C is for Corpse (18 page)

“Well, yes. If you want to
put
it that way.”

“Where does this woman come from?”

Moza flapped the towel out and dabbed it against her upper lip, blotting sweat. She laid it out on her lap and pressed it with her hand, keeping her fingers together in a wedge like an iron. I saw Rosie's flinty gaze follow every movement and I thought she might give Moza's hand a smack with the cleaver. Moza must have thought so too because she quit fiddling with the towel and looked up at Rosie with guilt. “What?”

Rosie enunciated carefully, as though speaking to an alien. “Where does Lila Sams come from?”

“A little town in Idaho.”

“
What
little town?”

“Well, I don't know,” Moza said defensively.

“You have a woman living in your house and you don't know what town she comes from?”

“What difference does it make?”

“And you don't know what difference it makes?” Rosie stared at her with exaggerated astonishment. Moza broke eye contact and folded the towel into a bishop's miter.

“You do me a favor and you find out,” Rosie said. “Can you manage that?”

“I'll try,” Moza said. “But she doesn't like people prying. She told me that and she was quite definite.”

“I'm very definite too. I'm definite about I don't like this lady and I want to know what she's up to. You find out where she comes from and Kinsey can take care of the rest. And I don't have to tell you, Moza, I don't want Lila Sams to know. You understand?”

Moza looked cornered. I could see her debate, trying to decide which was worse: infuriating Rosie or getting caught spying on Lila Sams. It was going to be a close contest, but I knew who I was betting on.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I went back to my office late in the day and typed up my notes. There wasn't much, but I don't like to get behind. With Bobby dead, I intended to write regular reports and submit itemized bills at intervals, even if it was just to myself. I had tucked his file back in the drawer and I was tidying up my desk when there was a tap at the door and Derek Wenner peered in.

He said, “Oh. Hello. I was hoping I'd catch you here.”

“Hi, Derek. Come on in,” I said.

He stood for a moment, undecided, his gaze tracing the perimeters of my small office space. “Somehow I didn't picture this,” he said. “Nice. I mean, it's small, but efficient. Uh, how'd you do with Bobby's box? Any luck?”

“I haven't had a chance to look closely. I've been doing other things. Have a seat.”

He pulled a chair up and sat down, still looking around. He was wearing a golf shirt, white pants, and two-tone shoes. “So this is it, huh?”

This was his version of small talk, I assumed. I sat down and let him ramble briefly. He seemed anxious and I couldn't imagine what had brought him in. We made mouth noises at each other, demonstrating goodwill. I'd just seen him a few hours earlier and we didn't have that much to talk about.

“How's Glen doing?” I asked.

“Good,” he nodded. “She's doing pretty well. God, I don't know how she's gotten through, but you know she's made of substantial stuff.” He tended to speak in doubtful tones, as if he weren't absolutely certain he was telling the truth.

He cleared his throat and the timbre of his voice changed.

“Say, I'll tell you why I stopped in,” he said. “Bobby's attorney gave me a call a little while ago just to talk about the terms of Bobby's will. Do you know Varden Talbot?”

“We've never met. He sent me copies of the reports on Bobby's accident, but that's the extent of it.”

“Smart fellow,” Derek said. He was stalling. I thought I better goose him along or this could take all day.

“What'd he have to say?”

Derek's expression was a wonderful combination of uneasiness and disbelief. “Well, that's the amazing thing,” he said. “From what he indicated, I guess my daughter inherits the bulk of Bobby's money.”

It took me a moment to compute the fact that the daughter he referred to was Kitty Wenner, cokehead, currently residing in the psycho ward at St. Terry's. “Kitty?” I said.

He shifted in his seat. “I was surprised too, of course. From what Varden tells me, Bobby made out a will when he came into his inheritance three years ago. At that point, he left everything to Kitty. Then sometime after the accident, he added a codicil, so that a little money would go to Rick's parents as well.”

I was about to say “Rick's parents?” as if I were suffering from echolalia, but I clamped my mouth shut and let him continue.

“Glen won't be back until late, so she's not aware of it. I'd imagine she'll want to talk to Varden in the morning. He said he'd make a copy of the will and send it over to the house. He's going to go ahead and file it for probate.”

“And this is the first anybody's heard of it?”

“As far as I know.” He went on talking while I tried to figure out what it meant. Money, as a motive, always seems so direct. Find out who benefits financially and start from there. Kitty Wenner. Phil and Reva Bergen.

“Excuse me,” I said, cutting in. “Just how much money are we talking about?”

Derek paused to run a hand up along his jaw, as though deciding if he was due for a shave. “Well, a hundred grand to Rick's parents and gee, I don't know. Kitty probably stands to gain a couple mill. Now, you're going to have inheritance tax . . .”

All of the little zeros began to dance in my head like sugar plums. “Hundred grand” and “couple mill,” as in a hundred thousand dollars and two million of them. I just sat and blinked at him. Why had he come in here to tell me this stuff?

“What's the catch?” I asked.

“What?”

“I'm just wondering why you're telling me about it. Is there some problem?”

“I guess I'm worried about Glen's reaction. You know how she feels about Kitty.”

I shrugged. “It was Bobby's money to do with as he saw fit. How could she object?”

“You don't think she'd contest it?”

“Derek, I can't speculate about what Glen might do. Talk to her.”

“Well, I guess I will when she gets back.”

“I'm assuming the money was put in some kind of trust fund since Kitty's just seventeen. Who was named executor? You?”

“No, no. The bank. I don't think Bobby had a very high opinion of me. To tell you the truth, I'm a little worried about how this might look. Bobby claims someone's trying to kill him and then it turns out Kitty inherits all this money when he dies.”

“I'm sure the police will have a chat with her.”

“But you don't think she had anything to do with Bobby's accident, do you?”

Ah, the subtext of his visit.

I said, “Frankly, I'd find it hard to believe, but Homicide might see it differently. They might also want to take a look at you while they're at it.”

“Me?!” He managed to pack a lot of punctuation into one syllable.

“What if something happens to Kitty? Who gets the money then? She's not exactly in the best of health.”

He looked at me uncomfortably, probably wishing he'd never come in. He must have harbored the vague notion that I could reassure him. Instead, I'd only broadened the basis for his anxieties. He wound up the conversation and got up moments later, telling me he'd be in touch. When he turned to go, I could see that the golf shirt was sticking to his back and I could smell the tension in his sweat.

“Oh, Derek,” I called after him. “Does the name Blackman mean anything to you?”

“Not that I know. Why?”

“Just curious. I appreciate your coming in,” I said. “If you find out anything else, please let me know.”

“I will.”

Once he was gone, I put in a quick call to a friend of mine at the telephone company and asked about S. Blackman. He said he'd check into it and call me back. I went down to the parking lot and hauled out the cardboard box I'd picked up from Bobby's garage. I went back up to the office and checked the contents, taking the items out one by one. It was all just as I remembered it: a couple of radiology manuals, some medical texts, paper clips, ballpoint pens, scratch pads. Nothing of significance that I could see. I hauled the box back out and shoved it into the backseat again, thinking I'd drop it back at Bobby's house next time I was there.

What to try next? I couldn't think of a thing.

I went home.

As I pulled into a parking place out front, I found
myself scanning the walk for signs of Lila Sams. For a woman I'd only seen three or four times in my life, she was looming large, spoiling any sense of serenity I'd come to attach to the notion of “home.” I locked my car and went around to the backyard, glancing at the rear of Henry's house to see if he was there. The back door was open and I caught the spicy scent of yeast and cinnamon through the screen. I peered in and spotted Henry sitting at the table with a coffee mug and the afternoon paper in front of him.

“Henry?”

He looked up. “Well, Kinsey. There you are.” He came over and unlatched the screen, holding the door open for me. “Come in, come in. Would you like some coffee? I've got a pan of sweet rolls coming out in a minute.”

I entered hesitantly, still half expecting Lila Sams to jump out like a tarantula. “I didn't want to interrupt anything,” I said. “Is Lila here?”

“No, no. She had some business to take care of, but she should be back by six. I'm taking her out to dinner tonight. We have reservations at the Crystal Palace.”

“Oh, wow, impressive,” I said. Henry pulled a chair out for me and then poured me some coffee while I looked around. Lila had apparently taken her fine hand to the place. The curtains were new: avocado green cotton with a print of salt and pepper shakers, vegetable clusters, and wooden spoons, tied back with green bows. There were matching placemats and napkins, with accessories in a contrasting pumpkin shade.
There was a new trivet on the counter with a homely saying in wrought-iron curlicue. I thought it said, “God Bless Our Biscuits,” but that couldn't have been right.

“You've fixed the place up,” I said.

His face brightened and he looked around. “You like it? It was Lila's idea. I tell you, the woman has made such a difference in my life.”

“Well, that's good. I'm glad to hear that,” I said.

“She's made me feel . . . I don't know,
vital
is the word I guess. Ready to start all over again.”

I wondered if he was going to pass right over her accusations about my cheating him. He got up and opened the oven door, checking the sweet rolls, which he apparently decided were not quite done. He shoved them back and shut the oven, leaving the pumpkin-colored mitt on his right hand like a boxing glove.

I shifted uncomfortably on the stool where I was perched. “I thought maybe you and I should have a talk about Lila's accusations about the rent.”

“Oh, don't worry about it,” he said. “She was just in one of her moods.”

“But Henry, I don't want you to feel like I'm cheating you. Don't you think we should get that ironed out?”

“No. Piffle. I don't feel you're cheating me.”

“But she does.”

“No no, not at all. You misunderstood.”

“Misunderstood?” I said incredulously.

“Look, this is all my fault and I'm sorry I didn't get it straightened out at the time. Lila flew off the handle
and she realizes that. In fact, I'm sure she means to apologize. She and I had a long talk about it afterward and I know she felt bad. It had nothing to do with you personally. She's a little high-strung, but she's just the dearest woman you'll ever meet. Once you get to know her, you'll see what a wonderful person she is.”

“I hope so,” I said. “What worried me is that she and Rosie had that tiff and then she took off after me. I wasn't sure what was going on.”

Henry laughed. “Well, I wouldn't take that too seriously. You know Rosie. She gets into tiffs with everyone. Lila's fine. She's got a heart of gold and she's just as loyal as a little pup.”

“I just don't want to see you going off the deep end,” I said. It was one of those sayings that doesn't really mean anything but somehow it seemed to apply.

“No need to worry about that,” he said mildly. “I've been around a long time, you know, and I haven't gone off the deep end yet.”

He checked the sweet rolls again, and this time, he took them out and put the pan on the trivet to cool. He glanced over at me. “I haven't had a chance to tell you. She and I are going into a real-estate venture together.”

“Oh really?”

“Which is how the subject of your rent came up in the first place. Rental income affects the overall value of the property and that was her main concern. She said she didn't mean to interfere in our relationship at all. She's hard-headed when it comes to business but she didn't want to look like she was butting in.”

“What kind of real-estate venture?”

“Well, she owns some property she's going to put up as collateral, and with this place thrown in, we'll just about have the down payment on the property we want.”

“Something here in town?”

“I better not say. She swore me to secrecy. I mean, it's not firm yet anyway, but I'll tell you about it when we get the deal put together. It should be happening in the next couple of days. I had to swear I'd keep mum.”

“I don't understand,” I said. “You're selling your house?”

“I can't even begin to understand the details. Too complicated for me,” he said.

“I wasn't aware that she was involved in real estate.”

“Oh, she's been doing this sort of thing for years. She was married to some big wheeler-dealer in New Mexico, and when he died, he left her very well off. She's got a bundle. Does real-estate investments almost as a hobby, she says.”