Vixen (9 page)

“Something to do with your sister?”

“She has a gun,” Beckett said.

“A gun. What kind of gun?”

“Little one, with a squarish barrel and pearl handles. She never had one before, she never liked guns.”

A .22 or .25 caliber automatic, probably. Purse weapon.

“Where did she get it?”

“I don't know. It's new, I think she bought it.”

“Did she show it to you?”

“No, I found it in her closet. Two days ago. She told me to forget about it, but I … I can't. Not after what I heard her saying on the phone yesterday.”

“Who was she talking to?”

“That bastard Chaleen. She's planning something bad with him.”

“Only you don't know exactly what, is that it?”

“Yeah. I mean no. She was in her bedroom, talking low—I couldn't hear everything she said. Plans, she always has plans, but she won't tell me what they are. ‘Everything will be all right, Kenny, you'll see. Haven't I always taken care of you?' Yes, but not always the way she promised she would.”

“Like letting you go to jail for a crime you didn't commit.”

“Like that, yeah.”

“What else?”

No response.

“Like getting you to help her meet rich yachtsmen? Her ex-husbands, Andrew Vorhees.”

“Jesus. You know about her and Mr. Vorhees?”

Runyon nodded.

“She says she loves him and he loves her,” Beckett said. “I guess that's so, I don't know. He's okay, Mr. Vorhees, he always treated me decent, and we need the money he gives Cory. I understand that. But I don't understand why she has to have Chaleen, too. It's like a game with her … one and then another and then somebody else.…”

“Does Mr. Vorhees know about her and Chaleen?”

“No. He'd be pissed if he did. Real pissed.”

Runyon said, “Tell me exactly what your sister said on the phone. Everything you can remember.”

“‘Bitch deserves it for what she did.'” That mimicking falsetto again. “‘Be careful, darling, no mistakes. So much at stake for both of us once she's out of the way.'”

“Who did she mean by ‘bitch'?”

“Mrs. Vorhees.”

“Mentioned her by name?”

“No, but I know that's who she meant.”

Not conclusively, he didn't. “Did Cory say when whatever it is is going to happen?”

“Soon. Sometime soon.”

“But not exactly when?”

“No.” Beckett drew a long, shaky breath. Then, in a half whisper, “Even after what Mrs. Vorhees did, I don't want them to hurt her. I don't want anybody to be hurt.”

“Of course you don't. Neither do I.”

“That's why I called you, Mr. Runyon. I didn't know what else to do. Cory's done a lot of bad things, but I never thought she was capable of … of…” The word
murder
was in his mouth, his lips shaping it, but he couldn't bring himself to say it aloud.

“Does she know you overheard her conversation?”

“God, no. She'd've yelled at me if she did. And pretended I didn't hear what I heard. She says she never lies to me but she does, all the time now. She lies to everybody. She's my sister, I love her, but sometimes I think she's a little, you know, a little crazy.”

Runyon had nothing to say to that.

Beckett seemed to make an effort to pull himself together. He said, “Mr. Runyon? Will you stop her and Chaleen from hurting Mrs. Vorhees?”

“If I can, yes.” He got out a business card with both his cell and landline numbers on it, pressed it into Beckett's hand. “If you find out anything more, call me right away, day or night.”

“Right away. Yes.”

“And be careful not to let on to your sister that you've been talking to me.”

“Don't worry, I will.”

Runyon left him standing there staring at Andrew Vorhees' yacht and the boats in the West Harbor slips, his mouth shaping more words that he couldn't or wouldn't speak aloud.

 

11

Thursday was a hell of a miserable day.

The kind that makes you think, not nearly for the first time in my case, that free will is a load of crap and your life really isn't your own. That Shakespeare was right and we're all just players on a vast stage, being secretly moved around and fed lines to speak and actions to take by some unseen director. Or part of an ecumenical puppet show: marionettes controlled by an impossible-to-comprehend webwork of invisible strings and threads and wires. Or, worse, not even flesh and blood human beings but androids programmed and manipulated by impulses from some all-powerful mega-computer operated by an entity or entities beyond our ken. The devout among us call it God's Plan—the Almighty working in mysterious ways His wonders to perform. But I'm not convinced it's as simple or benign as that. Or that it's benign at all.

Such days usually follow a pattern: they start out in ordinary fashion and then grow progressively worse. This one was no exception. I woke up in a pretty good mood; so did Kerry, so did Emily. The three of us had a companionable breakfast, even did a little joking around the way close-knit family units often do. I kissed Kerry and off she went to Bates and Carpenter, kissed Emily and off she went to school. Then I had the place to myself—one of my stay-at-home days, with nothing more demanding to do, or so I thought, than to devote some more time to my pulp collection.

I was involved in that project when Jake Runyon called in a report of his meeting and conversation with Kenneth Beckett, a call that began the day's shift from commonplace to dark and hellish. Trying to decide, when the phone rang, if I could afford a hundred bucks for a 1932 issue of
Dime Detective
with an Erle Stanley Gardner novelette, one of only two issues from that year that I didn't own. The price was not too bad on the current collector's market and the dealer making the offer was a man I'd bought from before; the sticking point was the magazine's condition, which he described as “near very good with a piece missing from the spine.” He'd provided color scans in his e-mail, but looking at scans isn't the same thing as holding a magazine in your hands for a close inspection.

Jake's report put me in something of a quandary. I didn't blame him for getting together with the Beckett kid—I'd have done the same if I had been on the receiving end of the plea for help—but what he'd been told about a conspiracy between Cory Beckett and Frank Chaleen created an ethical and moral dilemma. Officially, we had no standing in the matter. No client, no evidence to support the suspicions of an emotionally damaged young man, which for all we knew for certain were nothing more than delusional ravings. Nor could we justify notifying the police. If the allegations of a plot to harm Margaret Vorhees turned out to be unfounded, we'd be wide open for a potentially ruinous lawsuit.

That was the ethical and legal side of it. The moral duty side was something else again. In all good conscience, you couldn't afford not to alert a potential victim when you had enough familiarity with the other people concerned to make premeditated homicide a very real possibility.

Runyon agreed. He thought he ought to stay on it, maybe have a talk with Mrs. Vorhees and alert her to the potential danger. I didn't much like the idea—ticklish business, approaching somebody out of the blue with a story like that and not very much to back it up, because it could so easily backfire—but I couldn't and didn't reject it, either. What I did was to put Runyon's suggestion on hold for the time being. He had other work to do, and the final decision was mine and Tamara's.

I hemmed and hawed with myself for a time. Then, with my mind pretty much made up, I called Tamara. For support, mainly, because I knew what her position would be. As young as she is, and despite a somewhat checkered past, she has a moral outlook similar to mine and Runyon's.

“Damn right we should do something,” she said. “Sooner the better. I say take what we know to Mrs. Vorhees and see what she says.”

“That was Jake's suggestion.”

“You agree?”

“Leaning that way.”

“Okay, then. Might even be she'll hire us to protect her.” Moral, my partner, but ever practical. “Yeah, I know we're not set up for bodyguard work, but we could make an exception in this case.”

“If it comes to that, we'll consider it.”

“Think I should be the one to talk to her, woman to woman?”

Tamara has plenty of strong points, but caution and tact are two that she hasn't quite mastered yet. And when you were dealing with a prominent citizen who was also a vindictive alcoholic, you had to be extra careful. I said, “Better let me handle it.”

“Jake's the one who talked to Kenny. Maybe he should do it.”

I reminded her that Runyon had an appointment in the East Bay and was already on his way. “I'm old enough to be nonthreatening to most people,” I said. The patriarchal approach might just get through to her, if I worked it right. Besides, it was my case, or it had started out that way anyhow. “I'll need Margaret Vorhees' phone numbers, land and cell both.”

Tamara didn't put up any further argument. She tracked down the numbers for me in short order.

I tried the cell first, but the call went straight to voice mail. I clicked off without leaving a message and rang Margaret Vorhees' home phone. That call was answered by a woman with a Spanish accent who informed me she was the housekeeper. Yes, Mrs. Vorhees was home, but she was busy and couldn't come to the phone. The way she said the word “busy,” in a faintly disapproving tone, made me wonder if her employer might be getting an early start on her day's drinking. Did I wish to leave a message? No, I didn't. If I left my name and number, chances were I would not get a callback. And I didn't want to lay out my bona fides except to Mrs. Vorhees herself, in person.

Her home was only a couple of miles from our Diamond Heights condo. I decided I might as well drive over there and see if I could maneuver my way into an audience with the woman.

*   *   *

Like Nob Hill, St. Francis Wood, on the lower western slope of Mount Davidson, is one of the city's best residential neighborhoods: near-palatial old homes on large lots that you couldn't afford to buy unless your net worth was counted in the millions. The Vorhees house stood on a tree-shaded street not far from the home once owned by George Moscone, the San Francisco mayor who'd been assassinated along with Supervisor Harvey Milk back in the seventies. Spanish Mission-style place, all stucco and dark wood and terra-cotta tile, tucked back behind tall hedges and a procession of yucca trees. A line of eucalyptus ran along the west side. The overall effect was of a kind of mini-estate that somewhat diminished the stature of its neighbors.

I followed a winding flagstone path that led from the front gate onto a tiled porch. The front door was of heavy dark wood mortised with strips of metal, a bell button set into the tile alongside. A thumb on the button produced musical chimes loud enough to be heard through the stucco walls.

Pretty soon the door opened on a chain and a plump brown face peered out at me—the Latina maid I'd spoken to on the phone. When I asked for Margaret Vorhees, she offered up the same “busy” message and started to close the door. My foot was in the way by then. I passed one of my cards through the opening and said through a grave professional smile, “Please take this to Mrs. Vorhees and tell her it's urgent I speak with her on a matter involving her stolen necklace.”

The maid looked at me as if she didn't quite comprehend the message. Or pretended she didn't. So I repeated it in Spanish. My command of the language is passably good because Spanish is similar to Italian, which had been spoken in my home every day while I was growing up. The use of her native tongue did the trick. She nodded and said,
“Espere por favor aqui,”
in a more respectful tone, and on that obliging note I removed my foot and let her close the door.

The wait was maybe five minutes. A couple of cars drifted by on the street, the wind made rattling noises in the eucalyptus; otherwise the neighborhood seemed wrapped in stillness. Money can buy peace and quiet as well as luxury and privacy. Sometimes.

When the maid returned, the chain rattled and the door opened all the way to let me in. I followed her along a dark, terra-cotta hallway into an equally dark living room, where she asked me again in Spanish to please wait and then left me alone.

Thick patterned drapes were drawn over the windows; the only light came from a floor lamp set between a couple of heavy wood-framed couches set at right angles to each other. Against one wall was a massive, ornately carved sideboard on which an array of liquor bottles and crystal glasses gleamed on silver trays. The rest of the furniture was the same heavy, baroque Spanish style. No television set or other modern touches, just the collection of expensive antiques arranged on a dark-patterned carpet.

The only real color in the room was on the walls—half a dozen paintings, a rough-woven, blanket-like affair like an oversized serape—and what there was of it was in muted hues. The overall effect was one of oppressive gloom. Spend much time in here and you'd start to feel claustrophobic, maybe even a touch suicidal. If this was where Margaret Vorhees did most of her home-front drinking, as the booze on the sideboard indicated, then she must be a pretty depressed individual.

I was looking at one of the paintings, a court scene signed by Diego Vel
á
zquez that was probably a copy, or then again maybe not, when a swishing sound turned me around. She came sweeping in from the hallway, like a diva making an entrance—a diva who might have been in mourning, given the fact that she was wearing a loose black pantsuit that matched her coiled black hair. The only color on her was too much bright red lipstick, less than artfully applied, that made her mouth look like a bloody smear.