“I intend to, if he ever gets back.”
“I thought you’d gone up to the Greens Room. You did say you were thirsty.”
“I am, God knows. Are the others still there?”
“Waiting for us. Guess who else is still there, staked out at the bar.”
“Who? Oh, you mean Dale.”
“Drowning herself in gin, as usual. She hasn’t drawn a sober breath since the accident. You’d think she’d have come to terms with it by now.”
“You’d think so.”
“I mean, it was terrible what happened to poor Jack Hunter, but their little affair hadn’t been going on very long, and anyway it didn’t seem that serious. Did you think it was that serious?”
They might have forgotten about me, if my presence had ever really registered on either of them, or maybe they were the kind of catty gossips who didn’t care who happened to overhear them. In any event, they had my full attention now.
“No,” Patty said. “Just another of her flings, that’s what everyone thought.”
“My God, do you suppose she was in love with him?”
“If she was, it was strictly one-sided. Jack would never have left Sheila, no matter how much she played around.”
“I don’t see Dale leaving Frank, either, do you? As much as money and position mean to her.”
“No, but if she knows what’s good for her, she’ll stop all this public lushing and get a grip. Frank’s no fool. Word will get back to him, if it hasn’t already, and he can add two and two as easily as anyone else. You know him — he won’t put up with any sort of obvious nonsense.”
“Do you think we should talk to her? Would it do any good?”
“The only person Dale Cooney listens to is herself. If you ask me, the thing to do...”
I didn’t hear what Patty thought was the thing to do. I didn’t much care, for one thing, and for another I was on my way out the door. Trevor Smith could wait. Right now Dale Cooney seemed a potentially better bet.
6
The Greens Room was dominated by a massive native stone fireplace and a wall of sectioned windows that provided a sweeping view of the terrace and tennis courts and golf course. A gas-log fire threw pulsing light over a collection of tables and dark leather booths, about three-quarters of them filled even though it was still a few minutes shy of five o’clock. Most of the ladder-backed stools at the bar were occupied as well. The drinkers there, with one exception, were all men or couples in animated conversation. You didn’t need to be much of a detective to figure out that the woman sitting rigidly on the stool near the entrance was in her cups and would answer to the name of Dale Cooney.
I sidled over that way to get a better look at her. Mid-to-late thirties, with the kind of dark, burnished red hair that gleams as black as blood in shadowy bar light. Big-boned body in a cream-colored pants suit. Nice profile, or it would have been if she were sober; at the moment her face and neck had a saggy appearance. Her attention was on the empty martini glass in front of her. Red-nailed fingers tapped a toothpicked olive against the rim, as if she were keeping time to music only she could hear.
A barman in a red jacket came down her way. She raised her head and said, “Charles,” not too loudly. “Charles, I believe I’ll have one for the road.” There was no slur to the words; if anything, her diction was too precise.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Mrs. Cooney.”
“You don’t? Really?”
“No, ma’am.”
“And why not?”
“Six Bombay martinis,” he said gently.
“Oh, and such lovely martinis they were. I am a connoisseur of martinis, Charles, did you know that? Well, I am, and yours are the best of all. Almost perfect.”
“Yes, ma’am, thank you. But if you don’t mind my saying so, I think six is your limit.”
“I don’t mind at all. Perhaps you’re right. Mustn’t make a spectacle of myself, must I?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Well, then. If you’ll bring the check, please.”
He went away and came back with it. She studied the strip of paper with a myopic squint, then signed her name at the bottom. Slowly and carefully, the way a child does.
Charles said, “Would you like me to call a taxi for you?”
“I don’t believe that will be necessary.”
“Are you sure you’re able to drive?”
“Quite sure. I haven’t exceeded my limit, thanks to your perspicacity. You know what that word means, Charles? Perspicacity?”
“Yes, ma’am. But you don’t want to have any trouble getting home.”
“I won’t have any trouble,” she said. “It’s only a mile, you know. Exactly one mile from Emerald Hills Country Club to my lovely home. Isn’t that interesting?”
“Yes, ma’am. About that taxi...”
“Your concern is touching, Charles, it truly is.” She maneuvered herself off the stool and onto her feet. No stagger, no unsteadiness — showing the barman that she really was quite all right. She wished him a good evening, turned for the lobby before he could say anything else.
I followed her. She walked as slowly and carefully as she seemed to do everything else, looking straight ahead, her back rigor-mortis stiff. On her dignity, the way some polite, well-bred boozers get when they reach a certain stage of drunkenness. Mustn’t make a spectacle of herself.
Outside, the fresh cooling air wobbled her a little, so that she had to steady herself against one of the stone pillars. Down the steps then, using the hand railing, and across the upper level of the parking lot to where a caramel-colored Mercedes 360SL, its top down, was slotted. She was at the driver’s door, rummaging in her purse for her keys, when I came up next to her.
“The barman was right, Mrs. Cooney. You’d better not drive.”
She blinked, turning her head, and gave me a squinty look. “I don’t know you,” she said. “Who are you?”
“Somebody who doesn’t want to see you hurt or arrested.”
“I’m already hurt and I have no intention of being arrested.” She squinted again, caught herself doing it this time, and tipped her head back to look at me open-eyed. “You’re not a policeman or something, are you?”
“Or something,” I said.
“Yes? Well, I’d like to see your badge.”
“I don’t have a badge.”
“Then please go away and leave me alone.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why can’t you? Are you trying to pick me up?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Good, because I have a husband and you’re as old as he is. I have to drive home to my husband.”
“You don’t want to do that, Mrs. Cooney.”
“No, I don’t. But I have to.”
“Not after what happened to Jack Hunter, you don’t.”
Her mouth and her eyes both widened. She made a little murmur in her throat.
“He died because a drunk thought he was sober enough to drive home,” I said. “The same thing could happen to you. Lose control of your car, cause the death of an innocent person. Then you’d really have something on your conscience.”
She slumped against the Mercedes, gripping the door edge and staring up at me. In a thicker voice she said, “Who are you? Did you know Jack?”
“Not personally, no.”
“My God,” she said with sudden understanding. “My God, you’re one of those... you’re a private detective.”
“That’s right.”
“Frank hired you.” Getting that part of it wrong in a frightened whisper. Her hand was white-knuckled where it clutched the door.
“I’m not working for your husband. I was hired by Jack Hunter’s insurance company.”
“Insurance?”
“On behalf of his widow—”
“That bitch.”
“—and his daughter. Why is Mrs. Hunter a bitch?”
“She made his life miserable.”
“How did she do that?”
“Every way. Every damn way.”
“Is that what he told you?”
“He didn’t have to tell me. I have eyes. Cold-hearted bitch — someday I’ll tell her what I think of her. In no uncertain terms.”
“Why don’t you tell me what you think of her?”
“I just did,” she said. “Besides, I have to go home now.”
“You’re going to have to talk to me, Mrs. Cooney. Not now, but when your head is clear.”
“I am not drunk.”
I produced one of my business cards, tucked it into her purse. “Will you remember where you got this?”
“Of course I’ll remember. I told you, I’m not drunk.”
“Then call me. As soon as possible.”
“And if I don’t?”
“I’ll call you. Or slop by and see you.”
“Frank,” she said. “You wouldn’t tell my husband about Jack?”
“I’m not out to do you any harm. All I want are the answers to a few questions about Jack Hunter and his wife. After that, you’ll never hear from me again.”
“I don’t seem to have a choice, do I? All right. But now I have to go home.”
“Not just yet. Let me have your keys.”
“Oh, no. You can’t drive me home, not in my car.”
“That isn’t my intention. I’ll give the keys to the man at the security desk and he can call a taxi for you.”
“Oh, no,” she said again. A crafty look came into the bleary gray eyes. “Do you want me to scream? I will if you don’t go away and let me drive home.”
“I don’t think you will. You wouldn’t want to make a spectacle of yourself.”
We locked gazes, but it was not much of a stalemate. The liquor was catching up to her now, making her even more fuzzy-headed and a little shaky on her pins, and she had enough sense to realize it. Her eyes slid away from mine; she fumbled in her purse again, came out with a set of keys, and laid them in my outstretched palm almost gently. On her dignity again.
I said, “Do you want to wait inside?”
“No, thank you. I’ll sit here in the car.”
She opened the door, put herself under the wheel with great care, and sat looking straight ahead, hands clasped in her lap, spine rigid.
“Tell them to hurry,” she said. “I really need to get home before Frank does.”
That was part of the reason, I thought as I left her, but not all of it. The sooner she got home, the sooner she could have another drink.