Death Claims: A Dave Bran[d]stetter Mystery Page 13

  She'd kept at her cleaning. The room looked the way it must have looked in her mother's day, the spooled maple glossy, the chintz slipcovers straight, even a bowl of flowers on the coffee table, California poppies, yolk yellow. A place for everything and everything in its place. Except Cook's Voyages. They still leaned like dark old tombstones at the foot of the wall of books. He opened the door in that wall.

  Not far. It hit something and stopped. He edged through. What it had hit was another door hanging open. To a closet. He'd wanted to find that. He peered in. The jacket hung there, among others, the corduroy one, cuffs still turned back four inches as they'd been when she wore it the other night. It was exactly like the one Peter Oats was wearing, lined with the same gold check pattern. He crouched. On the closet floor, among other dusty gleams of leather, stood a pair of short boots. Same heavy straps and brass ring fastenings as Peter's. In his head he heard Eve Oats's voice: They thought alike, moved alike, spoke alike, looked alike. He shut the closet door.

  The room was just big enough for a double bed, a chest of drawers, a desk and chair. And that was what was in it. All of it maple. The surfaces shone. A fresh white candlewick spread was smooth on the bed. On the chest with a chased silver comb, brush, looking-glass was a standing photo in a chased silver frame. A smiling man and woman at the rail of a ship, a thin blonde girl child between them, clutching a book and screwing up her face in the bright sun.

  Except for a black portable typewriter case with frayed corners, the desktop was empty. But the drawers weren't. They weren't tidy, either. At least not the ones he opened, the top ones. What had lain on the desk had simply been pushed off into them—bills, empty envelopes, fliers, blue-chip stamps, pencils, ballpoint pens, limp rubber bands, bent paperclips, some dog-eared snapshots. And notes on scraps of paper.

  He put on his glasses, sat down, sorted the scraps. Dusty to the touch. Lists—milk, tomato soup, Spam, cigarettes. Book titles. Some nineteenth-century dates. A lengthy addition problem in pounds, shillings, pence, the total converted to dollars, many dollars. The phone number of a roofing company. Dave glanced up. The ceiling was rain-stained. He smiled. He stopped smiling.

  His fingers held a stiff yellow subscription blank torn raggedly along the perforated edge that had held it in a magazine. The blanks hadn't been filled in, but on the side with the printed return address was written Peter. And under the name was a phone number. He remembered the number because it had been hard to get. It was the number of Wade Cochran's ranch.

  He thumbed through the snapshots. They were all of Peter. But only two were recent and one of those was blurred. He slid the clear one into a pocket along with the subscription card. He put away his glasses, pawed the stuff back into the drawers, shut the drawers. He set the chair back, put the key where he'd found it. He went away.

  19

  THE PINK STATION wagon stood drab in the sun on the blacktop oblong of the shopping center. He was moving fast when he noticed it. But the highway was empty. With a squeal of tires, he slewed the company car around and went back. He parked without worrying about the white lines and walked fast along the strip of cement that margined the shops, frowning through the sun-glaring plate-glass fronts.

  She was at a checkstand in the Safeway. Jeans, Navy-surplus pullover, hair tucked up under a dark knittedcap. Boyish. He pushed inside, walked to the end of the counter where a wide black belt was bringing the items out of her shopping cart. Not many and not expensive. Just the same, she watched the cashregister tally anxiously while a stout, gray-haired black woman in a red smock worked the keys.

  Dave cracked open a brown paper sack and began to drop the items into it. April looked at him. She didn't smile. The black woman made the register jingle and the drawer came open. She spoke to April and the girl took bills out of her wallet and laid them in the woman's palm that was the color of mushrooms. When the woman turned with April's change she saw Dave dropping the last item into the sack and clowned surprise. "Thank you!" Her laugh was chocolate with marshmallow. She turned, chuckling, to empty the next shopping cart.

  "You were right," April said. "I hope it makes you very happy."

  "Only moderately. There's something wrong." She reached for the sack. He picked it up. "You want to help me find out what it is?''

  "Give me that, please," she said. "I don't want to help you and I don't want you to help me."

  He held on to the sack. "It could help Peter."

  Her pain-dulled eyes doubted him, but she waited.

  He said, "Ring the telephone company and find out what longdistance calls you've been charged with since your last bill. There's a booth outside. One number I'm especially interested in." He shifted the sack, dug out the subscription card, showed it to her. She frowned into his face for a second longer, then looked at the card.

  "That's John's writing. Where did you get that?"

  He told her, starting with the key above the door.

  "You have no scruples at all, have you? Prying—"

  "If you'd pried a little, John Oats might still be alive. If you'll pry a little now, maybe you can keep Peter that way. Phone. I'll put these in your car."

  "All right." She snatched the card. "I'll phone. For Peter. Not for you." She stamped off.

  He set the groceries on the sandy floor behind a fold-down seat that leaked gray cotton at the seams. He backed out, straightened, let the door fall shut and stood watching her in the glassand- aluminum booth, one of a pair in a notch between drugstore and laundromat. The call didn't take long. She pulled open the folding doors and came toward him past tarnished metal racks that held newspapers behind coin-locked plastic windows. OATS YOUTH HELD IN FATHER'S DEATH. She gave back the card. Her voice had no life to it.

  "He called the number. Or someone did. At five twelve P.M. The day he died. And now"—she yanked open the station-wagon door—"will you please leave me alone?" The seat leaned against the steering wheel like a defeated drunk. She slammed it back, got into the car, pulled the door shut hard. She was crying. "Forever. Please?"

  Dave watched her poke blindly with a key for the ignition lock in the gritty dash. "What did I do now?"

  "What you started out to do!" She turned a twisted face to him, scattering tears. "Prove to me that Peter killed John. If that's where he was living and John called there, it must have been to tell him about the insurance. And Peter came and killed him. Isn't that what it means?"

  "Maybe. But you don't believe it. And you don't have to. Not yet. Not till I find out why the man whose telephone number that is lied to me."

  Las Gaviotas was at the end of a strong old pier south of El Molino. Along the pier, white wooden bait shacks shouldered white wooden souvenier shops and booths that peddled fresh fish and fish to eat right there. There were also taverns and a chandler's shed with coils of tarred rope outside the door, a weathered dummy in a rubber suit, a faded yellow life raft. Old men leaned at the pier's white railings, fishing rods in their hands, buckets at their feet. So did fat women in men's caps and bib overalls. So did small boys.

  Dave heard Mexican talk as he went by, Portuguese talk, a rich infusion of Mississippi Delta black talk. Now and then a car rumbled the planks underfoot, rolling slowly out to the pier's end, beyond which big sailing craft rode picturesquely at anchor, two-masters, three-masters that hadn't sailed anywhere in years. The cars herded around Las Gaviotas, a circular building with an uprush of neon seagulls on its roof.

  What they spoke at the tables inside was Main Street Midwest. Iowa wrote itself on every sun-reddened forehead. The skin around every pair of eyes was white from sunglasses. Binoculars rested on corn-fed paunches in Hawaiian shirts. Cameras in their cases kicked around on the tough green carpeting underfoot. Their owners ate crayfish they would call lobster when they got back to Cedar Rapids because that was what Las Gaviotas called it in red neon over the door.

  Dave moved from the door toward the rear where a crisscross of beams was hung with heavy nets and Japanese fishing floats
of colored glass. He wanted the kitchen swing doors the nets were meant to hide. When he was halfway down the room he saw a man with menus under his arm start toward him. Beautiful suit, crinkly red hair. His smile was all right, but he wouldn't answer questions. Not without sparring first. And maybe not at all. Dave nodded to tell the man he had legitimate business back there and lengthened his stride. The man had other things to do. He didn't follow.

  In the pan clatter, the shouts, the steam and throat-grabbing food smells of the big sheet-metal kitchen Dave found a Mexican with a seamed brown face under his white paper chefs hat who was laughing with a pretty Chinese boy while they deveined shrimp at a zinc counter. Dave didn't use any preliminaries but a grin and the lift of a hand. He didn't like to cut the Chinese boy out, but he wanted to cut himself in, so he used Spanish.

  "Conoce usted a Wade Cochran, la estrella de televisión?"

  "Sí." The Mexican's grin widened. His nod was eager. "The Sky Pilot. I always watch it."

  That came packaged in English. Dave went back to English. "Tell me—has he ever been in here?"

  "He was in here every night a few weeks back. I never seen him. I work days. I got to get my sleep. But I heard about him. He come in real late. That figures. There is almost nobody here then except in the bar. Stars—they want privacy."

  "But he came to eat," the Chinese boy said. "He doesn't drink. I mean in real life. He doesn't drink."

  "Did you see him?" Dave asked.

  "Once. I happened to stop in with my girl after a film. I don't go around chasing celebrities."

  "Was he alone?"

  "No. Some dude was with him. I don't know his name. He went to EMSC. I used to see him on campus."

  The Mexican said, "I heard he was always with him."

  Dave took out the snapshot. "Is this the dude?"

  "Yeah." The Chinese boy stopped smiling. "I guess so. Are you a cop or something?"

  "Or something," Dave said. "Thanks."

  North of El Molino motels lined the highway, bowling alleys, drive-in movies, flash restaurants of stone, beams, slanted glass. He picked the motel farthest out, where a few live oaks still grew and you could see the hills bright with new green. When he got out of the car he heard a meadowlark. He stopped for fifteen seconds to listen, then pushed into an office so new it smelled of the glue that held the fake wood paneling to the walls. There were neat mini-jungles of plastic tropical plants hard-surfaced as the shiny floor. Plastic music murmured from ceiling speakers. Plastic air came down cold from ceiling vents.

  The woman back of the counter had been the kind of plump little girl whose cheeks grandfathers loved to pinch. But that was in 1915. She was still plump, but the peach bloom of the cheeks was painted on now. The eyes were still round, blue, wistful, but the lashes were false. Her wig was a naughty toss of golden ringlets. The dimpled smile she gave him showed teeth little-girl perfect that had never belonged to any little girl.

  "Isn't this a pretty day?" The voice was four years old, even to the lisp. "Don't you just love Southern California?"

  "What there is left of it," Dave said. "I'm a representative of Mr. Wade Cochran. He stayed the night at a motel along here a few weeks ago. But he doesn't remember which one. What he does remember at this late date is that he left an attache case behind. I wonder if this is the place."

  "Why, yes." She was thrilled. She twittered. "Yes, it was. It was very late, of course, and I wasn't on duty. Mr. Fitch, our night manager—he was here. And of course, he told me all about it. We all love Wade Cochran. Don't you?"

  "He makes it easy," Dave said.

  "Well, of course, he's so famous that Mr. Fitch knew him right away. He signed another name, but that's only natural. Celebrities like that have to do everything they can to protect their anonymity. So Mr. Fitch just let it go by. He understood."

  "The attaché case?" Dave said.

  The light went out of her face. "Well, now, that's a mystery. I didn't hear anything about that. And there's no attache case in the left-luggage room. I'm sure of that. I know everything that's in there."

  "I see," Dave said. "Well, maybe the young man that was with him that night has it."

  "Yes. May be. Mr. Fitch was wondering about him. He didn't come in, but Mr. Fitch saw him go into the unit with Mr. Cochran. He said he was a very handsome boy. But he didn't know him. Is he an actor?"

  "Oh, yes," Dave said. "Quite a little actor."

  20

  IN FRONT OF the white ranch house with its low shake roof, long porch, window boxes of red geraniums, the old oaks dropped speckled shadow on five cars. The evangelist's Lincoln limousine was gone. Instead there were a tomato-red Corvette, a bronze Nova and a boxy white panel truck lettered in crisp black with the name of an electronics manufacturer. The broad-beamed estate wagon was still there. And so was the yellow Lotus.

  Dave parked next to the truck, got out and shut the door quietly. The valley was a scoop of sunlit silence. Someplace far off a crow cawed three times and stopped. Then, nearer, a typewriter rattled. The motor of a small electric tool whined. Dave went to the Lotus and knelt on the flagging, which was clean except for a scatter of brittle brown oak leaves. He reached up under the left rear fender and scraped with a fingernail. When he brought his hand out, it was salted with white sand.

  "Hold it right there."

  The accent was Southwest. Dave saw cowboy boots, warped up at the toes, run over at the heels, matted underneath with dried manure and straw. A pair of short bow legs in worn Levi's. A faded blue workshirt dark with sweat under the arms. A leatherbrown face, clean-shaven, broad-cheekboned. A weathered Stetson pushed back on hair that was Indian straight, Indian black. Narrow eyes that glittered like basalt. And a revolver in a workgnarled hand.

  "Stand up and state your business."

  "Insurance claims investigator." Dave stood and brushed away the sand. "Medallion Life. If you'll let me reach for it, I'll show you my identification."

  "I don't give a damn for your identification. I want to know what you want."

  "I want to talk to Mr. Cochran."

  "He ain't here."

  "His car is here." Dave touched the yellow paint.

  "He didn't take a car. He took a horse."

  "When do you expect him?"

  "I don't know, but you're not going to be here. Either you're going to climb back in that car of yours and high-tail it out of here just to oblige me, or the Sheriff can come and ride you away in his car. Then if you still want to pay Mr. Cochran a visit, you phone ahead next time and make an appointment. And when you come to keep it, go straight to the door. Don't sneak around fooling with his car. Come on." The gun barrel nudged the air. "Move it out."

  "I think I'd better talk to Mrs. Cochran."

  "Mrs. Cochran's a sick old blind lady. She ain't got strength to waste on strangers."

  "I'm not a stranger. I was here a couple of days ago. You saw me. On the porch with the dog, the red setter. When you came riding in at the gate."

  "Scratching a dog's ears and tampering with a car's two different things."

  "All right." Dave pushed hands into pockets and leaned back against the Lotus. "Phone the Sheriff. I need him more than you do. And if you call him, it'll save me a dime." The man squinted.

  "What do you need him for?"

  "I'm investigating a murder," Dave said. "And now I'm up against a gun. I don't have a gun. The Sheriff has. Or maybe you don't want him to find out a murder investigation is taking place on Wade Cochran's ranch. He might not be able to resist the chance to see himself on the six-o'clock news."

  The man scowled and moved his tongue around his teeth inside his clamped mouth. He took a breath. "All right. Step up on the porch there." He twitched the gun barrel again. "And press the doorbell."

  Katy wore a starchy shirtmaker dress again, but this one was blue. It changed the color of her eyes, but nothing else was different. Her frizzy red hair was still pulled back tight and knotted and a yellow pencil was still stuck in
to the knot. She looked at the gun, at Dave, at the brown man.

  "What's the trouble, Hank?"

  "Caught this man tampering with the Lotus."

  "What?" It was the farm-wife voice of the old woman from someplace out of sight. "What?"

  Katy glanced over her shoulder.

  "It's all right, Mother Cochran. I'll handle it." She studied Dave. "Medallion sells nothing but life insurance, Mr. Brandstetter. And you investigate deaths—isn't that what's on your business card? Deaths—not automobiles."

  "I'm investigating a death," Dave said. "A drowning with violence. It happened at a place called Arena Blanca. That's Spanish for white sand. It rained that night. White sand is caked under the fenders of Mr. Cochran's car. Does he let other people drive it?"

  "Drive it!" Hank snorted. "Hell, he don't even let 'em touch it. Me included. And I run this ranch for him. He even washes it himself."

  "Not thoroughly," Dave said. "Don't fire. I'm going to take a photograph out of my pocket."

  "Hank?" The old woman's voice came sharply. "Have you got that six-shooter out again?"

  "This is serious, ma'am," Hank called. He growled at Dave, "All right, take it out, but slow."

  "I'd like you both to look at it," Dave said. "Did you ever see this boy? Was he ever here at the ranch?"

  Katy reached for the snapshot, frowned at it, shook her head, passed it to Hank. He held the gun level with Dave's gut and took three steps backward on the green porch boards. His hard eyes dropped for a wary second to the little curled square of glossed paper. Then they were on Dave again. The shabby boots came back. He held the snapshot out. "Nope. Never."

  Chromed wire spokes glittered at the edge of the door Katy held half open. The old woman said, "What's all this about?" Fingers twisted by arthritis gripped the door and swung it wider. Her bones looked strong, but the flesh on them was wasted. She was smaller than Dave had thought. At her withered throat was a fine old silver brooch. A bright afghan covered her legs. Open on it lay a big book in Braille, the stiff pages sand-color. She turned up to them a face honed by prairie wind and sun. The question came sharp from crinkled lips held to shape by expensive dentures. "You say somebody used my son's car?"