Rebecca Schwartz 05 - Other People's Skeletons Page 11

  Good. She’d accepted that. Suddenly I said, “Have you ever heard of a Sarah Byers?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Oh. I thought for a minute I might be onto something.”

  “You know, now that I think of it, it had to be somebody who knew something about stealing cars— they must have had a slim jim, and they must have known how to hot-wire.”

  “Sounds right.”

  “But I don’t know anybody like that.”

  I was quiet, trying to think where to go from here. Finally Chris said, “I wonder if I should try something.”

  “What?”

  “You’ll think it’s crazy, but I don’t know, it couldn’t hurt.”

  “What, for Christ’s sake?”

  “Maybe I could get the group together.”

  “Group?” I was drawing a blank.

  “You know. The Raiders. Maybe we could come up with something.”

  She was right. It couldn’t hurt.

  Chapter Eleven

  Chris was taking the morning off, still going through clips, but I could allow myself no such luxury. I had to get some work done, or that was the way it felt before I got to the office. Once ensconced, I found very nearly all I could do was fret. I picked up the phone to call the doctor, and before I’d dialed, I’d convinced myself I was making a fool of myself. There was really no lump, I’d turned into one of those people doctors call crocks. I called Mickey. “Are you okay?”

  “Listen, I’m really sorry about last night. I was about to call you.”

  “Was it something I said?”

  “Are you free for lunch?”

  I looked at my watch— not really. But I said, “If we could do a quick one. Sandwiches in the park or something.”

  “Perfect. How about Embarcadero Plaza? Could you get the sandwiches, do you think?”

  I sighed. My life was going this way lately. “Okay. But you didn’t answer the question. Are you okay or not?”

  “Things are a little weird.”

  I sighed again, feeling like somebody’s grandmother. “Well, how about you? You sound depressed.”

  “I’ll tell you all about it.”

  I went to the ladies’ room and felt my breast. No question: The Thing was there. Panic swept through me, leaving me shaking against the stall door. I had fought a man with a knife once, when I had no weapon at all, and I hadn’t felt this kind of fear. This was like the movie Alien; when the beast was inside you, when your own body betrayed you, there was nowhere to turn.

  I went back and picked up the phone. I got the doctor’s office and said I wanted to make an appointment.

  “Is this for a checkup, or are you experiencing some problem?”

  Why did I have to tell this stranger? It was none of her damn business.

  I mustered as much dignity as I could. “I’ll tell Carolyn when I see her,” I said, using my doctor’s first name.

  “I’m sorry, our procedure is to find out when we make the appointment.”

  “Just like your procedure is to weigh me when I come in whether I want to be weighed or not.”

  The woman’s voice was frosty. “We need to know whether you’ve had a sudden change in weight.”

  “You know, I really can’t—” But before I got any further Kruzick stuck his head in my door. If it was none of the receptionist’s business, it was most assuredly none of his. I was suddenly so embarrassed the woman was spared the lecture I’d been about to deliver on doctors treating patients like children, infantilizing us and making rules for their convenience rather than our comfort. Rules, hell! I might have shouted, I’m hiring this woman, and I’m the one paying the bills. From now on, I make the rules.

  I could kill Kruzick. Think how satisfying that would have been. Instead I just asked to have Carolyn call me back.

  My secretary assumed a prissy mouth. “Shall I hold madame’s calls today?”

  “Let me talk to Rob if he calls, and Carolyn.”

  “And who might Carolyn be?”

  “That might be none of your beeswax.”

  “Veddy good, mum.” I kind of liked him in this role, but if I said so he’d think of a way to make it irritating; in his way, the man was a genius.

  When he had gone, I stared into space awhile, trying to orient myself. I was a wreck this morning, either from the fear or from the stress of living in denial for three days. Or was it only two? I couldn’t even count anymore. What it felt like that morning was the last day of Pompeii— something awful was going to happen, something cataclysmic. I got out my calendar and looked at it— sure enough it was two days before my period. Throw hormones in with the rest, and you had a major paranoia attack.

  Rationally, that should have explained it, should have calmed me. I should have been able to say to myself, “I’m doing what I can for Chris and also my lump, and that’s the end of it.” But I guess Julio was right about the mind being less important than we think. I couldn’t get a grip.

  Just to have something to do with my sweaty hands, I called Sarah Byers’s number, hoping for a referral to her office. Instead, I got this: “This is Sarah. Don’t ask for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for me.”

  God. Was that a suicide message or just a reference to ringing telephones? It gave me the creeps.

  After that, with Kruzick holding my calls, I had no choice but to work. I ended up so involved I was surprised when he came in, announced he was going to lunch, and dumped a stack of message slips on my desk. The top one nearly sent me through the ceiling.

  “Alan, I thought I told you to put Carolyn through.”

  “And so I would have, Mum, if the lady had called.”

  “She did call.” I showed him the message slip. “And by the way, the butler act’s wearing thin.”

  Without batting an eye, he changed to Southern ditherer: “Well, I declare to goodness if that doesn’t say ‘Dr. Perlmutter.’ You don’t s’pose we had a l’il ol’ failyah of communication, do you?”

  “Oh, go to lunch.” I called Carolyn back, told the damn receptionist I had a lump, and made an appointment.

  I was fifteen minutes late meeting Mickey as a result. No problem— she didn’t turn up for another five.

  I handed her a tuna sandwich and didn’t even let her get it unwrapped. “So let’s have it. Kruzick’s cheating on you, isn’t he?”

  “No. It’s nothing to do with Alan. Exactly.”

  “Well, what then?”

  “I’m the one who’s having an affair.”

  “You! But, Mickey—” I couldn’t say what came to mind: My baby sister is an angel; she doesn’t do things like that.

  “I’m pond scum, right?”

  “Of course not. But what’s going on?”

  “It’s a friend of Alan’s. A guy from the theater. He’s married and has three kids. The youngest is eight months old.”

  “Gosh.” That was the best I could do. I was as close to speechless as I get.

  “Pretty bad, huh?”

  “Um. May I be perfectly honest? Not good. But like I said— what’s going on?”

  “I don’t know.” The words came out in a whisper. She said it again: “I don’t know. I think I’m in love with two people at once.”

  “You’re in love with this guy?” I was so surprised I practically shouted it.

  Her eyes filled up. “You don’t know. You just don’t know how awful it is.”

  “I guess I don’t. How is it awful?”

  “Oh God, the guilt. And being jealous of his wife and children. And never seeing him enough. And knowing I’d die if Alan found out … You just don’t know!”

  The solution seemed simple enough to one who wasn’t in the middle of it. The question was whether to mention it. I tried to make a delicate little joke of it: “Well. Usually one man…”

  “Oh, stop! Rebecca, you just can’t know what this is like.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to moralize.”

  “It’s okay.”

  �
��What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know. Oh God, how could I have not mentioned the indecision? That’s the worst part.”

  “Is it a question of leaving Alan and being with this man?”

  “Sometimes I think so, and sometimes it just seems preposterous. I don’t know anything anymore.”

  I wasn’t used to my little sister as a drama queen. She was usually so sensible— unless you counted the astonishing lapse of judgment that had prompted her to pick Kruzick. I found I wasn’t crazy about being a party to this thing, either— it seemed wildly self-destructive, not to mention unfair to the man’s family. I had a thing about married men who had affairs— meaning I found them beneath contempt. I didn’t at all know how to deal with this. But then, what else was new this week?

  I told Mickey things like I was there for her and to let me know if there was anything I could do (as if someone had died) and didn’t even mention The Thing.

  On the whole I was glad we’d decided on lunch outside. I needed the walk back to clear my head. I thought about consulting an astrologer— surely the stars must be causing all the chaos; it seemed impossible that mere human beings could be responsible.

  Chris came in, calling first to make sure Curry and Martinez weren’t around, and between the two of us we made the place look a lot like a law office for a few hours.

  Rob turned up around three. “I spent the day checking out Tommy La Barre. Bad news: he was at the restaurant at eight-thirty the night of the murder. Eight-thirty and all night. Two nights a week he acts as maitre d’ himself, and that was one of them. The night was one of the busiest they’ve had lately, and he was hopping every second— no way in hell he could have slipped out and done the deed.”

  “A guy like Tommy La Barre could have hired somebody,” said Chris.

  “I’ve been thinking about his giving us Elena’s card. We know McKendrick saw Tami, right? But that doesn’t prove he didn’t also have a scene in one of Tommy’s party rooms. Tommy could have done it to distract us. Rob, listen— is this possible? Maybe McKendrick was just pretending to be friends with La Barre; maybe the whole point was to get a story.”

  Rob shook his head. “He’d have had to work with an editor on it— and that person would have put two and two together by now and mentioned it. But the other part of the theory’s still good— let’s don’t count him out. Meanwhile, I don’t know what to do about the Sean thing; I can’t seem to turn up anything. However”— he paused for effect— “not to worry, because the whole thing might be solved. Two new leads— after you left, Chris, I kept looking through the clips, thinking I might run across a Sean. I didn’t, but I found someone McKendrick panned who had access to your car keys; someone who could as easily have driven your car that night as you.”

  Chris and I spoke in unison: “Who?”

  “Alan Kruzick.”

  “Did I hear those three magic syllables?” Alan popped in the door, with something in his hand, probably for Chris or me to sign.

  “You never mentioned Jason McKendrick panned you.”

  “Streetcar Named Desire.” He shrugged. “So I’m no Brando. Big deal.”

  “Yes, but the funny thing is, that was the last play you were in before you came to work here. McKendrick broke your spirit, you realized you’d never make it in this town as an actor, so you threw in the towel and went to work. But you were bitter about it— he’d ruined your life and you decided he had to pay for it. You awaited your opportunity. One day, when Chris left her purse unattended, you took her keys and got a duplicate made of her car key. Then one night you followed her— no, better yet, you followed her a lot— but one night she went to a place very near Jason McKendrick’s apartment. You decided to do it that night.”

  “I can do better than that,” said Chris. “He knew I was going to that group. I told him. Right, Alan?”

  Alan said, “I have the right to remain silent. I am not required to say anything at any time or to answer any questions. Anything I say can be used against me in court. I have the right to talk to a lawyer for advice before being questioned and to have her with me during questioning. If I cannot afford a lawyer…”

  Chris and I stared at each other. “Will it fly?” she said.

  “‘The silence often of pure innocence,” intoned Alan, “persuades when speaking fails.’”

  We ignored him. “It’s a little Perry Masonish, but sure— this is it! Rob, you’re a genius.”

  “Well, actually, it was only a theory. Don’t you think you’re being a little hasty? I mean, who’s going to type your letters?”

  “Nobody’s going to arrest Alan. We’ll just use him to point up the preposterousness of suspecting Chris. He had just as much opportunity and a better motive. Alan could even testify. Hey, how about it?”

  “Give me liberty or give me death.”

  “That means yes,” I said. “He’s never going to turn down a role like that.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Kruzick. “How did I get her name and address into his pocket?”

  “Oh, don’t worry. We’ll think of something. Or maybe we just won’t mention it. Do you have an alibi for that night?”

  “I was with— uh, no, come to think of it. Mickey wasn’t home that night.”

  “Fabulous.” Chris was beaming.

  It was at least a better theory than Martinez and Curry had. I planned to give it to them first thing in the morning; maybe it would head them off at the pass.

  Rob said, “There’s one more thing. I got a call from a woman who says she knows who killed him.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Her name was Hilary Winterhalter, and Rob had arranged for us to see her at six-thirty that night. But he didn’t say much else about her, only that she sounded a little hysterical, as if she could be the crazy babe Tommy La Barre had postulated. Afterward, I thought, would be a good time to call on Sarah Byers.

  Chris waited for Rob to leave and said that was fine but not to make any plans for Wednesday, the next night— it was the regular meeting of the Raiders of the Lost Art, and Chris had had a little talk with Rosalie. They were going to work on the murder, and I was welcome to sit in.

  I was interested. I was starting to wonder if Chris had gotten “innocent” off Tommy La Barre because he’d hired someone rather than done the deed himself. Now that that idea had come up, maybe the Raiders could tell us if it was a productive direction.

  Did I mean that? Was that me thinking that?

  Well, anyway, I’d keep an open mind.

  That night I drove. Unlike Julio, Rob liked my Jeep—liked riding up high like I did. We’d decided to treat ourselves even though it was a high-profile car for this kind of thing.

  Hilary had a ground-floor flat in Bernal Heights with a little porch outside where she was waiting. She was a very small girl and, if the truth be told, no one you’d pick out of a crowd. Nature had been stingy with her, given her tiny features, including a pointy little chin, sallow skin, and thin hair. But she had good taste. “Oooh. Great car,” she said before we were even parked. “Jason’s car was such an old wreck.” Which made us both sigh with relief— Rob hadn’t been sure she’d really known him, that she wasn’t just some nut who read the paper.

  Introductions over, she led us into a pleasant enough room, furnished with Pier One wicker and dhurrie rugs. A cheap white desk shone pristine, as if it was never used. An overhead light was only a paper lantern covering a bare bulb. A poster of the Golden Gate Bridge, one I’d seen at a thousand tourist shops, was tacked to a wall. The stark effect would have benefited by a few plants, but Hilary seemed to favor fauna instead. There was a small animal in a cage, a hamster, I thought, and a handsome golden Lab curled up on one of the rugs.

  “Do you mind dogs? Jason hated them.”

  “Of course not,” I said, and dropped to my knees to pet the Lab. “Hi, fella; what a lovely boy! What a nice boy! What’s your name?” The usual baby talk.

  “She’s called Goldie Haw
n, actually. But it’s nice of you to notice her.” She sighed. “Jason made me lock her up or he wouldn’t come over.”

  “He sounds difficult.”

  “Oh, no. He was really fun. He could make me laugh all night. I mean all evening— he never stayed the night.” She sat down, gesturing for us to do the same.

  “The two of you dated?”

  “I thought we were dating, but now that I think of it, we didn’t go out much. He’d just come over and”— she stared out the window, avoiding eye contact— “fuck me.”

  Everything she said indicated she was furious with him. Rob and I exchanged glances: Maybe we were onto something. It seemed best to go slow.

  Rob put on his friendly reporter smile. “How’d you meet him?”

  “Well, I’m a nurse. He came to the hospital to visit a sick friend.” She had tied her thin hair into a sort of low ponytail, which she pulled over her shoulder and stroked as she spoke. The impression was of someone not used to having the spotlight, nervous at being interviewed. You couldn’t help wondering what had attracted a man like Jason McKendrick to her— what, in fact, had even made him notice her.

  “He sort of started kind of blatantly flirting with me, and I thought he was just another asshole. Married, like all of them. So I didn’t respond except to be kind of rude, if you want to know the truth, I guess, and finally he said, ‘You don’t know who I am, do you?’ And I was really afraid I should, like he was somebody that everybody knew but me, and I was really dumb. So I said, ‘Hey, you’re that guy on Channel Four,’ and he and his friend laughed their heads off. I felt so stupid. His friend said, ‘Hey, Hillie,’— he called me Hillie— ‘This is Jason McKendrick you’re talking to.’ I just said, ‘Uh, hello,’ and left without even shaking hands I was so embarrassed. Because I’d never even heard of him.” She hung her head as if it were the deepest shame of the culture. But when the pointy chin came up, she was angry again.

  “How was I supposed to know about somebody like that? I can’t afford to go to plays or anything. He thought he was so damned important. Anyway, I was at the nurses’ station after that, and I guess he felt bad— that he made me feel bad— so he asked me to have coffee in the cafeteria. And then, the funny thing was we really, really hit it off. He was so funny. I mean, he was just so funny. I never met anybody like that in my whole life. And then it turned out he was this big-deal columnist or whatever he was.”