Crazybone (20 page)

I was looking at the other names, hunched against the cold, when a woman came out of one of the ground-floor flats inside. She seemed to be in a hurry; she shoved through the entrance so quickly that I had to backpedal and go down a step to keep the door from whacking into me. She was on the short side, wiry, with iron-gray hair straggling out from under a shapeless hat, a straight-backed carriage, and an unlined, young-old face. She could have been anywhere from sixty to eighty. She wore tennis shoes, Levi’s, a flannel shirt, and a thin sweater — no coat or gloves, in spite of the fact it was that kind of day here.

I said, “Excuse me, ma’am. If you don’t mind I’d like a few minutes of your time.”

Bright blue eyes scowled at me. Snap, crackle, and pop eyes. “I do mind,” she said in a voice to match. “If you’re selling something, you’d better get out of my way. I don’t like solicitors.”

“I’m not a solicitor. I have some questions about one of your neighbors.”

“Which one?”

“John Klinghurst.”

“That asshole. You a friend of his?”

“No, I’m not.”

“What are you then?”

“A private investigator. I—”

“Hah!” she said, and I couldn’t tell if she meant anything by it or not. “I don’t have time to stand around and chew the fat. I’m going to the market. You want to ask me questions, you’ll have to walk along with me.”

She didn’t wait for an answer; she pushed past me — energetically, not rudely — and went down the steps and set off at a brisk pace. I had to hustle to catch up with her. She was short and she took short strides, but she covered a lot of ground in a hurry.

“Market’s three blocks,” she said. “Think you can keep up?”

“No problem.” But I had to work a little just the same.

“Walking’s good for you. Good for the heart, good for the lungs and leg muscles.” She gave me a sidelong glance. “Good for trimming off fat, too. You ought to do more of it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Don’t call me ma’am. My name is Farber, Alice Farber.”

“I’m pleased to meet you, Ms. Farber.”

“No you’re not, but at least you’re polite. Not like that asshole you’re investigating. Why are you anyway?”

“Investigating Klinghurst? Well—”

“Screwed somebody, probably, and I don’t mean sex. He’s the type. No scruples, no manners. He once called me a sorry old bitch to my face.”

“What’d you call him back?”

“A prick with ears.” She laughed. “He didn’t like it.”

“I’ll bet he didn’t.”

“Well? You didn’t answer my question.”

“I think he screwed somebody, just as you said.” She wasn’t one to mince words; I saw no reason why I should. “Scammed a friend of my mother-in-law’s out of his life savings.”

“Hah! I knew he was that kind! Why hasn’t he been arrested?”

“No proof yet.”

“Better get plenty of it so some asshole lawyer doesn’t get him off. Think you’ll have it before the end of the month?”

“I hope so.”

“Good. I’d like to be there when the cops come for him.”

“Are you going somewhere at the end of the month?”

“No,” she said, “he is. Moving out. I was happy to hear it, but this is better. Jail’s where he’ll be moving to now.”

We’d reached the corner. An uncontrolled corner, with cars parked at the curb on the downhill side so you had an obstructed view of oncoming traffic. Alice Farber marched right out into the wet street with only a cursory glance to her left. It startled me and it must have scared hell out of the driver of a blue van, who jammed on his brakes and then blew his horn long and loud. It didn’t faze her, though; she kept right on going without hesitation, up onto the sidewalk again with me at her heels like a balky dog.

“Kamikaze drivers,” she said. “No discipline, no courtesy. Pedestrians always have the right of way in crosswalks.”

There was nothing to say to that. I wouldn’t have said it if there was. I asked, “Do you know where Klinghurst plans to move to?”

“Marin County.”

“Where in Marin?”

“Don’t ask me. Ask his real estate agents.”

“You know who they are?”

“Thomas and Thomas, San Rafael. He got a big envelope from them last week.” She threw me another sidelong glance. “Don’t go thinking I poke around in other people’s business. I don’t. I came out one morning while the mailperson was there. She has packages, big envelopes, and she sees a tenant inside, she hands them over and the tenant puts them on a table in the lobby. You understand?”

“Sure. About this real estate outfit—”

“Thomas and Thomas. I happened to notice the name on the envelope, I remembered it because it was double. Husband and wife, two brothers, two sisters.”

“Or partners who happen to have the same last name.”

“Smart, aren’t you?”

“Not as smart as I’d like to be. You wouldn’t happen to know if Klinghurst is buying or renting?”

“Wouldn’t I? I heard him telling Peterson, one of the other tenants, that he’s buying property over there. Bought a new car, bought a house — all with that money you say he stole.”

“Probably so.”

“I hope he gets twenty years,” she said. Then she said, “Who’d marry somebody like him? Another poop chute, must be.”

“Klinghurst is getting married?”

“Isn’t that what I said?”

“Do you know the woman’s name?”

“How would I know? I told you, I don’t poke around in other people’s business.”

“Did he ever bring her to his flat?”

“If he did, I never saw her. Or heard ’em going at it, either. His flat’s right above mine and I probably would’ve.”

We crossed another uncontrolled intersection, in the same headlong fashion as before, but uneventfully this time. Alice Farber, kamikaze pedestrian.

Pretty soon she said, “Flea market. What do you bet?”

“Flea market?”

“Where he met her. The poop chute he’s marrying.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because that’s what he does on weekends. Goes to flea markets all over the Bay Area, buys a lot of old junk and lugs it home. His flat’s full of it. Take two moving vans to get all the crap out of there.”

I wondered if Captain Archie had been a regular at Marin flea markets, if that was how he and Klinghurst had hooked up. I asked Ms. Farber, “Does Klinghurst have any interest in ferryboats?”

“In what?”

“Ferryboats. Ferryboat memorabilia.”

“Are you serious? Or just yanking my shank?”

“Dead serious.”

“How would I know? Ferryboats, for Chrissake.”

I let it go. It wasn’t worth the effort it would take to explain.

“There’s the market.” Another glance my way as she picked up speed and I worked to stay with her. “Puffing like a steam engine,” she said in a pleased voice. “You’re out of shape, mister.”

I could have argued with her; I was not really puffing and I was in better shape than ninety percent of men my age. But that wasn’t worth the effort, either. I just nodded and smiled and shrugged.

“Get more exercise,” she said, “move those chubby buns of yours a mile or two every day, rain or shine. You’ll look better, feel better, live longer.”

“That’s good advice.”

“Damn right it is. You get that proof you need quick, you hear? Put that asshole in prison where he belongs.” She swung away toward the market entrance. I followed her, and when she realized it she stopped and put those snap, crackle, and pop eyes on me again. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Inside.”

“Too cold out here for you?”

“No. It’s almost noon, and if they have a deli counter—”

“They have one, but you don’t need deli food. Yogurt and an apple’s what you should be eating for lunch.”

“Yogurt and an apple. Right.”

“And if you’re thinking about waiting around and offering to carry my groceries home for me, don’t. I wouldn’t like it.”

I hadn’t been thinking of waiting around, but I didn’t say so. I said, “Okay if I ask one more question?”

“As long as you make it quick.”

“What do you do for a living, Ms. Farber? Or what did you do if you’re retired?”

“That’s two questions.”

“Not really. Same question, asked two different ways.”

“Smart,” she said approvingly. “What do you think I did?”

“I don’t have a clue.”

“Go ahead, take a guess.”

“Physical fitness instructor?”

“Wrong.”

“Teacher?”

“Wrong again. Career officer, Women’s Army Corps. Lieutenant Colonel when I took my retirement eight years ago.” She squared her shoulders, gave me a sharp salute, executed a perfect about-face, and marched into the market.

The Golden Gate Bridge was packed with fog as thick as steel wool; it was not until I got to the bottom of Waldo Grade on the Marin side that the mist thinned out. In San Rafael it was clear and breezy, a nice, crisp autumn day. I stopped at a Shell station on Grand Avenue to check the phone directory. Thomas & Thomas, Real Estate was on Second Street, which meant downtown and not far away.

It felt funny, being in San Rafael again and on my way to a downtown real estate firm. Brought too many painful memories up close to the surface. Bobbie Jean Addison worked in just such an agency, also not far away. At least, I assumed she still worked there: I’d had no contact with her in over a year, wanted none, and yet I could not help wondering what she was doing and how she was coping with memories far more painful and terrible than mine. It had taken me a while to put Eberhardt’s suicide behind me, and we had been ex-partners and ex-friends for several years before he died. Bobbie Jean had lived with him, loved him, known things about him that I’d found out only after the fact, and watched him destroying himself slowly long before the final act and her part in it. She’d never be able to put up the kind of wall I had; hers would be the wailing kind, the nightmare kind you can neither tear down nor pass beyond. She was a strong woman, and she’d get through somehow, maybe even find snatches of peace and happiness, but she would never be the woman she’d once been, the happy-go-lucky Bobbie Jean I’d known.

Depressing thoughts. I squashed them down by concentrating on the little con I was going to run at Thomas
&
Thomas.

They were a small outfit, in a strip mall near where Second forks over and joins Fourth heading out toward San Anselmo. The usual plate-glass front window had the usual array of photographs of properties for sale, and a helpful listing in smaller letters below the agency name:

Inside I found one occupied desk and three empty ones. The lone occupant was a young woman wearing harlequin glasses, who was talking on the phone and tapping earnestly on a computer keyboard at the same time. She smiled at me and made a gesture to indicate she would be right with me; I smiled back and nodded and went to look at more photographs.

Three or four minutes of that, and the woman finally ended her conversation and turned her attention to me. “Yes, sir, how may I help you?”

“Are you Mrs. Thomas?”

“No, my name is Laura Vincent. Mr. and Mrs. Thomas are both out with clients. Is there something I can do?”

“Well, yes, I hope so. My name is Marlowe, Phil Marlowe — I’m a friend of one of your agency’s clients. John Klinghurst.”

“Mr. Klinghurst. I don’t... oh, yes, one of the buyers of the home in Los Ranchitos.”

“That’s right. Just recently.”

“Yes, it’s still in escrow.”

“Well, he’s pretty excited about it, been talking it up to everybody he knows. Raving is a better word. He really loves it.”

Ms. Vincent’s smile grew broader. “We’re always pleased to hear that about one of our clients.”

“He was so complimentary, in fact, that I thought I’d stop by and see if you had any other listings in that area. I live in the city, too, but I’m over here on business, so...”

“You’re interested in buying a new home, then?”

“My wife and I, yes. We’re tired of the rat race — city living grinds you down after a while.”

“It certainly can. Have a seat, Mr. Marlowe, and let’s see what we can do for you.”

Tap, tap, tap on her computer keyboard. They didn’t have any other Los Ranchitos listing, which made things a little easier for me. I asked what they had that was similar to the property Klinghurst had purchased, which prompted her to pull up his file to refamiliarize herself with the parcel. While she was doing that, I said casually, “How does it work when a man and his fiancée buy property together before they’re married? I mean, do they put it in both their names — her maiden name, I mean — or just his or what?”

“Well, that depends...”

“How did John and Helen do it?”

I didn’t have to prod her any more than that; she was curious enough herself to press the right button. Then she frowned and said, “Helen?”

“Helen Tolliver.”

“It is a joint purchase,” Ms. Vincent said, “but that isn’t the name of the other party.”

“You’re kidding,” I said. “You mean it’s
not
Helen he’s marrying? That’s a shock, believe me. They’ve been going together off and on for years, and I just assumed... It’s not Ann Burns, is it? I sure hope not.”

“No. The name here is Jocelyn Dunn.”

“Well, well,” I said, “that’s a real surprise,” and I was no longer acting.

“Do you know her, Mr. Marlowe?”

“I’ve met her. Just once, but that was enough.”

At Redwood Village, last Saturday afternoon.

Jocelyn Dunn, the big blonde nurse with the D-cup chest — a woman with easy access to both prescription medicine and Captain Archie Todd.

On my way to Larkspur I called Tamara to tell her what I’d discovered on the Todd case. She had some news for me on the Hunter case in return.