The way Nyland told it, my visit to him at campaign headquarters had started him thinking that Elaine might have been murdered. And since he felt Jim Lauterbach’s file on Elaine was rightfully his property, he’d used his extensive contacts in city administration to obtain copies of both the file and the photographs of the house in the desert. Those photographs had immediately meant more to Nyland than they had to Wolf, because he’d met Karyn Sugarman a few times at Elaine’s house and knew what kind of car Sugarman drove — the Datsun that, in the photos, was parked among the others in front of Les Club.
On Monday night, Nyland had called Sugarman to ask about the house. Sugarman had denied knowing of it or ever having been there. This made Nyland all the more suspicious and he decided to check it out on Tuesday. He’d driven out to Borrego Springs in the morning and shown the photos to some of the residents. Because the old Matthews place was known to old-timers, one of them had readily identified it.
When Nyland arrived, he found Sugarman packing her things. Wolf and I speculated that Nyland’s call to Sugarman the night before had panicked her and sent her out there to remove all traces of her presence. But whatever the reason, she was there, and it hadn’t taken Nyland long to figure out what kind of place it was — and what Sugarman’s and Elaine’s connection with it had been.
Nyland had flown into a rage, and Sugarman had tried to calm him down. Doubtless she had used counseling techniques and psychological jargon — but her kind of counseling only inflamed him more. He went on a rampage, storming through the house, and they finally ended up in the dungeon. The sight of it totally unhinged him; he attacked Sugarman, slapping her until she admitted she had killed Elaine. Her reason, as she’d told it to Nyland, was much the same as I’d worked out that night in the dungeon room.
Originally, Nyland’s rage at Sugarman had been because she’d introduced Elaine to Les Club. But once he found out she’d also killed Elaine, he went wild and strangled her. And then he’d tied her to the cross, out of some warped religious fervor.
Nyland had then gone back to the living room, had a couple of stiff drinks, and left. But after driving several miles, he’d calmed down enough to remember Sugarman’s car. And he also knew he’d left clear evidence of his presence, in the form of fingerprints on the glass and Scotch bottle. He turned back, and in the meantime I’d arrived.
After he’d locked me in the room with Sugarman’s body, Nyland went to work packing the rest of her possessions, putting them and her purse in her car, and then driving the car into a hidden part of the desert. He walked back, got rid of my car — it had since been returned to me — walked back again, and then sat down to decide what to do with me. He had an automatic along, one that he always carried in his glove compartment; killing me would be a simple thing. Fortunately for me, guilt drove him back to the bottle and eventually he passed out and slept well into the next day, when he heard me trying to start his Cadillac. After I escaped into the desert, he waited near the house, watching for me with his binoculars, so he could kill me if the desert didn’t.
Last night at the emergency hospital, Wolf had also told me how he’d figured out Rich Woodall had killed Jim Lauterbach. Now I asked, “Did the police finally arrest Woodall?”
“Late last night, at his house. He’d been down in Mexico all day, apparently. At a jai-alai game, he said, but Knowles figured he was down there making arrangements to sell off those animals of his.”
“Did he confess to Lauterbach’s murder?”
“No, he’s stonewalling on that and on the animal-selling too.”
I nodded. That seemed consistent with what I knew of the man.
“But the D.A. doesn’t need a confession to convict him,” Wolf added. “Knowles found Lauterbach’s tape recorder in the trunk of his car. Apparently, Woodall got rid of the murder gun, but the damned fool hung on to the recorder.”
“What was on it?”
“A lot of stuff you wouldn’t want to hear. Evidently, Lauterbach not only took those photographs of the outside of Les Club, but also got inside the house and bugged it. Woodall’s voice is on the tape. So are a lot of other members’, including Elaine’s.”
“Why do you think Lauterbach broke into Woodall’s yard?”
“Looking for more blackmail evidence, probably. And he found it when he saw those animals. He must have demanded a big payoff from Woodall to keep both his activities in Les Club and his animal-dealing quiet. Instead he bought himself four bullets.”
“I wonder if Woodall planned the murder or not.”
“I’d say not. Maybe he went down to Lauterbach’s office Sunday and tried to scare him off. If my reading on Lauterbach is right, he wasn’t the type to scare — he probably ignored Woodall.”
“And if there’s one thing that’ll send that type into a rage, it’s being ignored.”
“Right. He either followed Lauterbach down to the john right then or went out, got himself worked up, and then came back and found Lauterbach in the stall.”
“What about Beddoes and Ibarcena?” I asked. “Does Knowles think Beddoes really did kill himself?”
“There doesn’t seem to be any question of that. He just couldn’t stand the idea of shame and prison, I guess. As for Ibarcena, you called that right. He’s skipped town, taking his young boyfriend with him. Back to Mexico, probably. As far as I’m concerned, he can stay disappeared. If the authorities don’t find him, I doubt if Timmy Ferguson’s mother will be able to trace the boy, reward or no reward. That part of this mess will have a happy ending, at least.”
“At least. One last thing, Wolf — what about Les Club? Who really owned that house?”
“Darrow and his wife. State records show them as officers of the corporation. They probably incorporated for tax reasons and then charged the other members dues.”
“Tax reasons. Good Lord. I’m glad I never met the Darrows.”
“Me too.”
I was silent for a moment. “You know,” I finally said, “everything was like a chain reaction, with one catalyst setting off three separate but connected personal explosions.”
“The murders.”
“Yes. The catalyst could have been Elaine’s death, but actually I think it goes back further than that, to the night Sugarman fell in love with Elaine and let things get out of hand.”
“Or even further, to when Sugarman introduced Elaine to the club.”
“You’re right. The club probably would have gone along as usual if it hadn’t been for Elaine joining. But because she did, Sugarman couldn’t handle her emotions, and that explosion ended in Elaine’s death.”
“And Woodall blew up at Lauterbach — who wouldn’t have known anything about Les Club, much less Woodall’s animal farm, if Nyland hadn’t hired him to find out about the ‘bizarre thing’ Elaine was involved in,” Wolf said. “And chances are Nyland never would have killed anyone if he hadn’t found out Sugarman had brought Elaine into the club and then killed her.”
“It makes me think of that old saw about evil begetting evil,” I said. “And more evil than just what was going on at Les Club. All these people with all their little scams that they didn’t want exposed — like a lot of people these days, I guess. Beddoes and Ibarcena had their fugitive-smuggling operation. Lauterbach was a blackmailer. Woodall had his illegal animal sales. Even Henry Nyland had a scam.”
Wolf looked at me with interest. “How do you figure that?”
“Reactionary politics. In a way, it’s the most dangerous scam of them all.”
My mother came into the room, smiling. “Cioppino’s almost done,” she said cheerfully. “But before we eat, your brother John wants to talk to you, Sharon. I’ll just take your friend into the kitchen for a nice little chat of our own.”