A Room to Die In (8 page)

“Yes. They paid
eight thousand dollars down, I believe, and Pearl held a mortgage on the
balance, about thirty thousand dollars. The mortgage would naturally be part of
your father’s estate.”

“I haven’t come
across it,” said Ann. “Thank you for mentioning it.”

Edgar Maudley
set his cup down and rose. “Well, I must be on my way. I’m sure we can work
something out, Miss Nelson. If I were a rich man—which, alas! I am not—I could
offer you what these articles are worth to me, although, as I mentioned,
sentiment and value are incommensurable.”

“Exactly. So if
any of these articles should change hands between us, we’ll have them appraised
by an impartial authority. Will that be satisfactory?”

Maudley took his
hat and coat. With a bitter smile he said, “I did think you might feel the
slightest bit uncomfortable, coming into possession of an estate which,
strictly speaking, was your father’s by sheer chance.”

“Not at all,” said
Ann. “It’s the nicest thing that ever happened to me. And since my father had
to die in any event, I’m glad I was able to profit by it.”

Maudley seemed
horrified. “I must say . . . Well, it might be wise not to count your
chickadees before they’re hatched.”

“What do you
mean, Mr. Maudley?” Ann asked very distinctly.

The man seemed
sorry he had spoken. “Nothing, nothing at all,” he said hurriedly. “Thank you
for the tea, Miss Nelson. Here is my card, in case you should change your mind.”
He departed. Ann looked down at the card with a curling lip and tossed it
aside.

She took the
teacups to the sink thoughtfully. Edgar Maudley’s visit had solved one mystery—the
identity of the man who had quarreled with her father—but it posed another:
Where was the mortgage to the Cypriano house? It had not been in the desk,
where her father had kept his other important papers.

On Sunday Ann
notified Mrs. Darlington that various contingencies associated with her father’s
death would prevent her coming to work until the middle of the week. The
principal pointed out with just a trace of tartness that since school ended
Friday, she might just as well not bother. Ann said that if she possibly could,
she would return to work, although perhaps it did seem a trifle foolish under
the circumstances.

On Monday she
engaged an attorney to deal with her father’s will. She also learned that
cadavers were no longer in short supply at medical schools. Only after diligent
effort was she able to place the body of Roland Nelson with the Stanford
Medical Center.

On Tuesday she
signed various affidavits, obtained the signature of the Marin County Coroner,
and arranged transportation of her father’s remains from San Rafael to Palo
Alto.

On Wednesday Ann
returned to work at Mar Vista, and on Wednesday evening Edgar Maudley
telephoned. He was anxious to learn what she had decided regarding the matters
they had discussed. Ann informed him that she had not been able to give the
situation much thought.

When might he
expect her to reach a decision? Probably not before Saturday, Ann replied. This
was the earliest she would find it convenient to sort through her father’s
effects.

Edgar Maudley
said that he would make sure to be on hand, if only to assist her. Ann thanked
him for offering to help, but said it might be better if she conducted the
preliminary survey by herself.

Maudley made a
noncommittal sound, something like “Hmm, hmm, hmm.” Then he said, “Incidentally—and
I ask from sheerest curiosity; it’s no affair of mine—have you learned what
disposition your father made of the Cypriano mortgage?”

“Not yet. I
haven’t checked things over.”

“They didn’t
mention the mortgage?”

“No.”

“Strange.”

“There’s probably
some simple explanation,” said Ann. “We spoke of other things.” The thought
came to her, was this the reason she had been invited to lunch? It seemed
unlikely, since the mortgage had not been mentioned. No, it was about the chess
set.

Maudley said, “I’ll
give you some advice, young woman, and that is—be businesslike! Your father and
the Cyprianos were friends of long standing, but don’t let this fact influence
you. I hope you don’t regard me as meddlesome.”

“Of course not.”
Edgar Maudley apparently did not like the Cyprianos. Ann wondered why. Because
Jehane had introduced Pearl to Roland Nelson?

Maudley
reiterated his intention of helping Ann on the coming Saturday. Ann discouraged
him once more, and the conversation ended.

On Thursday
morning, as she left for work, she found a letter from her mother in the
mailbox. It was postmarked Tuesday, June 4, at Beverly Hills. She read it, went
back to the apartment, telephoned the Marin County Sheriff’s Office, and asked
for Inspector Tarr.

Tarr was not in,
reported the clerk. Was there any message?

“No, said Ann,
it was important that she speak to Inspector Tarr personally. She had important
information for him.

The clerk
promptly gave her a number at which she might be able to reach Inspector Tarr.

Ann dialed,
listened. Finally, a woman answered. “Hello?”

Ann spoke in the
most formal of voices. “May I speak to Inspector Tarr, please?”

“Who’s calling?”
The woman’s voice sounded suspicious.

“Ann Nelson.”

“Ann Nelson.” The
woman repeated the name, then grudgingly said, “I’ll see if I can wake him up.”

Several minutes
passed. Ann, with not too much time to spare, was on the point of hanging up
whenTarr’s drowsy voice sounded in her ear. “Tarr speaking.”

“This is Ann
Nelson,” said Ann, very distinctly. “I’m sorry to disturb you—”

“Not at all,” said
Tarr. “It’s my day off. I’m at my sister’s house.”

“Oh?” Ann tried
to convey in a single word the extent of her utter indifference—and disbelief. “I’ve
received a letter from my mother. I thought you ought to know about it as soon
as possible.”

“A letter from
your mother?” Tarr seemed puzzled and surprised. “Where was it mailed?”

“The envelope is
postmarked June fourth, Beverly Hills.”

“Can you read it
to me?” Ann read aloud:

My dear Baby Ann:

I
have just learned of your good fortune, so to speak, from a person who chooses
to remain nameless. For some reason he is interested in you, and also me, and
is asking delicate questions about the past.

As
you know, I am having a tough time financially as well as being miserably unhappy
with my health. I have a practically continuous migraine which gives me
hell!
I hope that you will see fit to share your
good fortune with me. I really need a stroke of good luck to boost my flagging
spirits.

I
plan to come north in a day or so and will drop in on you. I am sure we can
come to a mutually happy settlement.

As ever,

ELAINE

After a short
silence Tarr asked, “Do you recognize the handwriting, Miss Nelson?”

“It’s definitely
her handwriting.”

“Is the letter
itself dated?”

“No. She just
starts writing.”

“What does she
mean: ‘delicate questions about the past’?”

“I don’t know.”

“ ‘A person who
chooses to remain nameless’—now who could that be?”

“I haven’t the
faintest idea.”

“What about that
‘Baby Ann’ bit? Is that her usual salutation?”

“It might be
almost anything: ‘Snooks,’ ‘Toodles,’ ‘Brat.’ I’ve seen ‘You miserable little
ingrate!’ on occasion. Anything, in fact, but ‘Dear Ann.’ ”

“This is
certainly interesting. She doesn’t give her address?”

“No.”

“What about the
envelope?”

“There’s no
return address. She just printed ‘Ann Nelson, sixty-nine fifty Granada Avenue,
San Francisco.’ That’s all.”

Tarr grunted. “Do
you consider that typical?”

“With my mother
nothing is typical.”

“I see . . . I
definitely want to examine that letter. How about tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow is the
last day of school; I should be finished about noon. If it’s convenient I’ll
drop by your office. There’s another matter about which I’d like your advice.”

“So long as it’s
not about investing your money. I’m the lousiest businessman in the country.”

Ann did not
deign to notice Tarr’s facetiousness. “It will probably be close to one by the
time I arrive.”

“I’ll expect you
at one.”

On Thursday
evening the attorney called to notify her that the Marin County Probate Court
had issued a decree naming her executrix of her father’s estate, and that he
had also obtained an authorization for the transfer of the various stocks and
securities to her name. There were papers to be signed, an inventory of
possessions, assets, and obligations compiled and filed with the court. Ann
made an appointment to meet him Monday.

On the following
morning Ann took unusual pains with her clothes: this might well be the last
day of her teaching career. Also, she’d be leaving directly for San Rafael. In
spite of her disapproval of Tarr, his hypocrisy, and his lechery, she refused
to appear at a disadvantage compared with his vulgar girl friends. Vulgar and
blowsy.
Perhaps he liked them vulgar and blowsy.
So what? Tarr’s tastes were of no concern to her.

Ann dressed in a
spanking dark-blue and white frock with white accessories, an outfit in which
she knew she looked her best.

The morning
passed quickly; the pupils trooped home at noon. There was still a certain
amount of paper work, which Ann would take care of next week. She bade her
fellow faculty members goodbye and drove across the bridge to San Rafael.

Tarr greeted her
with formality. She saw by his glance that the pains she had taken with her
clothes had not been wasted. He escorted her into the little office where he
had taken her before, and without preamble said, “Let’s see the letter.”

Ann produced the
envelope. Tarr scrutinized it closely. Then, extracting the letter, he pored
over it for several minutes. Ann finally became restless. “Well?”

Tarr said in a colorless
voice, “May I keep it?”

“If you like.”

He laid the
letter with exaggerated care upon the corner of his desk, leaned back, and
inspected Ann quizzically. “What do
you
make of the letter?”

“What do I make
of it? It’s self-explanatory, isn’t it? Elaine wants in.”

“Her prospects,
I gather, aren’t very good.”

Ann smiled
faintly. “I’m required to pay her ten cents a year.”

Tarr nodded. “Don’t
you find it odd that your mother asks for money, but doesn’t let you know where
to find her?”

“No. According
to the letter, she plans to see me in a few days. There’ll be a flaming
quarrel; she’ll have hysterics; and she’ll run from the apartment screaming
that I’ll never set eyes on her again.” She watched Tarr, daring him to show
disapprobation. But Tarr only lurched erect in his seat, once more examined the
letter, again put it to one side. “I’ll send this to the lab. There’s one or
two points . . .” His voice trailed off. Then he said, “I’ve found out where
your mother stayed during her visit last March: the Idyllwild Motel on Highway
101. She arrived about seven o’clock and checked out the next morning. The
proprietor’s wife remembers her because your mother priced a house trailer they
had for sale, talked about Florida and Honolulu, and burned three cigarette holes
in a pillowcase. Another item of information, a rather peculiar one: your
father’s nearest neighbors live about two hundred yards up the road.”

“The Savarinis.”

“Correct. Simple
people, but far from stupid. About two weeks ago they heard three shots. I wish
they could be sure of the date, but they can’t. The time was midnight; they
remember that well enough. They had just turned off the TV and gone to bed.”

“Three shots?”

“Three shots, at
intervals of about a minute, from the direction of Roland Nelson’s house. Mr.
Savarini is positive that the sounds were shots, not backfires or firecrackers.
He owns six guns and he insists that he knows what a shot sounds like. That’s
about all there is to it. Three shots at midnight, about the time your father
died.”

“Odd.”

“I agree. Damned
odd. Roland Nelson was killed by a single shot; we found a single empty
cartridge. It’s possible that someone totally unconnected with the case may
have fired the shots, but it’s certainly stretching coincidence. . . . Well, it’ll
all come out in the wash.” He stretched lazily. “You mentioned a problem.”

“I suppose it’s
a problem. Pearl’s cousin called on me the other night, a man named Edgar
Maudley. Incidentally, he’s the man who refused to witness my father’s will.” Tarr
looked at her reproachfully. “I suppose I should have telephoned you.”