I got into the car. The brawny guy had come out of Blanche’s and was standing by the gate watching me. And as I swung out onto Fourth Street I saw him writing on a piece of paper-my license number, probably, just in case he’d let a dangerous sex offender escape after all.
Do-gooders and damn fools, I thought. World’s full of both nowadays, and the problem is you can’t tell one from the other anymore. I wasn’t even sure which one I was, not on most days and definitely not on this true blue Saturday.
I went to the office, something I try to avoid doing on weekends because I really don’t like the place much, thanks to the fine greedy hand of Sam Crawford. The air was stale from the smoke from Eberhardt’s cheap tobacco, and I wanted to open a window; but the night chill still lingered and it wasn’t warm enough outside to let in fresh air, not unless I wanted to sit around shivering. Something was going to have to be done about Crawford, too, but not right now. Right now he was at the bottom of the list.
I filled the coffee pot from the bottle of Alhambra water, put it on to heat, and sat at my desk. The piece of paper with Ruth Mitchell’s name and telephone number- apparent telephone number-was still lying on my blotter. I picked it up and squinted again at the last digit in Eberhardt’s scrawl. Then I scooped up the phone and dialed the number that hadn’t been answered yesterday, the one with a two as the final digit.
Five rings, and a woman’s voice said hello.
“Ruth Mitchell?”
“No, she’s not here right now. This is her sister Claudia. May I help you?”
“Well, I don’t know,” I said. “She called my office yesterday and left a message.” I added my name and the fact that I was a private investigator.
“Oh yes,” the woman said. She sounded disapproving, as if she thought contacting a private detective, no matter what the reason, was a lapse of good judgment. “She told me about that.”
“Do you know why she called?”
“Well, about Leonard, of course. She was married to him once, after all.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“She heard you were investigating his murder. She wants to know if you’re making any progress.”
“How did she hear about me?”
“She called the police again. They told her.”
“Again? She’s been in touch with them before?”
“Yes. But I just don’t know why she should care.” The disapproval was sharper now. “The way he treated her, cheating on her with men… my God!”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“If I told her once after the divorce I told her a hundred times — good riddance. I warned her. Once bitten, twice shy, but she never listens to me.”
I could understand why. But I said, “When do you expect her back?”
“Not until tonight sometime. She had to go to Sacramento. They’re having a seminar today. A motivational seminar, whatever that is.”
“They?”
“Her company. She works for Avon Cosmetics, didn’t you know that?”
“No, ma’am, I didn’t. Will you please tell her I returned her call?”
“Yes, I’ll tell her. What else should I tell her?”
“Ma’am?”
“About your investigation. Are you making progress?”
“I’m doing my best.”
“That doesn’t tell me anything.”
“I’m afraid it’s all I can tell you, Mrs. Mitchell.”
“Miss Mitchell. I’m not married.”
I could understand that, too. I said, “Goodbye, Miss Mitchell,” and put the receiver down before she could say anything else.
The coffee water was boiling. I made a cup of instant and sat down again. The building was quiet-the real estate office and the Slim-Taper Shirt Company were both closed today-and that made this a good place to do some more thinking.
But it was another exercise in futility. Assume Kenneth Purcell was murdered; assume Danny Martinez had seen or heard enough to identify the person responsible; assume Martinez had sold that person’s name to Leonard and that Leonard had been murdered by that person. All right. But where did Richie Dessault fit in? It was possible, even though he hadn’t been at the party the night of Kenneth’s death, that he had snuck onto the grounds some time after it got under way. But why? Not with the intention of murdering Kenneth; he couldn’t have known Purcell would decide to go outside alone at any time during the evening. I couldn’t think of another reason he might have gone there on the sly that night, long after Melanie had left. And yet if he hadn’t had a hand in either Kenneth’s or Leonard’s demise, what was his connection with Danny Martinez? And if I had read Melanie right this morning, where had Dessault been since yesterday afternoon? Why hadn’t he come back to the houseboat?
More questions: What had upset Kenneth just before he stalked out of the house? Did it have a bearing on his death? Did the missing Hainelin snuff box fit in anywhere? Did Alex Ozimas and his carnal appetites? Alicia Purcell and her carnal appetites? Her evident affair with Eldon Summerhayes? Summerhayes’s secret purchase of Kenneth’s antique collection? Elisabeth Summerhayes? Margaret Prine?
All the questions, all the names, seemed to run around bumping into each other inside my skull; they were giving me a headache. I remembered the photograph of Danny Martinez and his family that I’d confiscated, and took it out and looked at it-I wasn’t quite sure why. It made me feel a little sad again, the way it had in the farmhouse. But that wasn’t all. Something about it bothered me vaguely, something that seemed lodged in my memory-
The telephone bell went off. It made me jump and I came close to upsetting my cup of coffee; I wasn’t expecting it to ring on a Saturday morning. I picked up and said, “Detective agency,” and Eberhardt’s voice said, “I figured I’d find you there. Don’t you know it’s Saturday?”
“Too damn well. What’s up, Eb?”
“Nothing much. Ben Klein tried calling you at home; when he didn’t get an answer he called me. He’s another one working on his day off.”
“What did he have to say?”
“He ran the check on Danny Martinez. Nada-not even a traffic violation. He’s got somebody looking into Martinez’s background, to get a line on where in Mexico the common-law wife came from. But it’ll probably take some time.”
“Most things do nowadays. Did he say anything about Richie Dessault?”
“No connection with Martinez that he could find,” Eberhardt said. “Dessault has a record of two arrests, both in San Mateo County. One six years ago, when he was eighteen-suspicion of grand theft, auto. The second last year-possession and attempted sale of cocaine. Both charges eventually dropped for insufficient evidence. Translation: the D.A.’s office doesn’t bother going to trial on small-potatoes cases unless they’ve got a lock on a conviction.”
“Don’t be so hard on them. All D.A. s have a tough row to hoe these days.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Thanks to the shysters.”
“Let’s not get started on the shysters,” I said, even though I agreed with him. “Anything else I should know?”
“Ben says no.”
“Okay, thanks. So what are you up to today?”
“I dunno yet. Maybe I’ll drive over to Berkeley, take in the Cal game. You want to come along?”
“I don’t think so.” But then I thought about it, and I said, “Hell, maybe I will. What time’ll you leave?”
“Before noon. One-thirty kickoff.”
“Let me make a few calls, see how the day shapes up.”
“You’re a workaholic, you know that? Drop dead of a heart attack one of these days, you don’t start taking it easy. All right. Give me a buzz by eleven-thirty if you want to go.”
I said I would and rang off. He was probably right about my needing to take it easy; Kerry kept telling me the same thing. It was a nice day, perfect football weather; why not take the afternoon off, go to the Cal game, soak up some sun and a few beers? I had no leads that needed immediate attention. Except for Richie Dessault-but I didn’t have any idea where he was and I was not about to hang around Mission Creek all day, waiting for him to show up. I thought about calling Tom Washburn, but he hadn’t got in touch with me and that meant he either hadn’t gone back to Leonard’s house yet, or if he had, hadn’t found anything among Leonard’s papers worth telling me about. I could drive down to Moss Beach again, try to find somebody who knew Danny Martinez, maybe knew where Eva’s family lived in Mexico; but Klein already had somebody working on that. No point in duplication of effort. I still wanted a talk with Margaret Prine, and one with Eldon Summerhayes, but they could both wait until Monday. Besides, to get either of them to see me on their home turf today, I would need ammunition-and I wasn’t exactly loaded at the moment.