Relic of Time (40 page)

“Were they friends?”

Worth smiled. “They were as opposite as you can imagine.”

“Enemies?”

“Hardly that. Jason Phelps was a notorious atheist. I thought you knew.”

Crosby had known. There seemed to be a little path connecting the two properties. They went into the basilica then. Worth blessed himself and genuflected. Crosby followed suit.

“The Blessed Sacrament is reserved here.” There was a red lamp glowing in the dark basilica. Then Crosby noticed the man. He was kneeling on the floor, arms extended, immobile. Worth said, “Carlos.”

“Ah.”

When they were outside again, Crosby said he would just look around, if that was okay.

“Of course.”

“Do Carlos and his daughter live in the house?”

“Carlotta does. Her father has a little house out back.”

“I'll just go when I'm through. Thanks.”

“No more questions?”

“Do you have more answers?”

“I'd have to hear the questions.”

“I just want to see where it all happened.”

They shook hands and Worth went off to the house. Crosby circled the circular basilica and saw a little cottage fifty yards off. Adobe brick, tile roof, flower beds, trimmed bushes. It looked like a house in a fairy tale. He thought of the old man kneeling on the floor of the basilica, his arms flung out as if he were on a cross.

Down by the garages, where Crosby had parked, there was a shedlike addition to the far side of the building. It was where trash was kept before it was picked up. He ducked his head and went in. Flies, the odor of garbage. In the far barrel a huge white piece of plastic was visible. No, foam. He ran his hand over the pebbled material and his fingers touched something. He pulled the plastic half out of the barrel. There was a small crucifix embedded in the material, with Scotch tape over it.

He was about to get into his car but didn't. He passed the hacienda and went out toward the basilica again. Carlos came blinking into the light. He looked at Crosby but kept on going around the basilica. Crosby wanted to take a look at the path that connected these beautifully kept grounds with the place next door.

When he emerged from the tree-lined path, he saw two women standing on the lawn. One was holding a spade. They were silent. He thought of himself and Worth standing at the spot where Don Ibanez had been found. He cleared his throat as he neared the women. They turned their heads; one looked at him angrily, the other with an expression he would not have told his wife about.

“My name is Crosby.”

He told them why he was here. The flirty one said her name was Catherine.

“Find him!” the angry one, Myrna, said.

When Catherine called to tell her what had happened to Jason Phelps, Myrna must already have been on her way. Of course the death of the famous anthropologist would have been in the news across the now divided nation, but less because he was a scientist than because of his notorious criticisms of the Catholic religion and all its works and pomps. The phrase had sounded familiar and Catherine had asked Jason why.

“Because you were raised Catholic, my love. You renounced Satan and all his works and pomps.”

So she had. Why was disbelieving in Satan harder than disbelieving in all the rest?

Of course Catherine hadn't known Myrna was on her way until she showed up. After the body was taken away, Catherine once more took possession of her room. It was either that or go to the El Toro Motel.

“That's where I'm staying,” Myrna said.

“That's silly. Stay here.”

“You act like the chatelaine.”

“That's what I've been, more or less.” No need to tell Myrna that Jason had thrown her out of the house.

“Catherine, when I told you about Jason I had no idea you had designs on him.”

“How could I have? I didn't know him then. Actually, it went the other way. And then became mutual, of course.”

“Of course.”

It was amusing to watch Myrna react. Well, after all, Jason Phelps had been the great love of her life. Only the difficulties of academic employment had made her leave him. Later, well, it was too late. “They couldn't afford me and I can't afford California,” she had once explained to Catherine. At the time it would never have occurred to Catherine to say that Myrna could have lived with Jason. Now she realized why Myrna had sounded so funny when Catherine had telephoned her weeks earlier, after getting settled in. She had left little doubt as to what “settled in” meant.

Now, Myrna asked, “Did he drive all the nonsense out of your mind?”

“Oh, the sessions we had. Sessions of sweet, silent talk. That isn't right, is it? I don't know what I would have done without him.”

Myrna simply could not control her expression when she was annoyed. Annoyed? The woman was jealous.

“I
will
stay here, Catherine. I'm going to check out of that motel.”

“I'll come with you.”

“There's no need for that.”

“Myrna, I've been so lonely.”

What memories the motel brought back. While Myrna went to pack, Catherine wandered into the bar, to find Neal Admirari sitting at a table with a beautiful, if slightly plump, woman across from him. It was the panic on his face that drew Catherine to the table. Neal scrambled to his feet.

“This is Lulu. My wife. This is Catherine, Lulu.” He acted as if his wife had come upon them in bed together.

“I thought all the media people had decamped.”

“Neal is writing a book,” Lulu said. “Will you join us?”

“A book!” cried Catherine, sitting down. This was more fun than teasing Myrna.

Neal was nervously explaining to Lulu who Catherine was. “She was Jason Phelps's companion. Is that the right term?”

“Jason never called me that.” The devil. Lulu smiled complacently. Well, a good look at Neal without the fog of desire explained why. Catherine found it hard to believe that she'd been smitten by this unprepossessing man.

Myrna had come to the entrance and was peering into the bar. Catherine waved, and Myrna wheeled her suitcase bump-ily over the flagged floor to the table. To Catherine's surprise, Neal greeted Myrna.

“Don't tell me you're checking out.”

Myrna gave him a look. Lulu was regarding Myrna with interest. What would she have seen but an almost anorexic woman with short hair and a sour puss? If Lulu had to suspect someone, Catherine wanted it to be her. No, she didn't want that, not really. Had she ever found Neal Admirari attractive?

“You and I are practically permanent residents here,” Neal said. “I will feel deserted.”

“Well, now you have me,” Lulu purred. Poor Neal was going to catch hell if Catherine was any judge. But because of Myrna?

“Catherine, can we go?”

“Oh, do have a drink with us,” Lulu trilled.

“I don't drink,” Myrna said, a statement in several senses.

A shocked silence fell. Catherine got up. “It's so nice to meet you at last, Lulu. Neal is like a new bridegroom.”

“That's what he is.”

“Really!”

Myrna had begun to wheel her suitcase toward the exit of the bar. Catherine shrugged to the newlyweds and went after her.

“What a loathsome man,” Myrna said in the car.

“He's writing a book.”

“He doesn't look as if he can read.”

“You made quite an impression on him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Myrna, it's not your fault if men find you attractive.”

Whew. Myrna smiled smugly. What a temper the woman had.

They got Myrna settled into her room. When Catherine told her it had been Jason's, Myrna hesitated. “I am not superstitious.”

“His ghost only walks at night.”

“Stop that. Can you imagine what Jason would think if he heard you?”

“I think he does.”

“Catherine, please! What arrangements shall we make?”

She meant Jason's body. “That's what I wanted to talk with you about, Myrna.”

“No funeral. No public ceremony. He'll be cremated. We'll bury him here.”

And that was why they were standing in the yard, having buried the urn containing Jason's ashes some fifteen yards from the doors of his study. When Crosby came up the path, they were observing a minute of silence.

Crosby wanted to see where Jason's body had been found. As he said this, he glanced down at the freshly covered grave. Myrna gave the mound a final pat with the shovel.

“We'll plant flowers later.”

“Oh, he'll love that.”

Myrna glared at her. Inside, when Catherine described how Jason had been found, fallen forward on his desk, Myrna shuddered.

“I'll leave you two alone.”

After Myrna was gone, Catherine said, “She's an incorrigible matchmaker.”

Crosby didn't understand, or pretended he didn't, which was just as bad.

Traeger was almost surprised when Crosby called, not because he knew the number—think of all the calls they had exchanged during that wild-goose chase to Pocatello; all he'd have to do was review his calls—but because he was back on the job.

“Has he fired me?”

“How can he fire you if he can't find you?”

“So we're working together again.”

“Right. Now where can we get together?”

Will Crosby was a straight shooter, no doubt of that, but Traeger was wary nonetheless. It was one thing for Crosby to have his cell phone number; it would be something else to know his whereabouts.

“How did Hannan describe your job?”

“To find you.”

“And then?”

“Vic, I know you didn't do any of those things.”

“So do I, but a fat lot of good it's doing me.”

“Do you know George Worth?”

Traeger's wariness came back. He was sitting in Worth's office as they talked. But Crosby couldn't possibly know that, could he? Or was he fishing?

“I know him.”

“He gave me good advice. All we have to do is find the one who's guilty and you're off the hook.”

“You needed Worth to tell you that?”

“Sometimes it's good to have the obvious stated.”

“Where are you calling from?”

“I just left Don Ibanez's hacienda and am driving down the valley.”

“Do you know where Palo Alto is?”

“I can find it.”

“Route 101 will bring you there.”

“Where in Palo Alto?”