Next to the book pile was a vaguely familiar-looking roll of material, which I unwrapped gingerly with the aid of a garden hoe, wary of unwanted surprises. The material turned out to be an old comforter which I thought I had long ago given to the Cancer Society Thrift Store. Enclosed within it was a pillowcase I did not recognize containing a pillow I did. It had belonged to Megan, and it had taken me years after it had become a lumpy, misshapen eyesore to get her to finally put it away. I think it languished in a closet for a year or two before it ultimately, by our mutual agreement, made it into the trash. That I did remember.
The pillowcase also contained something that looked like a baseball with gangrene, which I identified, after the first wave of horror, as a somewhat geriatric orange. Next to it were an unopened sack of corn chips and a can of carbonated grape drink. I hadn’t been able to ban those commodities from the household, precisely, though for aesthetic reasons I wouldn’t have minded, but the kids’ indulgences were generally colas (sugar-free for Megan) and, good Southern Californians that they were, tortilla chips. And while I was ready to fault Steve for many things, it never for a moment occurred to me that this dismal stash could be his.
That left the decidedly unwelcome possibility that, in addition to trashing my garage, a homeless person might have taken up residence there.
Living down-and-out in La Jolla is not the oxymoron it might seem. Dumpster-diving at the two downtown supermarkets is likely to yield up a menu Alice Waters might not disdain (particularly now that edible compost is de rigueur), if you don’t mind a few bruises or a little mold on your arugula or chanterelles. The beaches are reasonably safe and comfortable for sleeping, and the climate makes a New York kind of desperate contrivance like camping out on the grates largely unnecessary. Rumor even had it that some ex-socialites, newly divorced and down on their luck, lived in their cars but managed to keep up appearances by having free makeup demonstrations at department store cosmetic counters.
Still, it is one thing to be basically sympathetic, to experience the reflex frisson of guilt (or, in the case of the socialite divorcées, fear) in the face of the HOMELESS/WILL WORK FOR FOOD signs, but it’s something else entirely to confront the possibility that some wild-eyed dérangé has taken up residence in your garage. And why would he vandalize it and not steal anything? My blood pressure went up alarmingly. I lifted the quilt and the pillow and the food with a pair of tongs and dropped them into an open garbage bag. I tied the bag up with a twistie, stuffed it into the garbage can and dragged it out to the curb, though it was two days till trash day.
Then I walked into the house and called the police.
I didn’t really expect them to do anything about it. San Diego, like every other major urban center, is short on police, and its residents seemed to feel that the funding for more of them ought to come out of the pockets of welfare cheats or cutbacks in the libraries. Consequently, there weren’t enough to handle even the major crimes, and if you suffered, say, a purse-snatching or a stolen bicycle, the most you could hope for was a sympathetic phone conversation with a precinct clerk. A break-in in the garage (particularly where nothing was stolen) or routing the homeless, even from La Jolla, was probably not a high priority.
I was surprised when the pleasantly efficient voice on the other end of the line informed me that someone was already in the area and would stop by within the hour, if that was quite convenient. Then I started wondering why someone was in the area, and then I closed the garage doors, picked up Melmoth (What if the vagrant was a cat-murderer, too?), reassured myself that I did not need to pick up Jason and Megan from their respective after-school activities for at least three hours, and bolted myself inside the house.
The doorbell rang about half an hour later.
I peered cautiously through the peephole. Then I laughed and opened the door wide to Kenny Henson, Rob’s ex-stepbrother (if I have got that right) and present lover.
Kenny, particularly in S.D.P.D. uniform, could have been the Platonic ideal of a Roman centurion. With his surfer-blond hair, tanned and muscled body, and cerulean eyes, he wasn’t exactly Marcus Aurelius, but he had a sweetness and an ability to sum up character that made him immensely likable and, in an odd way, a perfect mate for Rob, whose edges were altogether sharper.
Kenny flashed me a thousand-watt dazzling smile. “Hi,” he said casually, stepping into the house. “I heard you had a break-in in your garage, so I thought I’d come over and check it out.”
“Thanks,” I said fervently. “I found an old blanket and pillow, and I know I had already thrown them out. There was some food tucked out of sight, too. I think the guy that trashed it might have been living there.” I told him about the moldy orange, and the papers all over the floor, and the puzzling fact of nothing being missing. I said I knew it had happened this morning because a friend had tried to get into the garage and found the way blocked. I didn’t mention real estate agents. Rob would have a fit if he thought someone else had been showing the house, even without permission.
“Have you seen anybody?” he asked, sounding concerned. After all, his and Rob’s house was equally vulnerable, and all of us wanted to know it if a stranger had taken up residence in the neighborhood.
I shook my head.
“I haven’t, either. I’ll keep a lookout, though. How was the garage broken into?”
I told him.
“Let’s go take a look,” he said.
“I already threw out the stuff,” I told him.
“I’ll just take a look,” he said kindly.
“Do you want to see the pop and the corn chips and the orange?”
“No,” he said with a shudder.
“Was all this stuff stored in here?” he asked, surveying my boxes with a critical eye. I knew he disapproved, because Rob and he maintained a garage whose neatness and sterility was surpassed only by a Swiss W. C.
“I’m cleaning things out,” I told him.
He smiled. “Get a dead bolt for the door,” he said, inspecting the ruined chain. “Don’t use it for a while; just go in and out with the opener.” He stepped outside and looked around. “Have you been using the spa?”
“Now and then.” Steve had wanted a pool, but even though I liked to swim, I argued that unless you were willing to spring for twenty-four-hour heating, the water would never get warm enough to be really comfortable. About half of La Jolla had pools they used three times a year, all of them in August. Besides, when the kids were younger, I didn’t want the hassles, so we had compromised on a hot tub. I didn’t really like it; the water made your skin prickle and the interior was too slick, like the underside of a snail. Still, sometimes it was nice to climb in at the end of the day and watch the sun go down behind the Torrey pines, a glass of Chardonnay in hand.
“Well, don’t,” Kenny said. “At least not at night. And not for a while.”
I thought of sitting alone in the water in a bathing suit. It made me feel extremely vulnerable and defenseless. I shivered. “Like Eleanor,” I said aloud.
“What?”
“I was thinking about how Eleanor Hampton died. It’s scary to think about how hard it would be to protect yourself.”
He frowned. “Maybe, but Mrs. Hampton offed herself. No homeless psycho shoved her under the water while he emptied her wine bottle.”
“How do you know?” I asked him.
“Because there was no evidence that anyone else was around. The housekeeper had gone home for the night, and there wasn’t anybody else on the property.”
“What I meant was, how do you know she killed herself? I always wondered.”
He shrugged, a gesture that seemed to imply lack of knowledge rather than interest. “We don’t, really. It could have been an accident. She might have just doped herself up too much on pills and booze and passed out. If you’re far enough gone, slipping into the water might not rouse you before it’s too late. People have done it before.” He stopped, shaking his head over the folly of mankind. You proba
bly did that a lot if you were a policeman.
“Well, then?” I prompted him.
He raised his eyebrows. “You know, I’m not sure I should be telling you all this.”
“Why not? It’s not a murder investigation.”
“Well…”
“Come on, Kenny. You know Rob will tell me if you don’t.”
He smiled then. “What makes you think I tell Rob everything?”
“Because he’d make your life a living Hell if you didn’t.”
“You’re right. And anyway, as you say, the investigation is closed. Your husband’s law firm saw to that.”
“Eastman, Bartels?”
He nodded. “They were very big on the suicide theory, too. Brought us some letters and some evidence that your Mrs. Hampton was off her rocker. It seems she thought the entire legal world was in conspiracy to get her, personally. She was planning to write some kind of a book about it, but it looks like she just got fed up and couldn’t take it anymore.”
“She wrote that to someone?”
“She apparently told several people that it was costing her a fortune in legal fees to fight Mr. Hampton, and she was sure she would get screwed in the end anyway.”
“That’s probably true,” I admitted.
“Well, the law firm was eager to get the whole thing wrapped up as soon as possible. They didn’t want to embarrass Mr. Hampton with his messy ex-wife any longer than necessary. That’s probably why they handed us the whole thing on a platter. It seemed to fit, and since there was no evidence of what the public likes to call ‘foul play,’ we went along with their version.” He cleared his throat. “I’m being a little too candid here. Please don’t quote me on this.”
I swore as much discretion as if I had been Bob Woodward protecting Deep Throat.
“The only thing is, I can’t imagine offing yourself dressed—undressed, I mean—like that. I mean, she looked terrible, even for a corpse. And I’ve seen some bad ones, especially when I worked the Southeast.”
I told him I had thought the same. “Does anyone know where Barclay was at the time of her death?” I asked him.
He cocked a golden eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing much. But Barclay was acting strange at the funeral.”
He shook his head.
“I know it’s not an indictable offense, but I expected him to act all smug and smarmy, the way he usually does. Instead he was sort of…distraught.”
He looked at me. “It’s possible he was genuinely sorry that she killed herself.”
“That’s not what I meant.” I struggled to pin down the thought into words. “He seemed more worried than upset.”
“People always act weird at funerals. You can never tell if somebody’s guilty or not by the way they seem. Didn’t you see A Cry in the Dark?”
“You mean where the Meryl Streep character was convicted of killing her child because she seemed so unemotional, and it was really the dingos that did it?”
“Right.” Rob and Ken had seen every movie since The Birth of a Nation. “And anyway, Mr. Hampton was at his office at the approximate time of his wife’s death.”
Oh. “The firm told you that?”
“They confirmed what Mr. Hampton told us.” He folded his arms. “Why does this bug you so much?”
I sighed and wondered if I would ever come up with a satisfactory answer to that question. “I’m not sure,” I told him honestly. “But I felt sorry for her. She was probably certifiable, but nobody should have to die like that.” I paused. “I just can’t stand the thought of Barclay Hampton secretly gloating over all this, after everything he did to her. He treated her a lot worse than anyone realizes. I just want to be sure he didn’t have the tiniest thing to do with her death, like threatening to take the children away or to cut her support check in half. I just want to know that he didn’t somehow pressure her into suicide.”
He shrugged. “I can’t help you there. But at least you know he didn’t murder her.”
I looked down at the jumble at our feet. “Kenny,” I asked him after a moment, “do you think whoever left the food and things in the garage was the one who did all this?”
“My professional opinion?”
“Sure.”
He shrugged. “Maybe, but probably not. The stuff in the sack sounds like it’s at least a few days old. If somebody was hanging around your garage, why would he trash it and not steal anything? It doesn’t make sense.” He shook his head. “Not that some of these guys need a sensible reason for what they do. Still, this could just be kids, or—” He stopped.
“Or what?”
“Well, this is really a bizarre explanation, but to tell you the truth it looks like somebody was looking for something.” He smiled at the absurdity of the idea. “You aren’t by chance hiding something out here that somebody wants pretty badly, are you?”
“I’m not sure,” I told him seriously. I couldn’t help remembering how I had implied to Steve that I’d put the rest of Eleanor’s materials out in the garage. I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it right away. I couldn’t help believing there was a connection, somehow. Eleanor had said she was getting screwed by Barclay, and everything pointed to the fact that not only was she right, but she was trying to get evidence to force him to behave honorably. Maybe Barclay wanted a look at that evidence; it would, to say the least, be embarrassing if it got out. Still, breaking into my garage might be carrying things a little far. I knew that if I confronted Steve, he would tell me I was certifiable. Besides, if I did anything like that now, he could use it against me later, in court. I would have to have proof or keep silent. I shivered. “If somebody did break in to look for something, what about the stash?”
He raised his eyebrows. “A coincidence, maybe. Who knows?”
I shivered again. “Kenny, will you come take a look around the house? Just to make sure it’s as burglarproof as possible?” As soon as he left, I was definitely calling the locksmith and the alarm company.
He looked at me with concern. “Okay.”
When I opened the back door, Maria was standing at the sink, going round the edges with a toothbrush laced with stainless steel cleaner. None of my accumulated dirt ever escaped her notice, and standards would definitely decline after her departure. She had arrived after I had gone out to the garage with Kenny, but I never had to worry about giving her instructions or supervision. I was really going to miss her when I could no longer afford household help—a day, I realized, that could not be postponed much longer. It wasn’t that I minded doing all my own housework so much, although I can’t say that the prospect of scrubbing out toilets myself seemed particularly attractive or virtuous, but the idea of this gradual shrinkage of affluence was painful, a constant, niggling reminder that I hadn’t really paid for (read: deserved) my former privileges myself.
Maria looked up when we entered, toothbrush poised for another stab at sink slime. Her hand stopped in midair, and while only in drugstore novels would you have described the implement dropping from her nerveless fingers, that is pretty much what happened. She gasped and gave Kenny such a stricken look that I wondered if I had been mistaken about her integrity after all.
“Maria,” I prompted her, “you remember our neighbor, Officer Henson.”
She bent over and picked up the toothbrush. “Sí, señora,” she said, uncharacteristically, in Spanish.
“This is Maria Castañeda,” I reminded him. “Her cousin Manuel works at Eleanor Hampton’s house.”
Maria, who had been regarding Kenny as if she would have liked to ward off the evil eye, started. “Oh, no, señora. He went home.”
“Home?”
“Sí. To Mexico. His mother was very sick.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I told her. “You should have told me. When did he leave?”
She shrugged. “Hace rato.” Her eyes did not meet mine.
“Well,” I said, puzzled, “Mr. Henson is here because we had a break-in in th
e garage. There may have been someone sleeping in there, too. Have you seen anyone? Anyone at all,” I stressed.
She lifted her head. Her eyes grew big. “No, Mrs. James. I see no one.”
“We think it might be a homeless person,” said Kenny. “Mrs. James is going to keep the garage door locked. I’m pretty sure there is no danger, but be careful if you go out there by yourself. And if you see anyone, let someone know right away, okay?”
Her face was closed, as inscrutable and resigned as the Oaxacan Indians who had been her ancestors. “Yes, sir,” she said and gave the grout another vigorous jab with the toothbrush.
9
Patrick Dunn came around from behind his football-field-sized rosewood desk to greet me, his hand pumping mine with enthusiasm. “Gene Stewart told me you might be coming,” he said affably. “I’m happy to be of assistance, if I can. Gene is a very close friend.” He pulled out a chair for me to sit down. “And of course I know your husband as well.”
I was paying him a rather hefty consultation fee, so I’m not sure why he made it sound like he was doing me a favor because I was lucky enough to have such illustrious connections. “You know Steve?” I inquired.
He nodded. He sat down again, smoothing his suit coat as he did. It fit him flawlessly, like an anchorman’s. “We’ve worked together on a few projects,” he said offhandedly. “Eastman, Bartels refers some business to us now and then, because we work in a very specialized area of tax law.”
Judging from the looks of the place, they probably set up offshore insurance funds in the Caymans. Patrick Dunn had a sleek look, too, rosewood made flesh. But what about my divorce? “Aren’t you a family law attorney?” I asked him.
“Oh, ha ha,” he said jovially, as if I’d made a wonderful joke. “I used to be, but now I only handle special cases.” He winked. “Like yours, I hope.”
“Won’t it be a problem for you?” I asked, leaning forward in my chair to keep from sinking deep into the comfortable cushions.
“Oh, no,” he said with a smile. “It’s like riding a bicycle—you never forget. Besides, there is a great deal of tax law involved in these issues, so I like to think I have a leg up. I can assure you, you’re in very good hands.”
Making Waves Page 11