Leaving the square on the entryway floor, I hurried down the hall to the farthest door. The room contained a brass bed with a fluffy comforter and many pillows, a dresser, and a walk-in closet. The bedside table yielded Kleenex and aspirin and calcium lactate. Evidently, Elaine had not been much of a reader, because there were no books in evidence.
Next I started through the closet, which was full of conservative suits and dresses and pants and tops — all in good taste and of excellent quality. I worked left to right, toward the back, where a number of items were jammed together as if they were things she never wore.
And I could see why. There was a bright red party dress with a plunging neckline; a black number with a slit that must have extended all the way up the thigh; pants in a shimmery fabric that were cut to be skintight; see-through tops designed to be worn over sexy bras. The clothes were not Elaine, not her at all.
So what was she doing with them? Did she actually go out in public dressed like that? No, more likely she — like my sister Charlene — had had her fantasies. Nothing wrong in occasional dressing up in front of a mirror.
Or for a male friend, someone special.
I gave up on the closet and went through the dresser quickly, coming up with only standard serviceable lingerie and jewelry items, plus a whole collection of security gear — three pairs of handcuffs and some leather thongs with loops at the ends — tucked under some sweaters in a bottom drawer.
Why bring all that stuff home? I wondered. Probably because it was her own property and she didn’t want anyone at Casa del Rey appropriating it. After all, handcuffs don’t come cheap, and Elaine hadn’t been on the job long enough to know if she could completely trust her co-workers.
From the bedroom I went across the hall to a room that had been fitted out as a combination TV and exercise room, complete with a stationary bicycle and a small set of weights. I opened the closet and saw it was what my mother called a “crazy closet” — crammed with things too junky to display but too full of sentimental value to get rid of. There was a doll with a chipped china face, a white tulle creation that might have been Elaine’s first prom dress, a large box of photographs, several scrapbooks and high-school yearbooks, stacks of old 45 records, an incredibly ugly beer stein, three stuffed animals, and a sorority paddle. Curiously I picked up the paddle and looked at it. It was one of those wooden ceremonial things inscribed with the Greek letters and crest — in this case, Mu Omega Sigma. I was surprised because I hadn’t known Elaine had gone to college. Nor had she seemed like a sorority type.
I put the paddle back and left the room. There was another door off the hall, and I went through it into an office. It contained some shelves and filing cabinets, and a desk with a bunch of folders stacked in the center of the blotter. I went through them, finding insurance papers, income tax records, and a simple will leaving everything to a nephew, James Picard, in Lemon Grove. There was a note clipped to a homeowner’s policy indicating she planned to increase her coverage.
Does a person who is depressed enough to kill herself worry about liability and loss from fire or theft? I asked myself. It didn’t seem likely.
Inside the bottom folder in the stack there was the carbon of a typewritten letter, dated two days ago, to an Alan Thorburn, Esq., at a downtown address. The first paragraph mentioned a meeting next week with Thorburn and someone named Hugh — probably a C.P.A. — to review Elaine’s tax situation. I was about to put the letter back in the file when the second paragraph caught my eye. I skimmed the rest of it, then sat down in the desk chair and reread it more slowly.
As I mentioned on the phone the other day, I’ve uncovered a disturbing situation at the Casa del Rey. I am taking this opportunity to go on record about this, and ask that you date-stamp this letter and place it in your safe, in case I should need evidence of my lack of involvement in this situation at some future date.
At this point, I can’t say exactly what is going on, although I’m quite certain that the hotel is being used for illegal activities. I am also fairly certain that the parent company, Yamana International, is not involved.
Should these activities come to the attention of the police, I would naturally be suspect as chief of security. Therefore I need this letter and the attached clipping on file as proof of my noninvolvement.
You cautioned me to be careful, Alan, and I assure you that I will be, although I definitely intend to get to the bottom of this matter. Please don’t worry; I will proceed very cautiously.
Looking forward to seeing you and Hugh next week, with all best wishes,
Elaine’s name was typed below the closing sentence.
I sat staring at the letter, then looked for a copy of the clipping she’d mentioned, but didn’t find it. Then I stuffed the letter into my purse.
A wastebasket stood next to the desk. I pulled it over and began going through its contents. There was a draft of the letter to Thorburn, a bunch of junk mail, some crumpled Kleenexes, an empty paper-clip box, and a wadded-up ball of blue paper. I smoothed the blue paper out on the desk and saw it was written on in bold felt-tip printing. With a slight sense of shame at further invading my friend’s privacy, I read what appeared to be a love note.
I know that you have been avoiding me and I can guess the reasons why, but I think we are both aware that this thing that has started between us is totally beyond our control. Ever since that night at the club, I have been unable to get you out of my mind. And although you claim otherwise, I know you feel the same way too. Please don’t turn a cold hand to me, Elaine. There have been others for me, but never anyone like you. I wait for your reply.
The signature was a scrawled letter that could have been an H or an R or a K, or perhaps even a B.
So she’d had a lover after all — one who sounded pretty devoted, if not downright lovelorn. H or R or K or B? Or possibly a stylized S or P? I was willing to bet it was R. For Rich.
There was a red purse-sized address book on the desk. I picked it up and went through it, looking for someone named Rich. There were two, along with someone called Rick. A few of the other names I recognized — Karyn Sugarman, Lloyd Beddoes, Alan Thorburn — and others were totally unfamiliar. I glanced through the entire book, and put it and the love note in my purse with the other letter. Hastily I checked the desk drawers, found them almost empty, then left the office and went down the hall to the living room.
What about the situation Elaine had uncovered at Casa del Rey? I wondered. And what had been in the clipping she’d sent with the letter to her lawyer? Since it had only been written on Thursday, I doubted she had been able to find out much more in the interim.
Or maybe she had. Maybe that was why she’d died.
This new information made Lloyd Beddoes and perhaps his assistant, Ibarcena, look very bad. I tried to picture them as they’d stood with Wolf in the garden that morning after Elaine’s fall. They’d been nervous. Nervous and upset. But guilty-looking? Perhaps. I’d been plenty upset myself, and my memory wasn’t too clear on the fine points.