"Not yet."
"Do you have any idea who it was?"
"Possibly."
"Who?"
"Do you know a bald man in his forties, heavy-set, dark?"
"I don't believe so. Is… he the one you suspect?"
"We're trying to find him," Quartermain said. "You and Paige were friends, is that correct?"
"Yes. We were friends."
"But you hadn't seen him in six years?"
"No. No, I hadn't."
"Did you know he had come back to Cypress City?"
"No. He… didn't try to get in touch with us or anything."
"But he did, Mrs. Tarrant."
"What?"
"He called your husband several weeks ago and tried to rent a vacant store here in Cypress Bay; your husband turned him down. You didn't know about that?"
"Keith didn't tell me, no." Her hands moved against one another like furtive lovers. "I can't imagine Walt trying to rent a vacant store-unless he was planning to move back to this area. Why did my husband turn him down?"
"He said he didn't care for Paige, that Paige was not the type of man he cared to have for a neighbor. Why would he say that if the three of you were friendly six years ago?"
"I don't know. He… I always thought he and Walt were friendly. He's never said any differently to me."
"What was his reaction to Paige's death?"
"Well, he was shocked, naturally. Just as I was." She moistened her lips. "We were both shocked, too, when we heard this morning about poor Brad Winestock. Does that have any connection with what happened to Walt?"
"It might. We're not certain just yet."
The door at the rear of the room opened and the brunette reappeared. "The schoolhouse key doesn't seem to be in Mr. Tarrant's key file," she said. "He usually keeps it there, but he was at the schoolhouse on Friday, and he may still have it with him."
"He'll be back shortly, you said?" Quartermain asked Bianca Tarrant.
"Yes, any minute now."
She did not seem to want to do any more talking; she returned to her chair and sat down and opened a large handbag on the floor beside it and made a project out of lighting a mentholated cigarette. Her hands were agitated. Smoke fanned out of her nostrils and from between her lips, and she watched it eddy and swirl as if the nebulous patterns held a great fascination for her; she did not look at any of us.
The brunette sat down, wearing a bewildered expression, and Quartermain took Dancer's arm and moved him over near the door. I followed them. Quartermain said sotto voce, "What about Paige and Mrs. Tarrant, Dancer? Was there ever anything between them?"
"Hell, I can't tell you if there was or wasn't Paige didn't brag up his conquests, and if the two of them were playing around, they sure as Christ weren't talking about it in company."
"She's acting guilty as hell about something," Quartermain said darkly. "What and why, if there was nothing between them?"
Neither Dancer nor I had any answers for that-but even if we had had any, we would not have had time to put voice to them. There was movement out on the sidewalk, and the glass-paneled door opened and Keith Tarrant came briskly into the office. He stopped when he saw the three of us standing there, glanced over at his wife, and then gave us a wan smile. If he was also suffering a hangover, he did not show it; his eyes were clear and his round face was smooth and line-free. He wore tan slacks and a soft light-brown sports jacket and a beige tie-moneyed attire.
"Gentlemen," he said.
"Hello, Keith," Quartermain said, and Dancer and I nodded.
"You all look like you've had a rough night" His smile went away. "You especially, Russ. A damned shame, what happened to your place last night."
"Yeah," Dancer said.
"Well-I gather you're waiting to see me?"
"We are," Quartermain told him. "We'd like to have the key to the old schoolhouse on Gutierrez Avenue."
"The museum?" Tarrant looked puzzled. "What would you want in there?"
"There are some things in the basement we'd like to look through. Specifically, Anita Hartman's donation."
"May I ask why?"
"We're looking for boxes of papers and such Dancer here gave Miss Hartman a few years ago. There may be a manuscript carbon of The Dead and the Dying among them."
"Oh, so that's it," Tarrant said. "The book does have something to do with Paige's death, then?"
"We think it might. And with what happened to Dancer's place, and with the murder of Brad Winestock."
"God, is all of that interconnected?"
"It would seem to be."
Tarrant looked at Dancer. "Russ, you wrote the book; why do you need the manuscript carbon?"
"I wrote it twenty years ago," Dancer told him. "Can you remember details of what you were doing twenty years ago?"
"Yes, I see what you mean. Well, the key is in my briefcase, in the trunk of my car. I'll get it for you right away."
"Would you mind coming over to the schoolhouse with us, Keith?" Quartermain asked.
"I guess not-but Bianca and I have a luncheon engagement in Monterey. Do you really need me?"
"I'd like to discuss some things with you, and it would save time if we talked over there. You can bring your wife along and leave for Monterey from the schoolhouse."
"Just as you say, then," Tarrant agreed. He went over to where his wife was sitting. "Bianca?"
"Yes," she said, "all right."
She had gotten the nervousness out of her voice, and her words were controlled. She stood up and Tarrant put his arm around her shoulders and told the brunette that if there were any calls, he expected to be back in Cypress Bay by four o'clock. Then the five of us filed out, and the Tarrants went down to where his Chrysler was parked a short distance away. A few seconds later Quartermain pulled out to lead the way to Gutierrez Avenue.
The schoolhouse was a simple Early California building, complete with a bell tower atop its canted tile roof-an old and stern and vaguely melancholy structure with time-scarred adobe walls; but the bell tower was freshly painted and you could see the big iron bell within gleaming dully in the warm morning sunlight, as if recently polished.
We parked directly in front, and Tarrant pulled up behind us and got out and opened the trunk for his briefcase. Sparrows and blackbirds chattered in the surrounding trees and shrubs, but there was nonetheless a hushed quality about the schoolhouse-as if a place that had once been the dispensary of simple knowledge commanded a certain solemnity and respect from all living things. It was a fitting location, I thought, for the Cypress Bay Historical Museum of Art and Literature.
Quartermain went to the Chrysler and said something to Tarrant as he was about to open the door for his wife. I saw him frown slightly, and then shrug, and then lean in to speak to her; I knew Quartermain had asked that Mrs. Tarrant remain in the car-that he wanted to ask questions of Tarrant without her being present. She stayed where she was, and Quartermain and Tarrant came up to join Dancer and me on a packed-earth path leading through the grounds.
The schoolhouse's front entrance was set into a recessed arch-heavy, triangular-hinged double doors with an old-fashioned bronze latch in one of them. Tarrant used his key, and the door swung inward to reveal a cool mustiness and thick, mass-shadowed gloom.
"We've had the electricity turned on for some time now," he said. "I'll get the lights."
He stepped inside and moved away to the left and moments later fluorescent tubes suspended from the ceiling flickered like strobe lights and then came on brightly. I saw as we entered that a considerable amount of labor had been expended by the volunteer citizens' group. Walls had been knocked down and partitions erected, and there was scaffolding and an array of ladders and sawhorses and paint canvases and hand tools strewn about the dusty floor.