The ticket Mrs. Dodd had given him turned out to be surprisingly good: Box B, Seat 1. It was close to the field, a seat right there on the aisle, with a perfect view of the first baseline. He checked the number on the empty seat’s arm against his ticket stub, just to make sure his good fortune was real. It was. He couldn’t help but grin. He paused in the sunlit aisle to take off his jacket and drape it over the seatback.
The woman in the seat next to his watched him, smiling. She wore a wide-brimmed straw sun hat and oval sunglasses. Her blouse was Dodger blue.
Keegan gave her a polite nod and took his seat. He looked down at the sunny field, the crisscrossed emerald lawn, the brick-red baselines. The view was perfect—about fifteen rows above the visitors’ dugout, almost even with the pitching mound. He could practically call the balls and strikes from where he sat. How had Mrs. Dodd managed it?
The woman next to him leaned in his direction, still facing the field. “You must be Jim,” she said.
Keegan turned and stared at her, and, after a second or two, she turned her head to look back at him. She was in her forties, Keegan guessed. A pretty brunette, with bright hazel eyes and a smile that was just a tad crooked. It made her look sly and knowing. She raised her eyebrows.
“Sorry?” Keegan said. “What was that?”
The smile on the woman’s face froze and then faltered. She pulled her sunglasses down a little so she could look at him over them. “Jim Keegan?” she said. “That’s who I’m supposed to be meeting.” She looked down at the seat number on the armrest. “Oh God, am I in the wrong seat?”
Keegan stared at her while the truth began to sink in. Mrs. Dodd’s obsession about his social life and her sudden generosity. Just go to the damn game and keep an open mind. It all made perfect sense now. Damn that meddling woman. A better detective would have seen this coming.
Keegan smiled back at the woman and shook his head. “No,” he said, “I’m pretty sure you’re in the right seat. And, yes, my name is Jim Keegan.”
The woman blushed deeply. “Oh no,” she said, flustered. “Oh God no. You’ve been blindsided, haven’t you?” She covered her mouth with one hand. “This is absolutely mortifying,” she said. “I’m going to kill her.”
Keegan grinned. “If we’re talking about Mrs. Dodd and you need an accomplice,” he said, “I’m your man. So, how do you know her?”
“Next-door neighbor,” the woman said. “Look, I’m sorry. I thought you knew this was happening. She told me you paid for the tickets.”
Keegan laughed aloud. He pictured Mrs. Dodd tucking the folded hundred-dollar bill into the pocket of her blouse. I don’t want you to say you didn’t see this. He shook his head again. How had he missed all the signs?
“Yeah,” Keegan allowed. “I suppose I did pay for them.”
The woman seemed so ruffled, so embarrassed; he couldn’t help but feel bad on her behalf. He offered her a consoling smile. “I’m sorry about the set-up,” he told the woman. “The two of us have been bamboozled. That Mrs. Dodd can be a real…” He wasn’t sure how to finish the sentence—there were too many options—so he just stopped talking.
“‘Meddler’? ‘Busybody’?’ ‘Yenta’?” the woman offered. She gave a little shrug. “‘Pain in the butt’, maybe?”
“I see you know her well,” Keegan said. “And I see you have an impressive vocabulary.”
The woman let her shoulders sag. She seemed a little more at ease. “I’m an English teacher,” she said. “And an avid reader.”
“I studied English in college,” Keegan said.
“Yes,” she said. “Mrs. Dodd informed me of that fact. You went to USC. She told me all about you, Jim Keegan.”
Keegan nodded. “She didn’t tell you my GPA, did she?” he said. “Because it wasn’t impressive.”
“That’s one of the few things your dossier didn’t cover,” the woman said. She held her hand out over the armrest for him to shake. “Since you’re the one being blindsided, I’m guessing she didn’t tell you a thing about me,” she said. “My name’s Helen. Helen Stark.”
Keegan shook her hand. “Helen Stark the English teacher,” he said. “I’m really sorry about the set-up.”
The woman settled back in her chair and looked down at the field. She seemed to have reclaimed most of her composure. “No complaints here,” she said. “I’m at the World Series, Drysdale’s pitching, and we’re already up two games to zip.” She pushed the sunglasses back up to the bridge of her nose. “You and I could end up mortal enemies, and I’ll still chalk this up as a win.”
Keegan liked her droll humor and the glimpses she gave him of that crooked smile. Maybe Mrs. Dodd knew what she was doing. “You like baseball?” he asked.
“Love it,” Helen said. “I grew up listening to Red Barber with my dad. The old man was a huge Brooklyn fan. If only he’d lived to see them move out here. He’d be thrilled to know I’m here.”
“I’m a recent addition to the bandwagon,” Keegan admitted. “I wasn’t a huge Brooklyn fan, but it’s good to have a team in LA.”
For a minute or two, they both looked down at the field not speaking. Someone a few rows ahead of them turned on a transistor radio, and Vin Scully’s voice took up his companionable game-day chatter. “…a bea-u-tiful October day in Chavez Ravine for baseball…”
“I hope Mrs. Dodd didn’t talk me up too much,” Keegan said. “What else did she tell you?”
Helen turned to face him. “Well, she told me you were her boss,” she said. “You used to write for The Times. Now you’re some kind of detective.”
“Did she tell you I was a grumpy old recluse?” he asked. “She thinks I need to get out more.”
“She did mention that.”
“Really?” Keegan said. He’d been mostly joking. “She said I was a grumpy recluse?”
Helen smiled and looked back at the field. “‘Curmudgeonly’ was the word she used,” she said, “but we both know what that means.” She folded her arms. “She just wanted me to know what I was getting into.”
“And?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
Organ music came on over the loudspeakers, and everyone stood for the national anthem. When it was done, and everyone sat back down, Helen folded her hands in her lap.
“So,” Keegan said, trying to get the conversation going again, “in a fair world, what would Mrs. Dodd have told me about you?”
“Let’s see,” Helen said. “She’d have told you that I teach at an all boys’ school in Westlake.”
“Which one?”
“Saint Matthew’s Academy.”
“Wow,” Keegan said. “Good school.” Saint Matthew’s was famously elite—all Latin mottoes and school ties and ivy vines trailing over quaint brick-front buildings. If you were the favored son of a movie mogul or a Hollywood star, you probably went to Saint Matthew’s. Hell, Danny Church had probably squandered a year or two there, sneaking cigarettes behind the gym and managing not to learn a thing.
Helen nodded and shrugged at the same time. “It’s a good school,” she allowed. “But the students are all trust fund brats.” She tipped her sunglasses down again and looked at Keegan over them. “Did you know that Saint Matthew was the patron saint of bankers?” she said. “That should tell you what we’re up against. Still, we do with the little charmers what we can.”
Keegan nodded. He liked this Helen Stark. He liked her poise, her droll intelligence. “What else would she have told me?”
“She would have told you I’m single.” She looked out at the field then, perhaps a little embarrassed. “She’d definitely have told you that,” she said.
Keegan laughed. A good portion of the anger he should be feeling for Mrs. Dodd had drained away now.
The players took the field. The crowd stood and clapped. Don Drysdale trudged out to the pitching mound in his gleaming white home uniform. His head was bent low in concentration. He stood on the mound and kicked the dirt around. He stretched out and
threw a few warm-up pitches. The crowd noise died down, and, one by one, everyone took their seats again.
In a few minutes, Tony Kubek entered the batter’s box, knocking dirt from his cleats with the bat. Game Three was underway.
DRYSDALE PITCHED THE full nine innings. Ron Fairly caught the last out, back against the bullpen’s gate, to end the game. The Dodgers won with a single run scored. They could sweep the Series with another win tomorrow.
Keegan and Helen climbed the steps together and then joined the bigger river of people heading down the ramps to the exits. Helen held his arm to keep them from getting separated in all the jostling. Her hand felt small and warm through the fabric of his jacket.
Down in the parking lot, Keegan walked her to her car, stealing sidelong glances as they talked. It turned out she drove a red Plymouth Valiant, sturdy and understated, perfect for a teacher, Keegan thought. He jotted her phone number on the back of a receipt with a blue ballpoint pen she dug out of her glove box. They made a dinner date for next Friday, eight o’clock at Jackson’s, a fancy place on Sunset Keegan had been wanting to try. He would have Mrs. Dodd make the reservations.
“I can come by your place at seven-thirty,” he offered. “If you live next to Mrs. Dodd, it’s on the way.”
Helen looked at him evenly and then shook her head. “You know, I’d really prefer to find my own way there,” she said. “How about I just meet you there at eight?”
CHAPTER SIX
ON SUNDAY MORNING, the kitchen phone rang, just as Keegan was at the counter, spooning ground coffee into the percolator. He glanced at his wrist—a reflex—but he’d left his Timex on the bedside table. It was much too early for a phone call, though. He knew that much. And it was Sunday, for God’s sake. Who would be calling him at home at this ungodly hour? He glanced over the phone. There was no way Danny Church could have gotten hold of his unlisted number, was there?
He looked down at the coffee, spoon in his hand. He’d lost count of how many spoons he’d already added, dammit. He put the coffee spoon down on the counter, went to the phone, and picked it up. “Yes,” he said into the receiver. “Hello?” His voice was brusque, he knew, but he didn’t much care.
“Mr. Keegan,” a woman’s voice said. “Is this Mr. Keegan?” The woman, whoever she was, sounded distraught. Whatever this call was about, it was serious.
Keegan pulled out one of the chairs and sat down at the kitchen table. “Yeah,” he said, “it’s Jim Keegan. Who’s calling?”
The dog, having heard his voice, trotted into the kitchen now and lay down under the table at his feet.
“It’s Mildred Zinnia,” the voice on the phone said. “You know, with—eh—with Ida Fletcher?”
Keegan covered the mouthpiece with his palm, so Zinnia wouldn’t hear his sigh. He’d been out to report to the old lady just yesterday morning—a Saturday—and now the old lady was calling him in on a Sunday. Perhaps those who were rich enough to never work had no concept of what a weekend was. He uncovered the phone again.
“Yes, yes,” Keegan said into the mouthpiece, making no attempt to mask the displeasure in his voice. “And what does Mrs. Fletcher need from me on this fine Sunday morning?”
“Well, that’s just it,” Zinnia said. “I’m not sure where Mrs. Fletcher is.”
Nora was giving herself a vigorous scratch under the table now. He could hear the jingle of her collar.
“Are you at the hotel?” Keegan said. “She’s not there with you?”
Zinnia seemed not to have heard his question. “I’m worried something’s happened,” she said. Keegan had never really heard the woman speak before, but her voice seemed genuinely distraught. “Something terrible,” she added.
The dog stopped scratching and nudged Keegan’s shin with her nose. He reached down between his knees and rubbed her head. “Okay,” he said into the phone. “Let’s slow down. Tell me exactly what happened.”
“They were going to Catalina,” Zinnia said. “Frank was sailing them over.” When she said the man’s name, her voice had a crack in it. “Mrs. Fletcher has a house out on the island—I don’t know if she told you that. I’ve been calling there over and over. There’s no answer. I’m worried that they never arrived.”
Keegan thought of Danny Church and his game of warmwarmer-hot. The buzzer-beating answer he’d arrived at before Keegan could get off the phone: She’s heading out to Catalina! If the old lady was sailing over there to get away from her nephew, Keegan had unwittingly led the kid straight to her.
“They should have docked last night,” Zinnia was saying, her voice rushed and urgent. “I keep calling the house, and no one picks up. I’ve already tried three times this morning.”
Keegan could imagine the old lady fleeing to the island to elude her ne’er-do-well nephew, only to pick up the phone and find him on the other end. I didn’t hear it from you, James. “Maybe there’s another reason they’re not picking up the phone,” he said.
“I’ve just got a bad feeling about it,” Zinnia said.
Keegan thought of the boat tied up at the Newport house’s dock. The Seven of Swords. “Look,” Keegan said, “it’s too early to panic. It got pretty windy last night. Maybe they turned back. Maybe they didn’t sail at all. They could have just spent the night down in Newport Beach.”
“I tried there too,” Zinnia said. “I called there twice. I’m just so worried. It isn’t like them.”
Keegan turned and looked at the window over the sink. From what he could see, it was a bright, clear day outside. “I tell you what,” he said, “I’ll drive down to Newport. I’ll see if the boat is still tied up there. You keep trying the Catalina number. I’ll call you from the beach house when I see what’s up.”
He hung up the phone, took a quick shower, and dressed. It was a reasonable plan, he thought. He could get down to Newport Beach and back before lunch in the light weekend traffic. He’d take the dog along with him. With any luck, he’d figure out what happened to Frank and the old lady and be back home in time to catch the Dodgers game on TV.
KEEGAN PULLED UP to the guard shack at the entrance to Waverly Lane before it was even ten o’clock. Vogel was on duty again, and, when Keegan rolled down the window, Nora scrambled across his lap to say hello to her old friend. He held Nora’s collar to keep her from scrambling out the window.
‘Return to Sender’ was playing inside the guard shack on a tinny transistor radio. Vogel turned down the volume and leaned out the window.
“Jim Keegan,” Keegan said, though he was sure the guard remembered him—or at least remembered Nora. “And guest.” He scratched the dog behind her ear.
The guard’s face brightened. “Donovan’s replacement,” he said. “How’s your Sunday going, sir?”
“Well, I think the Dodgers are going to sweep the Series tonight,” he said, “so I’m not going to complain.”
Vogel grinned. “Koufax got fifteen strikeouts in that first game,” he said. “He’s going to be invincible tonight if his arm’s rested.” He pushed a button somewhere inside his shack and the gate arm raised. “Head right on through, sir.”
KEEGAN FOUND A long black Cadillac Fleetwood parked on the circular gravel drive, close to the big house’s front door. He pulled up behind it and got out of his MG. The dog scrambled across the driver’s seat and tried to hop out after him, but he blocked her way. “You wait in the car until I see if the coast is clear,” he told her. He rolled down the window a few inches and closed the door with the dog inside.
He went over to the Cadillac and found the driver’s side door locked. He bent and looked in through the window. The car was at least a decade old. It was the early fifties model, with the old side-by-side headlights—but the glossy leather interior was black and pristine, perfectly immaculate. It might have just rolled off the dealer’s showroom floor. He tried to look in through the back windows, but they were tinted too dark to see, even when he cupped his hands against the smoky glass.
Back in his own
car, Nora pressed her nose to the window crack and gave him a bark. “Sorry, girl,” he called back to her. “I’ll only be a minute.” He climbed the front porch steps, fumbling with the ring of keys, and knocked on the door. He waited and knocked again before he unlocked the deadbolt.
He pushed the door open a crack. “Hello?” he called into the house. “Mrs. Fletcher? Frank? Anyone home?”
He slipped in and stood in the front hallway, looking up to the turn in the staircase and the upper landing. “Hello?” he called out. “Anyone here?”
There was no answer, no movement, just the same leaden silence as before. He tried the light switch on the wall beside the door, and the dangling entryway lamp lit up. She’d had the electricity turned back on. He looked around the dim entryway. Nothing had changed. The dust still lay even and undisturbed on the hallway table, though the phone there looked like it had been dusted off.
Everything in the front room was the same as when he saw it last, as well. The same with the dining room. He found a single emptied coffee mug in the kitchen sink and a filter full of damp grounds in the trash can—another small sign that someone had been here since he’d last visited. He opened the kitchen’s back door and headed down the sloping lawn to the waterfront.
The tide was lower than when he’d been here last. There was a gentle slope of ribbed sand beyond the lawn now. The dock was empty, but he walked out along it anyway. The decking bobbed and shifted under his weight. At the far end, he stood shielding his eyes and looking out across the sheltered bay at the distant line of riprap that marked the edge of the breakwater. Beyond that was open ocean. Sunlight glittered off the water’s choppy surface. The old lady and Frank the Boxer had cast off. That much seemed clear. Now he just had to figure out if they ever arrived on the island.
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