The uneasiness started as soon as I let myself into Nedra Merchant’s house. Not because I expected any trouble; there was no sign of Cahill or the white van anywhere along Crestmont. And not because technically I was committing a felony trespass. The uneasy feeling was purely psychological.
I was an invader.
Entering a stranger’s house without permission, no matter what the reason, always made me feel that way. Yes, it was the type of job I had; yes, I invaded the lives of strangers in some way nearly every day of my working life. But there is a difference between abstract intrusion and actual physical invasion, between telephonic and paper-trail snooping and laying hands like a burglar on personal and private belongings. In my mind there is, anyway. Even last night, with Victor Runyon on the premises, I hadn’t felt right about prowling through the chambers of Nedra Merchant’s home.
But you do what you have to do, like it or not. And if there were any cold-trail leads left to her whereabouts, this was the most likely place for them to be. The fact that Runyon had gone through her effects himself didn’t mean much. He knew her, but he didn’t know what to look for in a missing persons case. And his perception and judgment were clouded by his emotions.
I put the dead-bolt back on, pocketed Runyon’s key. The family room drew me first. The sweet-decay scent of the flowers was stronger today; combined with the mustiness and the absence of light, it gave the room the dour aura of a mausoleum. I parted the drapes halfway, found sliding glass doors that gave access to the balcony outside, and opened one of those to let in some fresh air. Incoming sunlight slanted across Runyon’s shrine, threw it into ugly and pathetic relief. It was the kind of creation that needed darkness and candle glow to give it symbolism and meaning. With the sun on it, there was no illusion: flowers wilted, candle wax pooled on the table like thick globs of dried black blood, even the silver frame exposed as tarnished goods. It was a dead thing, a dead monument to a dead love.
On impulse I gathered up all the flowers and what was left of the candles and took them out into the garage and dumped them into an empty garbage can. Then I went back into the room and carried Nedra Merchant’s photograph to the window so that I could study it in the bright sunlight.
It was easy enough to see why men were attracted to her, why certain men could lose their heads over her. It wasn’t that she was beautiful; her nose was too large, her mouth too wide, her chin a little too sharp for classic beauty. But there was a dark, sultry allure about her, enhanced by the long black hair and eyes that had an Oriental cast — one of the reasons she affected Asian dress and bedroom trappings, probably. The eyes seemed to radiate a smoky heat. Siren’s eyes; witch’s eyes. Not my type, Nedra Merchant, but I could feel the pull of those eyes even looking at them in a photograph. In person they would be magnetic.
I pried the cardboard backing off the frame, transferred the photo to my coat pocket. I might need it at some point; and if Victor Runyon did come back here soon, as it was probable he would — force his way in if he had to — he’d be better off if her likeness wasn’t around to reinforce his mania. Then I prowled the room, opening drawers and cabinets, looking under sofa and chair cushions, flipping through magazines and books. None of that netted me anything. The kitchen, dining room, and formal living room held no clues either.
Downstairs to her office. On two walls were framed posters, one advertising a computer trade show, the other a local company that specialized in exotic varieties of coffee. Both were distinctive, striking, with accents on sharp angles, unusual typefaces, and splashes of primary color. Unsigned, but no doubt Nedra Merchant’s work. The rest of the office was expensively but functionally furnished: desk in some kind of dark, burnished wood, leather armchair, computer terminal and printer, file cabinet and catchall table in the same dark wood as the desk.
Propped against the table was a drawing board, and on its top were some loose sketches, an artist’s portfolio case, and two small cardboard boxes. I flipped through the sketches: more work in the same style as the wall posters. The contents of the case were samples of business brochures, company and trade magazines, posters of various sizes to be shown to prospective clients.
The cardboard boxes had been put there by Victor Runyon, evidently, because they contained her accumulated mail for the past three and a half months. One was filled with catalogs, flyers, and unopened letters; the other contained opened mail, a sheaf of papers clipped together, and two tiny cassette tapes.
I went through the larger box first. Junk mail, for the most part, plus several trade journals that she subscribed to or maybe had had a hand in designing, plus two packages from the Book-of-the-Month Club. Almost all of it had been addressed to a post office box downtown, near her office; she seemed to get little mail here at the house. There were no personal letters or postcards. No unpaid bills. The only items of interest were three Wells Fargo envelopes: her monthly checking account statements and cancelled checks. I slit each of those envelopes with my pocket knife. The oldest of the statements, dated the end of May, held some fifteen checks, most from late April and early May, none dated after May 7th. The statement for June contained a lone cancelled check, written on May 6th, to a wine shop in SoMa, and cashed too late to be included on the May statement. The statement for July had no cancelled checks. And none of the three showed any ATM cash withdrawals. Nedra Merchant’s checking account balance had been $1,672.61 as of May 7th, factoring in the one late-cashed check, and it was still $1,672.61 three-plus months later.
All but one of the checks had been made out to banks, companies, stores. The exception was a check in the amount of $500 payable to Philip C. Muncon and endorsed on the back in a bold hand. Muncon, I thought. Muncon, Muncon... Duncan. Nedra’s therapist? The names sounded alike; easy enough after five years for Lawrence April’s memory to transform an uncommon name into a common one.
I moved over to the box of opened mail. No personal letters there either. And just one card, a birthday card signed “Aunt Louise.” Plain card, without much sentiment. There was no return address on the envelope, but the postmark told me it had been mailed in Lubbock, Texas, on June 15. So Nedra Merchant’s birthday was sometime around that date, and only one person in her life had cared enough to send her greetings.
The rest of the opened envelopes were Walter Merchant’s three uncashed alimony checks; and bills, two and three each from utility companies, credit card firms, Saks Fifth Avenue and two expensive women’s clothing shops. I checked the itemized charges on the credit card and store bills. None had been made after May 5th. The clipped-together papers were customer receipt portions of the most recent bills, with an inked notation on each of the date and amount paid by Victor Runyon. Careful records of his faith, to be presented to her like an offering on the day of her resurrection.
The cassette tapes would be for her telephone answering machine, I thought. All her messages preserved intact. I put those next to the machine for the time being and went to work on the desk.
Only one of the drawers, the largest on the bottom, had anything for me. Little hooks had been screwed into the wood along one side; keys hung from all but the last in line. Rectangles of adhesive tape, words written on each with a felt-tip pen, were affixed above each hook: front door, side door, car, IID. Spare keys for all the doors and locks in her life. The piece of tape above the empty hook said Thorn., capital T and with a period after the last letter. Abbreviation of somebody’s name — another lover, maybe? Or of a place?
I took the key off the hook marked IID, put it in my pocket, then went to the file cabinet. Personal records, exclusively: paid bills, receipts, cancelled checks and bank statements, income tax returns dating back several years. No business records; she probably kept those at Illustrative Image Designs. Not a single item of correspondence either. Apparently she wasn’t a saver, even of what few cards and letters she did receive. If she wrote any letters, it was either by hand or on her computer; and if she’d saved any copies, they were on the discs stored in the bottom file drawer. If it turned out I needed to go through the PC files, I would have to bring in help. I don’t know a damned thing about computers and I’m too old and too stubborn and too much of a technophobe to want to learn. My loss. Maybe.