Lusk nodded, smiling. Clearly, there was more to the story. “But?” he said.
Keegan sighed. Of course there was a but. A young woman. A short name. From the Bible. “She kind of got under my skin with some of the stuff she said.”
Lusk pressed his fingertips together and eyed Keegan suspiciously. “Why do I still feel like this is a set-up?”
“It’s not a set-up, Kip,” Keegan said. “I really want to know what happened with you.”
Lusk proceeded with caution. “I called the number,” he said. “I told her about the mirrors. Asked her if I was cursed, and if there was some way I could reverse it.”
“And?”
“Yes, I was cursed.”
“And, let me guess,” Keegan said to Lusk, “the trick to erasing the curse was to send her a check, right?” The dog had made a slow orbit of Keegan’s legs while he’d been standing there, and Keegan had to step over the leash now to stop himself tripping.
“She only charged me twenty bucks,” Lusk said, as if he counted that as a great bargain when it came to curse-removal. “But—yeah—she took care of the problem.”
“What did she do?”
Lusk looked beyond Keegan at the park and then back at him again. “Again, I feel like I’m walking into a trap here,” he said.
“You’re not,” Keegan said. “Swear to God. Just tell me what happened.”
Lusk rolled his eyes. “She told me to go burn some bay leaves around the house,” he said defensively.
“Bay leaves?” Keegan said. “That’s it?”
Lusk nodded. “I went to Ralphs and bought a big jar of them. When the wife went to church Sunday morning, I walked from room to room with a Zippo lighter and burned them in a mixing bowl.”
“How did that go?”
“Smoked up the house something awful,” Lusk said, “and I had to buy a new toaster because I told the wife the old one was on the fritz—but you know what?”
“What?”
“Monday afternoon my brother-in-law hit it big. He nailed the trifecta in the fourth race at Santa Anita.”
“What does that have to do with your curse?”
“He gave me back the two hundred bucks he borrowed about a million years ago when I was first going out with his sister.” Lusk turned both palms up. “The curse, I’d say, has been effectually lifted.”
A lady passed by walking three chihuahuas on matching pink leashes, and Nora made a lunge at them. She almost yanked her own leash out of Keegan’s grip, and he had to steady himself and drag her back to his side.
“Yeah, well, that’s some sound scientific evidence you’ve got there,” Keegan said.
Lusk made a so-sue-me gesture. “You asked,” he said. “I answered. There’s no pleasing you.”
Keegan picked up his paperback and his change. He was about to leave, but he had an idea and turned back. He pulled a copy of Movie Stars from Lusk’s magazine rack and set it on the counter. From the cover, Ann-Margret and Richard Chamberlain smiled up at him. They might have been fraternal twins. He gave Lusk back the nickel and added a couple of dimes.
As a peace offering, the magazine would have to do. He’d leave it on Mrs. Dodd’s desk for her to find when she came back from her own lunch break.
ON WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, Mrs. Dodd’s dam finally broke, and she ended her brief but terrible reign of silence. Keegan had taken the dog down to Ida Fletcher’s Newport house that morning to make a show of looking for the original will—though he already felt sure it wouldn’t be there. The trip was mostly an excuse to get out of the office and away from Mrs. Dodd’s wrath. The fact that he’d get to bill Roland Dion for a few more hours only made the prospect more attractive.
After that, they swung by the house in Bel Air. They arrived just as Danny Church was coming down the front steps to the red Jaguar.
“Love to stop and chat,” the kid said, “but I was just on my way downtown. Business. My representative has found an empty spot on Sunset he thinks might be perfect.”
“For the bistro?”
“The brasserie,” he corrected. “What brings you to my humble abode?”
Keegan nodded at the grand front steps to the mansion. “I came looking for the old will,” he said. “I’m supposed to leave no stone unturned.”
“Well, turn the place upside down. I’ve got nothing to hide,” the kid said suavely. He checked his watch. “And help yourself to a drink at the bar. I won’t be back until late. Don’t wait up.” He went around the Jaguar and opened the door.
“Do you know Lillian Cole?” Keegan asked before the kid could duck into the car.
Church straightened up. “Of course I know her. How is the old thing?”
“At large,” Keegan said. “I’m supposed to find her. Any idea where I should look?”
The nephew shook his head. “Not a clue,” he said. “But I’m sure a man of your rare talents will have no trouble tracking her down.” He climbed into the car. “Do give her my best when you see her,” he said, and he pulled the door closed.
KEEGAN AND THE dog got back to the office around two in the afternoon and found Mrs. Dodd sitting at her desk wearing her reading glasses. She seemed to have been lying in wait, prepared for an ambush. She started in on Keegan as soon as he came through the door, even before he could hang up the leash. Honestly, it was a relief that the moment had finally arrived.
“Did you lose her phone number?” Mrs. Dodd asked him, apropos of nothing. She swiveled around in her chair to face him, her arms folded across her chest. “Because I’ve got it, you know. All you have to do is ask.”
Keegan took off his blazer and hung it on the coat rack, next to the leash. “I’ve got her number,” he said quietly. It was true. It was in his wallet, jotted in blue ballpoint on an Alpha Beta receipt. He saw it every time he paid for something, each glimpse a fresh prick of his conscience.
“Is your dialing finger broken then?” she went on, acidly. “Because I can go in there and work the phone for you if you’re incapacitated.”
“It’s the middle of the day,” he said reasonably. “She’ll be in class.”
Mrs. Dodd was on a roll now, though. There would be no stopping her. “Well, if you need me to,” she said, “I can drive up to your cottage tonight and hold your hand.”
“Give it a rest,” he told her. “I’ll call her when I’m ready.” He turned to go in his office, but she wasn’t about to let the subject go so easily.
“And when might that be?” she said to his back. “It’s been nearly a week.”
Keegan sighed and turned back around in the doorway. “I’ve been busy,” he said. “I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
“Busy?” she sputtered. “Boss, I saw you with your feet up on the desk reading Hemingway yesterday afternoon.”
“That’s not true.”
“What do you mean, not true?” she said. “I saw you with my own eyes.”
“It was Steinbeck,” he told her.
Mrs. Dodd let her head fall back dramatically and stared up at the ceiling. “Oh, please,” she said. “What is it with you men, anyway?” She leveled her scowl at him again. “I don’t understand it at all. Wendell would rather saw off his arm with a steak knife than admit he’s ever wrong or apologize for something he did.”
But it wasn’t like that in Keegan’s case. She didn’t understand. She hadn’t seen Frank’s body on the morgue’s steel table. She hadn’t been to visit Madame Lena and her tarot cards. Keegan leaned his weight against the inner office doorjamb. “Look,” he said, “I know you like her—hell, I like her too—and I’m sorry I hurt her feelings, but—”
“Oh, boss,” she said, cutting him off, “you’ve got it all wrong. I’m not worried about Helen.” She smiled at him ruefully and shook her head. “She’s not like you,” she said. “People actually enjoy her company. Trust me, she’s not sitting at home hoping you’ll call. It’s you who’ll be missing out. All because of your stupid male ego.” She looked at him over h
er reading glasses, eyebrows arched. “You don’t want to let this opportunity slip by, boss,” she said earnestly.
“Believe me, if you had the sense God gave geese, you’d call her tonight.”
He didn’t.
HE ALMOST CALLED Helen the next night after dinner, though. He’d even fished the receipt out of his wallet and put it on the kitchen table so he’d have the number ready. But then he picked up the Steinbeck novel to read a chapter before he made the call—it would be rude to interrupt the dinner hour—and then he fell asleep on the sofa with the book open on his chest.
THEN FRIDAY NIGHT rolled around. He could have made the call then, but it seemed like the most likely evening to catch Danny Church killing time down at the yacht club bar. If the kid was holding forth under Bruno’s watchful eye, it might give Keegan the opportunity to sneak aboard Milton Burritt’s boat and see what he could find.
Timing would be important. He would have to wait until it was late enough that no one would be out and about down at the marina; if he was going to trespass, he didn’t want witnesses. And he wanted to give himself a least an hour aboard the Recess to see what he could find. If he got down to the marina by ten, he’d run little chance of being seen. He could slip on and off the boat and be home by midnight—long before Danny Church ordered his last round of drinks on his late aunt’s tab.
A little before nine, Keegan dialed the number for the South Bay Yachting Club from his kitchen phone. “It’s Jim Keegan,” he said when he finally got Bruno on the line.
Bruno didn’t respond.
“You know, the detective,” Keegan added.
“Oh, I remember you,” the big barkeep said dryly. “The twenty bucks you slipped me made quite the impression.”
“Is he there tonight?”
Bruno exhaled into the other end of the phone. “You know,” he said, “I’m not supposed to take personal phone calls at work.”
Bruno hadn’t struck Keegan as the kind to worry much about company policy, but with the man’s deadpan delivery, it was hard to know if he was joking. Keegan held his tongue.
“And another thing,” Bruno rumbled on, “this club has strict privacy rules. I could lose my job if I told you the kid was here tonight drinking gin gimlets and lecturing everybody about the difference between a bistro and a brasserie. So, I am not going to breathe a word about the matter to anyone.”
Keegan grinned. His life could use more Brunos in it. “Think he’ll be there until closing?”
“I’m guessing it would take a crowbar to get the kid off that barstool before I close.”
“Thanks,” Keegan said. “I owe you.”
“Another ten bucks,” the big man said wryly. “At this rate, I’ll be able to afford a membership in a couple of centuries.” He hung up the phone.
KEEGAN COASTED RIGHT past the South Bay Yachting Club’s valet. It was an older guy tonight, with a paunch and little interest in Keegan or his passing MG. The rush of arrivals had ended hours ago; he was in the car-fetching business now. Keegan drove up and down a few rows of cars before he spotted Danny Church’s red Jaguar, parked in among all the big Cadillacs and Lincolns. He drove to the lot’s back corner, where there were a few empty spaces, and pulled in.
He cut the engine and glanced at his watch. It was a little after ten. If Keegan managed to get aboard Milton Burritt’s boat, he’d have all the time he needed. It would be midnight before he’d have to worry about Danny Church maybe leaving the bar and stumbling back to sleep it off.
Keegan got out of his car and locked it. Before he left the cottage, he’d pulled on a black sweater, blue jeans, and a pair of dark tennis shoes for this outing. It would make him nearly invisible in the dark. And, he hoped, he’d look enough like a boat owner to pass muster if someone did happen to spot him. He kept well clear of the valet and skirted the parking lot, staying in the trees’ shadows. Live music was coming from inside the club tonight. It sounded like a full big-band combo. No mere jazz trio for a Friday night at the South Bay Yachting Club.
Keegan crept past the spot where Bruno took his smoking breaks and came down the long flight of steps to the marina. Lights were on in a few of the boats tonight, weekend sailors bedding down for an early morning departure. Keegan slipped quietly along the quay. Moonlight backlit the angled boat stays. It shimmered on the choppy water that lapped between the jetties. Keegan turned down the fourth dock, where all the most opulent boats were tied up.
One of the big motor yachts seemed to be hosting a party tonight. It lit up the night like an amusement pier. Boisterous laughter and conversation and the sound of a jazz record drowned out the quiet clang and jingle of the other boats’ rigging. A woman’s voice rang out above the others as Keegan slipped by the boat: “But the colors are gorgeous.”
As Keegan neared the end of the pier, the sounds of the party behind him faded. A swell of wind sent a burgee flag rippling above him, high on a bare mast. As he approached the farthest berth, he noticed a pale yellow light glowing behind a few of the portholes on Milton Burritt’s yacht—the ones back near the stern. Had Danny Church left the club early? Keegan stopped and watched and listened. He could detect no signs of movement aboard the boat. Perhaps the kid had been careless and left a lamp burning the last time he disembarked. Keegan slipped along the floating pier until he was directly under the Recess’s high prow.
He sniffed the air for any hint of French cigarettes but smelled only the dank seaweed brine. He held still again and listened. Music was playing, very faintly, inside Burritt’s boat. The kid must be in there, making himself at home, playing the lawyer’s phonograph—an inveterate squatter.
Keegan held still and listened a while longer. He heard water running, or maybe it was Milton Burritt’s single-malt scotch being poured into a glass. The music grew a little louder, as if someone had turned up the volume: Sinatra’s ‘My Funny Valentine’.
Stay little valentine, stay.
Each day is Valentine’s Day.
Keegan sighed. He’d driven all the way down here, and it would turn out to be the one night Danny Church decided to bed down early. Keegan waited, thinking, while Sinatra’s song played through. On the final chorus, a tuneful voice joined in singing.
Is your figure less than Greek?
Is your mouth a little weak?
Keegan froze and listened. The voice was an alto—a woman.
He crouched low and slipped around the side of the boat on the gangway until he could see one of the lit portholes. A swath of blonde hair swept by on the other side of the oval glass, then a profile came into view. It was Milton Burritt’s trophy wife. She wasn’t sunk in boredom tonight, the way she had been when Keegan first met her in the club. She seemed happy and bright and lissome, moving about inside the boat’s cabin, backing Sinatra with a cheery harmony. Keegan stepped back into the darkness.
And then footsteps on hollow wood emerged above the distant party sounds at the far end of the dock. He held his breath and listened among the ambient creaks and clangs and lapping water—then there it was again: someone was walking along the wooden dock. He looked back at the quay, toward the big, bright motor yacht, and saw a silhouetted figure coming down the walkway in his direction.
He glanced around. He was at the dock’s farthest end. There wasn’t anywhere to hide. He crossed to the boat moored in the opposite slip and crouched down in its shadow. The empty boat’s hull gently rose and fell beside him, groaning a little, but there were no signs of life on board.
He listened as the footfalls—a little uneven—grew louder and more distinct. He caught a scent on the air—that tang of Danny Church’s French tobacco—and then the nephew lumbered into view. He turned away from Keegan, along the side of Milton Burritt’s big yacht. The kid climbed the boarding stairs, crossed the deck, and disappeared into the cabin. There was a high silvery laugh of delight and then the rumble of the nephew’s buttery baritone. It wasn’t hard to imagine the couple’s embrace.
The shiftles
s playboy and the bored trophy wife; how had Keegan not seen that cliché coming? He thought of how Mrs. Burritt’s eyes had kept slipping toward the dining room’s entrance the night he had met with her husband. Her secret lover was just down the hall, drinking at the bar. It was just like Zinnia and Frank the Boxer: the closer you looked, the messier and more complicated people turned out to be.
Keegan slipped out of hiding and crept past the big boat’s prow, making his getaway. Inside the yacht, Church let out a lusty, muffled laugh. Keegan picked up his pace. It all made perfect sense, now that he thought about it: the nephew’s lie about dinner at the Bouzy Rouge, the late nights drinking at the club, his making himself at home on Milton Burritt’s boat. The lawyer’s neglected yacht was their trysting place. What setting could be more fitting for such a well-heeled affair?
Keegan passed the party boat near the far end of the pier. Someone inside was doing a loud, drunken impression of JFK to unbridled laughter. Keegan walked faster, no longer caring if anyone knew he was there.
He found himself in a sudden dismal mood, and he wasn’t looking forward to the long, lonely drive back home. What kind of a man had he become? What kind of a ghoul would feel such deep disappointment when he learned that someone he knew might not be a murderer?
THE LIEUTENANT CALLED Keegan’s office early Monday morning. “You dig up anything more on your kid Danny Church?”
Keegan winced. How could he even try to explain what he had found out—and how he’d come to know it? “About that, Lou,” he said, feeling enormously foolish. “I might have got way ahead of myself on what was going on with the kid and the boat. I think he was just—”
“Because there’s news,” the Lieutenant said. “I found a message from the Coast Guard on my desk this morning when I got in the office. I just got off the phone with the guy. They’ve found more of the boat’s wreckage out on the open water. I guess it was about thirty miles offshore, south of the Channel Islands. Some fishing charter spotted it and radioed it in.”
Valley of Shadows Page 18