He passed a row of trimmed rosemary bushes, climbed the porch steps, and paused to steel himself. He was reaching out to press the doorbell, when the door swung open. Madame Lena must have been watching him through the crack in the curtains. She’d seen him sitting in his car, talking to himself and looking like a fool. She’d seen him checking his watch and climbing her porch steps mumbling. So much for his element of surprise.
In the doorway’s shadows, Madame Lena’s face was side-lit by the red neon sign. It was a ghoulish effect, like a bloodstain splashed across her cheek. The woman was in her sixties, Keegan guessed, with silvery hair that hung past her shoulders. She wore large hoop earrings and a shapeless black robe that swept the floor. Even the gold amulet that dangled on a chain around her neck struck Keegan as cliché. In a way, her getup soothed his nerves. Here was a stereotype from a low-budget movie, a bit-player gypsy sent over from central casting. Abbott and Costello Meet the Psychic. There was nothing here but charade.
“Evening,” he said. “I’m Jim Keegan.”
The woman smiled at him serenely. “I know who you are, Mr. Kee-gon,” she said, her accent even more pronounced now than it had been over the phone.
This was no more sinister than Halloween in Hollywood, Keegan thought—except here the costumed trick-or-treater was on the wrong side of the door.
“Come in, Mr. Kee-gon,” she said, stepping back to let him enter.
Keegan stepped into the gloomy lit front room. Again, it felt like a set-dresser’s stereotype: candles and beads, oval tables and wingback armchairs, lampshades draped in gauze. A table in the center of the room was bracketed by two oval-backed chairs. A small wood fire crackled in the grate, but the house still felt unnaturally cold. The air smelled of sandalwood incense. The only thing missing, as far as Keegan could see, was a crystal ball.
Madame Lena closed the door behind them and directed Keegan into one of the chairs at the table. An oversized deck of tarot cards and an unlit candelabrum waited on the black tablecloth.
“Like I said on the phone,” Keegan said, “I’m not really here to have my fortune told. I just have a few questions about Ida Fletcher.” Keegan pulled out the nearest chair and sat in it. He folded his hands on the table. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll pay you just the same. You can bill me your usual fee.”
Instead of taking the other seat, Madame Lena crossed to the fireplace. She took a wood taper stick from a vase on the mantel and bent to light it in the flames. She came back to the table and began to light the candelabrum’s three candles, one by one, with ritualistic flourish. It was all part of her show, Keegan sensed.
“Like I said,” Keegan told her, “you don’t need to do all that on my account. I’m not here for a reading.”
Madame Lena ignored him. She touched the flame to the final wick, tossed the taper into the fireplace, and took her seat across from him. Her dark eyes glimmered in the candlelight. She picked up the stack of large tarot cards. Without shuffling them, she began to lay out a row on the black tablecloth in front of her.
“I’m actually a private eye,” Keegan said, trying to get her to look up at him. “I’m just here for information.”
She added one last card to the row and set the deck down in the table’s center, next to the candelabrum base.
“You see, I was hired by Ida Fletcher,” Keegan pressed on, feeling like he was in danger of ceding control of the situation if he didn’t assert himself more. “I understand she used to be one of your clients.”
Madame Lena pondered the cards a few seconds, as if parsing what she saw there, and finally lifted her head. “And how may I be of assistance?”
Now that Keegan had her attention, her gaze felt somehow too direct, a little unsettling. He glanced down at the cards on the tabletop. The room seemed impossibly chilly, colder than the night had been outside. “How long did you know Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Many, many years,” Madame Lena said airily. “Since before the war.”
“So, she must have consulted you about a lot of personal things.”
“Indeed.”
“Did she ever talk about her nephew?” Keegan said. “A kid by the name of Danny Church?”
“Naturally,” Madame Lena said. Her every answer was clipped, reticent—like a hostile witness under oath.
“Did Mrs. Fletcher have any worries about him?” Keegan asked. “Was there any kind of conflict? Any animosity?”
Madame Lena bowed her head a little. It was hard to know if she was composing her answer or consulting the tarot cards. “Mrs. Fletcher loved her nephew,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “Like a mother, she made the child her life’s center. It was a great difficulty for her when he moved away.”
Keegan nodded. That didn’t square with the Ida Fletcher he knew. Either the psychic was being coy, or something big had happened between the old lady and her nephew since she’d fallen out with her psychic. “I didn’t know the woman well, myself,” he admitted, “but she had a reputation for—let’s say—turning against people?”
Madame Lena continued to gaze down at her cards. She seemed determined to reveal nothing. Her circumspect manner was maddening. “She is indeed a complicated woman,” Madame Lena allowed.
Keegan noted her use of present tense and pressed on. “Do you know any reason Mrs. Fletcher wouldn’t want to see him?” he asked. “Was she scared of him?”
“Of course not,” Madame Lena said. “She loved her nephew.”
Keegan thought of the old lady’s shocked face when he’d told her Danny Church was in town. Alarm had electrified the whole room at the mere mention of his name. What had Church done to turn her against him? “Well, the two of them must have had some kind of falling out,” Keegan said. “Any idea what might have caused it?”
“Falling out?” she said. She was still gazing down at the skulls and scythes and hooded figures splayed out on the tablecloth—still concentrating on them, though nothing about them had changed.
Keegan felt a surge of irritation. This whole visit had been a mistake. He wanted to reach across and sweep the row of cards off the table onto the floor. “Yes,” he said hotly. “The two of them had a falling out. You know—like the one she had with you.”
Madame Lena looked up from her cards, her gaze still cloaked in an otherworldly serenity. “She and I had no falling out.”
“She stopped coming to see you,” Keegan said, leaning forward. “She took you out of her will.” He pressed down his hands on the tabletop on either side of the stack of unused tarot cards. “You did know you were in her will at one point, didn’t you? Or did your gifts fail you on that point?”
“I was led to believe as much.”
“But she cut you off,” Keegan said. “She wrote a new will. You’re not getting a penny now. I’d call that a falling out.”
Madame Lena looked at Keegan, as if a little pained by his tone, a little offended by his disbelief. Again, she tilted her head down. “I know you are a skeptic, Mr. Kee-gon,” she said, looking at the cards and not at him. “I can truly see your future in these cards. But only in glimpses.” She straightened one of the cards, a robed man bearing a lantern. “You’ll soon travel across the ocean,” she said, as if reading what was plainly printed there. “You live alone, very high up, but your house is haunted by a spirit.” She tilted her head, as if trying to bring the vision into better focus. “It is a young woman. A short name. From the Bible.”
Eve, Keegan thought, his heart thudding. Her name was Eve. The room seemed to be listing to one side now. He reached out and held the edge of the small table with both hands to steady himself. The air felt raw and chilled against his face. The incense was clouding his thoughts. How did this woman know about Eve?
Madame Lena gathered the cards into a stack and tapped them straight on the tabletop. “For you, I see only glimpses of your future,” she said, eyeing him with cruel detachment. “But my own destiny I see with great clarity.”
“And wha
t is it you see?
“When all is said and done,” she said, “I will be in Ida Fletcher’s will.”
“That’s not possible,” Keegan said, his voice dry. “Has anyone told you what happened to her?” He watched her closely. He found himself hoping she wouldn’t answer him.
“No one has told me,” she said. “But still I know.”
“And what is it that you know?” he asked.
Madame Lena gazed placidly back at him, candlelight glimmering in her dark eyes. “We both know she is dead, Mr. Kee-gon,” Madame Lena said. “We both know she is at the bottom of the sea.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
KEEGAN CROSSED NELLA Vista Drive to his MG in a trance, lightheaded and rattled. He stood beside his MG, fumbling too long with the keys before he could get in the driver’s seat. He then gazed numbly out through the windshield.
The streetlamps and all the spindly jacaranda branches crosshatched the scene with shadows. His hands felt numb, and he sat holding the keys, squeezing them in his fist. He stared out at the dark street, trying to think of what it was he should do next. His thoughts seeped out in every direction. He couldn’t even focus on the simple, mindless task of putting the key in the ignition and starting up his car. What was wrong with him? He looked across the street at Madame Lena’s house, just in time to see the neon sign go dark.
How had she known about Ida Fletcher’s drowning? Keegan hadn’t said anything on the phone, and the story hadn’t hit the papers; he’d checked for it more than once. Having the gossip spread among Newport Beach’s yacht clubs was one thing, but how had the story made it out to East Whittier? And then there was the spirit in his house, the woman with the short biblical name. How could Madame Lena have known that his dog kept him up at night, barking at empty chairs?
He managed to get the key into the ignition and started up the engine. He pulled away from the curb and crept along the dark street, driving much too slowly. The gaunt, bare branches he passed under sent shadows writhing in his peripheral vision, like wily black serpents. He was a fool to let his imagination run so rampant. He switched on the radio and found the news on KNX. But the voices only cluttered his thinking more. After a block or two, he turned the radio off again.
Keegan lost his way getting back to the 101. First, he’d turned the wrong way on Slauson Avenue and had to backtrack. Then he missed the freeway entrance and didn’t realize his mistake until he was passing the Chrysler Plant in Maywood. He kept finding himself looking out through the windshield at carpet stores and auto dealerships and donut shops, completely disoriented—as if he’d been dropped down on the spot without having driven here himself. He should pull over, get the map from his glove box, figure out where he was—but he was overwhelmed by a strange restlessness, a deep-rooted urge to just keep moving.
Madame Lena had told him he was being haunted. God, if the woman only knew. Eve had been buried up in San Francisco’s Holy Cross, he’d heard. There had been a small funeral, but he’d been ordered not to leave town until the investigation wound up. First her uncle was killed, then Eve herself—and Keegan had been at the center of it all.
And now, a year later, he was adding to his total, racking up the tally. Ida Fletcher and Frank the Boxer had made the mistake of trusting him as well. He was some kind of poison. A human plague. A grim reaper in a JC Penney sports coat.
He pulled to a stop at a red light and looked around: an elementary school parking lot and a Phillips 66; a pair of phone booths and an abandoned bicycle chained to a bus stop bench. None of it was familiar. He glanced at his wristwatch. It was coming up on eight-thirty, and he had no idea where he was. Helen would be waiting at the restaurant for him now, growing more offended by the minute. If only she knew about his poison touch. She’d be better off keeping her distance. He’d be better off staying out of her way.
HE PULLED INTO the carport and cut the engine. When he opened the driver’s side door, the phone was already ringing inside the cottage. He sighed. It would be Helen, calling to see what had happened. Or Mrs. Dodd, calling to give him a piece of her mind. Either way, he was in no hurry to get in the house, and the phone stopped ringing before he’d got the key in the door.
It was near midnight now, and he’d never made it as far as Jackson’s. He’d driven around for a while, ended up cruising along the coast highway past all the crab shacks and the arcades. The piers were all lit up against the black ocean, like Viking funeral ships set ablaze. On his way back home, he stopped for a whiskey at a place down on Wilshire, but it was a Saturday night, and the place was too crowded, the atmosphere too raucous for his desolate mood. He slipped out after one drink, leaving a lump of crumpled bills on the bar top, and brought himself home.
The dog was ecstatic to see him, and she followed him through the kitchen to the back door, running ahead of him and then back to him, quivering with elation. He paused at the fridge to get a can of beer and a can opener, and then he opened the back door. The dog sprinted out into the dark backyard, and he followed her, pausing to switch on the back porchlight.
She’d been cooped up too long, so Keegan let her make a slow circuit of the yard, sniffing at the ground, peeing more often than seemed necessary. He stood by the low back fence and looked down at the dark Ormsby estate. He punched open the beer and slipped the can opener into his pocket.
He downed half the beer in two long quaffs, and then the phone started ringing again. It had to be Mrs. Dodd, calling to berate him for standing Helen up. Well, he had it coming, didn’t he? And it would be better if she got it off her chest tonight, rather than bringing it to work on Monday. He downed the rest of the beer and called the dog over. The two of them went inside to face the music.
He set the empty beer can on the kitchen table and picked up the phone. “If you’re calling me to tell me what a bastard I am, I already have a good—”
A gruff voice cut him off. “This Keegan?” the voice wanted to know.
Keegan looked at the dark window over the sink. “It is,” Keegan said. “Who is this?”
“Bruno,” the voice said. “You know, South Bay Yachting Club.”
Bruno the Barkeep, Keegan thought. Bruno the Unsurpassed. “So, the kid’s there right now?”
“Drinking sidecars and talking like an avalanche,” Bruno said. “Doesn’t look like he’s planning on leaving any time soon, but I’ll be throwing his ass out in about forty-five minutes. So, if you want to see where he goes, this is your chance.”
“Yeah, okay,” Keegan said. “I’ll be right down. Try to keep him talking.”
“‘Utterly fascinating, Mr. Church,’” the bartender deadpanned in a deep monotone. “‘Please tell me more.’ Yeah, I think I can manage that.”
Keegan quickly dumped a full can of Alpo into Nora’s bowl and filled her water bowl at the kitchen sink. He locked her up in the cottage while she was still distracted with dinner. She’d be okay. She’d probably be curled up asleep at the foot of the bed before he got his car down to PCH.
THE VALET’S STAND was abandoned for the night when Keegan rolled up in front of the South Bay Yachting Club. Only a scattering of cars remained in the dark parking lot—a big Lincoln, an Aston Martin, a couple of Cadillacs, and, he was happy to see, the nephew’s red Jaguar parked well out of the way in the deep shadow of a eucalyptus tree.
He backed into a space as far from the Jaguar as he could and still have a clear view of both the car and the club’s entrance. He checked his watch. Bruno would kick Church out in ten or twenty minutes. One by one, the other cars cleared the parking lot—couples and foursomes talking in loud, martini-amplified voices. Soon the Jaguar was the only car left. The light in the club’s front entrance went out, then the lights in the side windows. Still, there was no sign of Danny Church. Keegan checked his watch again. It was after one. Any minute now.
The front door of the club opened with a horizontal sweep of light, and the nephew came out into the entryway. Someone inside pulled the door shut again. Churc
h ambled down the steps, past the valet stand, and over to the Jaguar. He seemed a little unsteady on his feet, like he was treading a pitching deck. He got out his keys and opened the driver’s side door. He ducked his head inside.
If he took off in the car, Keegan would follow to see where he was headed. If he didn’t, it would mean he had a boat in the marina where he could spend the night. Either way, Keegan had to be ready. He held the key in the ignition and put his foot on the brake. That was a mistake. The bushes behind him lit up scarlet in the rearview mirror. He yanked his foot off the pedal, like he’d been scalded.
Danny Church straightened up and looked in his direction, so Keegan ducked down a little in the car. Damn. Would the kid remember what kind of car Keegan drove? What the hell could Keegan possibly say if the kid recognized his MG and strode over to say hello? Why, James! What in heaven’s name are you doing at my club at this ungodly hour?
But Church didn’t seem to notice him. He just stood beside the Jaguar and tore the cellophane off a blue pack of those French cigarettes he smoked. He shook one loose and put it to his lips. He slipped the pack in his trouser pocket and started patting himself down, looking for his lighter. When the cigarette was lit, he closed the Jaguar’s door. He paused to lock it with the key and then tried the handle. It looked like he was planning to leave it parked there overnight.
Church headed toward the club’s side yard, where Bruno had taken his smoke break. He passed it and took the steps that led down to the marina. He had a good head start, but Keegan didn’t want to get out of his car until the kid was out of sight. He’d come too close to being seen already. Fortunately, Church was still smoking one of his Gauloises. The red glow of the ember would make it easier to keep track of him in the darkness.
Keegan watched as the man’s figure disappeared incrementally down the steps, his knees vanishing first, then his waist and shoulders. When his head was out of sight, Keegan opened his car door and slipped out, closing it quietly behind him.
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