emily had written a phone number in pencil beside the phone. I covered the receiver with a tissue and picked it up. The line was dead.
“May I help you?”
I jumped a foot. The woman was standing just to my right, her expression dark with suspicion. She was in her forties, with a faded prettiness, spoiled now by the deep lines that pulled at her mouth and tugged at the corners of her eyes.
“Oh God, you scared me to death!” I gasped.
“So I see.”
“Hey, I know how it looks, but honestly, Emily Culpepper gave me her house keys and asked me to come over here to check on something for her.”
“And what might that be?” she asked.
“I’m a private investigator. I’ve got identification right here.”
I opened my handbag and took out the photostat of my license with that awful picture of me. “I’m Kinsey Millhone,” I said. I pointed to the name on my ID and then gave her a chance to study it for a moment. I was hoping she’d remark that the picture didn’t look a thing like me, but she never said a word. She returned the ID grudgingly. “You still haven’t said what you’re doing.”
“Are you a neighbor of Emily’s?”
“I’m the building manager. Pat Norman.”
“Do you know Emily’s friend Gerald?”
“Gerry? Well, yes. I know him.” She still seemed suspicious, as though I might, at any minute, pull out a rubber snake and toss it at her as a joke.
“Maybe you know what’s going on, then,” I said. “Emily says she quarreled with him last night and left in a snit. When she came home this morning, she found him in her daughter’s room, shot to death.”
“Dead!” she said, startled. “Good heavens, why would she do that? I can’t believe it. That’s not like Emily at all.”
“Well, it seems to be a little bit more complicated than that,” I went on. “I can’t find the body and her phone is dead. Do you mind if I borrow yours?”
I FOLLOWED PAT NORMAN into her apartment. She showed me the phone and I called Hermione, uncomfortably aware that Pat was eavesdropping shamelessly as I reported the details. Hermione said she’d collect Emily and the two of them would be over in ten minutes.
While I waited, Pat offered me some coffee. I accepted, looking around idly while she got out the cups and saucers. Her apartment was done up in much the same manner as Emily’s. The layout was different, but the carpet was the same and the wallpaper in the kitchen was identical, right down to the telephone number penciled on the wall by the phone. Pat’s taste ran to framed photographs of herself with celebrities, signed with various extravagant sentiments. I didn’t recognize any of the signatures, but I supposed I should be impressed. “Quite a collection,” I remarked. I never said of what.
“I was on the LPGA tour when I was younger,” she said.
“How long have you managed this place?”
“Two years.”
“What about Emily? How long has she lived here?”
“Ever since she and that husband of hers broke up. Ten months, I’d guess. Gerald moved in soon afterwards.” She hesitated. “I have to be honest and tell you that I did hear them quarrel last night. I could hardly help it with her place right next to mine. I don’t for a minute believe she’d
hurt him, but she did make threats—not that she meant them. Given his behavior, who could blame her if she did?”
“Do you know what they quarreled about?”
“Women, I’m sure. I heard he was quite a philanderer. He was the sort who borrowed money and then disappeared.”
“Did you hear anything unusual once she left?”
“I can’t say that I did.”
“What about Caroline? The one he was supposedly having an affair with?”
“‘Supposedly’ my behind. He fooled around with her for months before Emily found out. I knew the two of them were going at it hot and heavy, but I kept my mouth shut. It was none of my business and I kept out of it.”
“Did he borrow money from Caroline?”
“I have no idea. She had the apartment two doors down from Emily’s. She only left last week. Short notice, too. Very inconsiderate.” She glanced down at her watch. “Fortunately, I’m showing the place this afternoon. I hope to have it rented before the month is out.”
There was a knock at the door and she went out to answer it. I half expected to see Hermione and Emily, but it was a short person, who said, “Is my mommy here?”
Pat shot me a look, suddenly taking on that special, silly tone adults use with kids. “No, she’s not, Althea. Why don’t you come on in. Is your daddy with you?”
“He’s in the car.”
Ordinarily, I don’t take to children. I’m an only child myself, raised by a maiden aunt who thought most kids were a nuisance, sometimes including me. But Althea had a strange appeal. Her sturdy four-year-old body was topped by an ancient face. I knew exactly what she’d look like as an adult. Her cheeks were plump and she wore plastic glasses with pink frames, the lenses so thick they made her gray eyes seem huge. She had mild brown hair, straight as a stick, caught up in pink barrettes that were already sliding off. She wore a Polly Flinders dress, smocked across the front, with short puffed sleeves biting into her plump upper arms. She seemed poised and humorless and I could imagine her, later in life, evolving into one of those mysterious women to whom men gravitate. In some terribly bossy, mundane way, she would break all their hearts and never quite understand their pain.