“I can’t believe Tom’s gone,” she said. “I mean, I know he is but I just … I can’t believe it. You understand?”
“I think so, yes.”
“We had such a nice life until a month ago. Such a lovely life. And now … it’s all come apart, it’s all over. How can it happen like that, so suddenly?”
People make it happen, I thought. People and all their shortcomings, all their big and little evils. But I was not about to get into that with Eileen Lujack. I gave her the standard: “I don’t know.”
“So suddenly,” she said again, with a kind of awe in her voice.
I said, “The last time you talked to your husband was when he called from San Francisco Tuesday afternoon?”
“What?” She was still thinking about her lovely life and how it had so suddenly come apart. “Oh … yes.”
“What time was that?”
“I don’t remember exactly. About five.”
“He said he was staying in the city because he had something to do?”
“Yes.”
“Did he give you any idea what it was?”
“Just business, that’s all.”
“What did he have to say about Nick Pendarves?”
“That man.” She shuddered. “Tom didn’t say anything about him.”
“Nothing at all? He didn’t tell you that Pendarves was almost run down and killed on Monday night? The threats Pendarves made afterward?”
“No. I didn’t find out about any of that until Coleman told me yesterday.”
“Why do you think he kept quiet about it?”
“He didn’t want to worry me, I guess. He never talked much about things like that. You know, the trouble he was in — Frank Hanauer getting killed with Tom’s car.”
“Did he ever mention Pendarves to you?”
“Not that I remember. His name was in the papers … Pendarves’s name, I mean. That’s how I knew who he was.”
We were approaching the intersection with San Carlos Avenue. Mrs. Lujack told me to turn right on San Carlos, and as I followed instructions I asked, “Was your husband in the habit of discussing business matters with you?”
“Hardly ever. I don’t have a very good head for business.”
Yeah, I thought.
“But Tom did,” she said. “Coleman too. I never thought they’d make so much money from the factory, not after the way it started out. But they did.” She laughed-a small, odd, puzzled sound. “He was right about the coyotes, I guess.”
“Ma’am?”
“Oh, just something Tom said once.”
“About coyotes?”
” ‘The coyotes are going to make us rich.’ That’s what he said. I asked him what he meant but he said it was just a joke and it wasn’t worth explaining. You don’t know what he meant, do you?”
“No,” I said. “You’re sure he said the word ‘coyotes’?”
“Well, it sounded like coyotes.”
“When was that, do you remember?”
“Oh … at least five years ago. Before we bought the new house.”
“The house you live in now, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve owned that property just five years?”
“Almost five, yes.”
“Must have set you back quite a bit.”
“Oh, it did. Over four hundred thousand. I didn’t think we could afford it, but Tom said we could. That was when Containers, Inc., really started to do well.”
I ruminated on that while we waited at a red light. When the light changed I asked her, “Do you know Rafael Vega, Mrs. Lujack?”
“Who?”
“Rafael Vega. The shop foreman at Containers, Inc.”
“Oh. I don’t know anybody who works at the factory. Well, except Coleman, of course. I’ve only been there a couple of times. It’s really not a very nice neighborhood.”
We were coming into downtown San Carlos now. I made another turn at her instruction, and then said carefully, “There’s a reason I’ve been asking all these questions. I think it’s possible Nick Pendarves may not be the person who murdered your husband. Did Paul Glickman mention that to you?”
“No. No, he didn’t.” It took her a couple of seconds to get a firm grasp on the idea. “But … I don’t understand. Tom was found in Pendarves’s garage. Who else could have done it?”
“The same person who ran down Frank Hanauer, maybe.”
“… You have some idea who that is?”
“Not yet. But with a little more time I think I can find out.”
“You mean you want to keep investigating?”
“With your permission.”
There was a little silence before she said, “I don’t know. You’ve been investigating ever since Frank was killed, you and your partner, and you haven’t found out who was responsible. Coleman doesn’t think we need you anymore. He says the police are doing everything that can be done.”
“When did you talk to him about it?”
“Yesterday. He came to the house.”
“Well, he’s wrong, Mrs. Lujack. The police are convinced Pendarves is guilty of murdering your husband. And they think your husband was guilty of running down Hanauer. They’re not going to look in the same places Eberhardt and I will be looking.”
“I don’t know,” she said again. “Now that Tom’s gone, maybe the best thing is for us to just put the whole ugly business behind us and go on with our lives.”
Not her words, I thought. “Is that what Coleman said?”
“Yes.”
“And you feel that way too?”
“I … I’m not sure what I feel right now.”
“You don’t believe your husband killed Hanauer?”
“Oh no. Of course not.”
“And you do want to see his name cleared?”
“Yes, but … you could go on investigating for months and months and it would cost us thousands of dollars and the chances are you still wouldn’t find out anything.”
Coleman again. He seemed to be trying to manipulate her, which meant he was either a callous bastard or he had reasons for wanting Eberhardt and me out of the picture, the truth buried along with his brother.
I said, “I’m not trying to drag things out for a bigger fee. Believe that, Mrs. Lujack. All I want is the truth, and another week or so to get at it. If Eberhardt and I don’t come up with something definite after that, we’ll quit and bill you for expenses only-no other fees. I’ll put that in writing, if you like.”
“Well …”
“Will you think it over? Talk to Paul Glickman about it?”
“Yes, all right. But I’ll have to talk to Coleman too.”
“By all means.” And so will I, I thought. “I’ll call you tonight and you can let me know then.”
We rounded another corner, and there was the Saxon and Jeffrey Funeral Home-white pillars, brick and glass, a circular drive in front, and a side drive with a hearse parked under a porte cochere. It looked like a cross between a neo-colonial home and a suburban savings-and-loan. I pulled into the drive and stopped in front.
Mrs. Lujack said, “Thank you again for driving me.”
I told her she was welcome, and got out and leaned back in to give her a hand. But she didn’t seem to want to leave the car just yet. She sat staring through the side window at the funeral home.
“Mrs. Lujack?”
Her head jerked, and when she looked at me her eyes were moist. “Oh,” she said. Then she said, “I don’t want to go in there and talk about Tom’s coffin, Tom’s funeral. I really don’t.” And softly she began to cry.
She loved him, I thought then. She did love him.
I realized something else, too, in that moment: Eileen Lujack may not have a high IQ, but she was neither shallow nor frivolous. Eberhardt and I had both been wrong. She wasn’t a ditz at all.
* * * *
Chapter 11
It was raining again when I got back to the city-a hard rain, wind-driven into diagonal sweeps. Close to a week straight now of this kind of weather, and no immediate relief in sight. It began to get to you when it went on this long; a damp gray began to form inside you, too, like a kind of parasitic mold. Nice thought. What a gloomy old fart I was turning into. I laughed at myself, wryly, as I turned off 101 onto Bayshore Boulevard. Look on the bright side, pal. With all this rain, maybe there won’t be any more dire rumblings about drought and water rationing come summer, and the water company won’t have an excuse to raise its rates again.