Eureka (30 page)

“Hello, my dear,” Culhane said, with a softness in his voice I had not heard before. He kissed her hand. She ran it tenderly down his cheek. “Dear Brodie,” is all she said.

Gorman introduced her to me.

“What brings you up here, Sergeant?” she asked innocently.

“It's a homicide investigation,” Gorman said gently. “Sergeant Bannon thinks the woman may have lived here at one time.”

“Oh?” she said. “What was her name?”

“Hicks,” I said. “Verna Hicks.”

The name made no impression at all. She looked off at the ocean for a minute with her brows bunched together and then she slowly shook her head. “I don't recall that name,” she said.

“We have to be going,” Culhane said. “Just wanted to say hello.”

“Thank you,” she said, and patted Culhane's hand, and to me, “Good luck, Sergeant.”

Gorman offered me his hand. “It was a pleasure meeting you,” he said.

“My pleasure, Mr. Gorman. Thanks for your help.”

I followed Culhane to the hotel entrance. When we got outside, Rusty was waiting and he offered me a ride to the bank.

“No thanks,” I said. “The walk'll do me good.”

“Then I'll walk with you,” Culhane said. We strolled down toward town. The ocean breeze rattled the palm fronds and cut the summer heat. As we entered the park we walked, in silence, toward the beach.

As we neared the far end of the park there was a small marble headstone at the edge of the sidewalk. Someone had put a bunch of wildflowers beside it and a withered apple. The inscription etched into its smooth face said:

cyclone

1897–1936

sorely missed by the people of san pietro

“Who was Cyclone?” I asked.

“A horse,” he said.

“A horse?”

“Everybody in town knew him. He used to jump the fence at the stable and wander downtown looking for a handout. Apples mostly. He loved apples. When he died, the people in town chipped in and bought him the marker.”

We went to the end of the park. Rusty was waiting with the Packard.

“You got a lot of options,” Culhane said as we reached the car.

“Which one do you like?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Take your pick,” he said. He thought for a minute and added, “Just remember this: no matter how it comes out in the end, I'll be able to look you in the eye and say, ‘I told you so.' ”

“Now what the hell does that mean?” I asked.

He stared at me for a long time. I think he wanted me to figure it out.

Rusty opened the car door for him.

“It's about choices, pal,” he said as he got in. “Every time you make one, you close a door and narrow your odds.”

CHAPTER 25

The Chevy was parked by the docks where we had left it. I drove around to the diner but Ski was nowhere to be seen, so I cruised down to the Pacific National.

Marsha Whittaker was a pleasant woman in her early thirties, her blond hair cut in a short bob that emphasized a round face and wide hazel eyes. She was dressed in a pale green sleeveless pinafore. I showed her my badge and mentioned that Mr. Gorman had probably told her about me.

“Oh yes,” she said. “You're the gentleman interested in the cashier's checks.”

“Yes, the ones made out to Verna Hicks.”

“Well,” she said, “I really can't tell you much. My predecessor, Miss Hamilton, died two years ago. I only remember three of them. One was March of this year and the other two were last year.”

“Do you remember who purchased them?”

“I remember two of them. They were both purchased by young women. Very nicely dressed for San Pietro, that's how come I remember them. The first one, that would have been March 1940, was very pretty. She was wearing a two-piece suit. Light-colored, I think. Maybe beige. She came in, handed me an envelope, and said ‘Will you please take care of this.' There were five one-hundred-dollar bills and a note to make the check out to Verna Hicks. After I made it out, she put it in a business envelope that was already stamped and addressed, said ‘Thanks,' and left.”

“Anything else you can remember?”

She hesitated for a minute, fell into deep thought again, then said, “No, I'm sorry.”

“That's very good,” I said.

“Well, you know, she was . . . different.”

“How about the other one?”

“I remember her a little better, that was only a couple of months ago. She was small like the other girl but very . . . uh . . .”

“Voluptuous?” I tried.

“Thank you,” she said, blushing again. “I think she was probably staying at the Breakers.”

“Why do you say that?”

“She just looked like a tourist, the way she dressed and all, had a very heavy tan so I figured she'd probably been down on the beach. She was very friendly, you know, she smiled the whole time, but she didn't say anything but ‘Please' when she handed me the envelope and ‘Thanks' when I was finished. Oh, and she was wearing sunglasses . . . and she did have a kind of accent, a foreign accent it sounded like. But she didn't say enough to really tell. And the sunglasses she was wearing had white frames with little red hearts where the earpieces connect to the glasses. And she was wearing mascara. She really didn't need mascara, she was quite striking. She did the same thing as the other girl. Gave me the envelope and after I made out the check she put it in an addressed envelope. She walked very straight, like a model.”

“Did you ever see either of them again?”

She shook her head. “Sorry I can't be more helpful.”

“You've been a great deal of help. Thank you very much, Miss Whittaker.”

“Welcome,” she said, and I got up and left.

A Mrs. Higarty at the little Scotsman's bank added a new dimension. She remembered that one of the checks had been purchased by an Oriental gentleman in workman's clothes, who had presented her with five hundred dollars and a note to make the check out to Verna Hicks. He had simply nodded when she gave it to him. He, too, had a self-addressed envelope into which he deposited the check as he left. Her office was near the front of the bank and he walked away toward the post office.

I decided it was time to head up the Hill.

I drove around North End Park and past the guard at the entrance to the Hill, hoping he would be on a break, but no such luck. I could see his silhouette through the guardhouse window. There was no way I was going to get by him so I drove to the end of the street, took a left down a tree-lined avenue, and did a double-back to see if I was being followed. The street was empty. I drove around the curvy road until I reached the bottom of Cliffside Road. I sat there for a full five minutes trying to erase that trip down the steep, crumbling road from my mind. Then I got out, moved the sawhorse out of the way, pulled into the road, and put the sawhorse back.

I stayed in first gear and crept up the narrow strip. Rocks and dirt spat from under my rear wheels. I didn't look sideways at the beautiful view or left to the sheer wall a foot away; my gaze was frozen on the piddling excuse for a road. As I swung slowly around a curve, I saw, maybe ten feet ahead of me, a washout. An eroded arc in the road the size of half a hubcap faced me. I stopped and stared at it, hoping for a miracle. Hoping it would go away. I decided to chance it. There was no way I was going to back down to the bottom of the cliff.

I was two feet from the bite out of the road when I stopped the second time. I set the hand brake and leaned out, judging that the road at that point was a foot narrower. If I hugged the cliff it gave me a one-foot clearance. I released the brake and crawled up to the hole. As I started past it, I felt the car tremble. As the back wheels passed the defective spot, the car began to lurch. My mouth went dry. My throat closed. I turned the wheel inward and stepped on the gas.

The Chevy jumped ahead. Another chunk of the road fell away and dropped down to the ocean. The car sideswiped the cliff with a grinding squeal. I fought it under control and slowed down until I was barely moving. Sweat streaked down my cheeks. I gentled the gas pedal and went on. The car kept spitting debris, occasionally fishtailing slightly. I got to the top without further incident.

I moved the sawhorse, drove through, and put it back. I needed a cigarette. I drove up the road until I could see the gate to Grand View, stopped, and rolled one. My heart was still doing triple time. I counted to twenty as slowly as I could and brought my pulse closer to normal. I finished one butt, rolled another, and as I finished it a grocery truck pulled up to the gate. The driver got out and swung one half of the gate open and drove through. He left it open, so I cranked up and followed him, drove down the long driveway, and pulled around into the parking lot south of the big house.

I checked the car. The side of Louie's cream puff was going to need some work and the car would need a new paint job.

The wind coming up from the sea rattled the high hedge that bordered the side facing the cliffs. I walked down to the house. On the south side was another hedge, which hid a side door.

Nobody took a shot at me so I went to the front door and rang the bell. Somewhere inside I heard chimes playing the opening bars of “Anything Goes.” I waited and rang again. Nothing.

I stepped back from the door and checked the house. There were no sounds of life. The place was like a sleeping cat. Then the silence was broken by a girl giggling on the north side of the place. I followed the laughter around the corner. A row of rose bushes flanked the north side of the house, the grass was manicured, several palm trees provided pools of shade. On the back side of the house, at the bottom of a low terrace, was an Olympic-size pool with several cabanas on the far side. Tables with gaily colored umbrellas were scattered here and there, and striped canvas beach chairs were lined up facing the sun.

Two of them were occupied.

I strolled down toward them. Two women were sunning themselves on the beach chairs by the pool, whispering to each other and snickering like high-school girls. One was tallish, with a pouty mouth, deep-set eyes, and auburn hair that matched her tan. She was wearing a pair of dark blue cotton shorts. Nothing else. The other one, shorter, slimmer, with perfect breasts, a mischievous grin, and jet-black hair, was wearing a nice tan, period.

The naked girl, who looked to be around nineteen or twenty, spotted me first. She sat up, crossed her legs Indian-style, and flashed a genuine smile. The other one's grin seemed more mechanical. Neither of them bothered to cover up.

“Aren't you cute,” Naked One said without losing the smile. “Are you my five o'clock? If you are, you're extremely early.”

“Now, do I look like your five o'clock?” I said, grinning back.

“I don't know,” she said coquettishly, working her eyes overtime. “He's new. I never know; maybe you're a movie actor in disguise.” The whole time she was showing me all of her assets.

“Do the seagulls ever bother you?” I asked.

Naked One giggled.

“My name's Zeke Bannon,” I said, offering her my hand.

“Zeke?” the other one said. “What kinda name is Zeke?”

“Where are your manners, Emerald?” Naked One said. Then added, “Emerald's new. She hasn't finished the course yet.”

“Is this a school?”

Naked One lowered her chin a notch and looked up at me.

“Miss Delilah's finishing school,” she said. She leaned back on her elbows and said, “If you're not my five o'clock, I've got at least two hours free. Maybe I could give you a lesson or two.”

“I'll just bet you could.”

A voice from high over my shoulder said sternly, “Jade, you two put something on. This isn't a cattle show.”

Both girls scrambled for cover. I turned around and looked up. The woman on the second-floor balcony had to be Delilah O'Dell. She was dressed in a long yellow silk robe with a pale pink striped sash, and yellow slippers with large fluffy balls on the top. And a hat. A pink feathery thing, with one feather arching down behind her ear and over her shoulder. She had flaming red hair and a rather full face with suspicious eyes. She could have been anything from thirty-five to fifty. She had a monumental figure, not voluptuous, just right, with a waist a wasp would weep for. Not beautiful, she didn't need to be; she was a package and knew it.

“Just make yourself at home, why don't you,” she snapped.

“I rang the bell several times.”

“Maybe I was out.”

“You weren't.”

“Maybe I wanted you to think I was. Most people would have come back later.”

“You're Delilah O'Dell,” I said.

“Really? Do I owe you anything for that information?”

I took out my badge and held it up so it winked in the sunlight.

“I'm a cop.”

It neither surprised nor flustered her; nothing short of an earthquake would.

“I don't give a damn if you're King George,” she said. “This is a private club and I don't remember inviting you in.”

“I took a chance I'd catch you home.”

“Did you now? Let me try and guess. You're Bannon.”

“Word travels fast in San Pietro.”

“Out of all mouths and into my ears. What are you doing up here?”

“I made a wrong turn.”

“You sure did. Come around to the door.” She vanished into the house.

I walked back to the front door, and a middle-aged colored man with graying hair and a build like King Kong opened it. He took my hat and nodded toward the stairs. I followed his instructions. I don't know what he did with my hat.

There was a living room to the right of the door as I entered, a large sitting room to the left, a door at the far end of the sitting room, and another door under the stairs, which circled up to a small mezzanine. It was fashionably furnished and in good taste. I went up to the top of the stairs. A hallway led off to my left and a door was to the right. I turned around and surveyed the downstairs sitting room. A moment later Delilah O'Dell came out of the door.

“Enjoying more of the view?” she asked.

“So that's where the Grand View shoot-out occurred,” I said, nodding to the large room. “And you and Culhane were the only two who walked away from it.”

“It wasn't the Battle of Gettysburg,” she answered tartly. “Keep it in perspective. Come in here.”

“Your man took my hat,” I said.

“You'll get your damn hat back. Occasionally we have a guest who forgets his manners and wears his hat inside. This way we don't embarrass anyone.”

“I should think at five hundred smackers a pop you wouldn't care.”

“This is a classy place, Bannon, it isn't Steubenville, Ohio,” she said, assuming I knew that Steubenville was reputed to be the whorehouse capital of the world.

Her living room was done in yellow and pale green. Chaise, sofa, three chairs you could sink in and disappear, white coffee tables. The lamps were Tiffany and overhead was a magnificent crystal chandelier that filled in the shadows in the room. A well-stocked wet bar in one corner. Billie Holiday was singing “I Get Along Without You Very Well” on the console.

I looked at the feather draped across her shoulder.

“Do you wear that hat to bed?” I asked.

“I don't wear anything to bed,” she said. “How about you?”

“Silk pajama bottoms.”

“You aren't the type.”

“I live alone. I don't have company that often so I dress for comfort.”

“You must not be trying very hard,” she said, walking to the bar.

“To do what?”

“Have company. John Jameson alright?”

“Beautiful. One cube of ice, please.”

She chuckled as she fixed the drinks.

“What's funny?” I asked.

“Two of a kind,” she said half-aloud, shaking her head. She opened an ebony humidor, took out two thin cigars, and squeezed them between thumb and forefinger. Satisfied they were fresh, she snipped the ends off with a small scissor. She lit one, twirling it in the flame like an expert, and brought the drink and cigar over to me.

“Cuban,” she said, nodding to the cigar. “I have a friend that brings them to me once a month. Why don't you give your legs a rest.”

I sank into one of the big chairs. It was like sitting on a cloud.

“This is a great cigar,” I said. “Of course, most of the cigars I've smoked cost a nickel and had ‘It's a boy' printed on the wrapper.”

She lit her own cigar.

“You do that with real finesse,” I said. “Did your tricks come with the house?”

“I learned my tricks—as you call them—from a very experienced lady in Paris. I was her apt pupil for three years, starting when I was eighteen.”