“Borrego Springs. Casa del Zorro, six weeks ago.” I gave her a blank look and she said, “Borrego Springs is a town out in the desert. Casa del Zorro’s their fanciest spa. Lady friend and I went out there for the weekend, ran into Elaine and Rich having dinner.”
“Did you talk to them?”
“You bet. I went right up and said hello. Elaine was embarrassed — she didn’t say ten words to me. Him neither. Just sat there looking like a fox in the henhouse.”
“You said you didn’t like him. Why?”
“His eyes. Kind that made you feel crawly.”
“Did Elaine ever tell you anything about him?”
“No. I asked her later, but she wouldn’t talk. As much as told me to mind my own business.”
“Is there anybody else she might have confided in?”
“Well, Karyn — Karyn Sugarman. But if she did, Karyn wouldn’t say. So it had to be professionally.”
“Professionally?”
“Karyn’s a shrink. Elaine did the couch trip a few times. Don’t know why. Nobody tells me anything anymore.”
“So you don’t have any idea what this Rich does for a living?”
“Probably a damned gigolo. God, that’s the kind if I ever saw one — kind makes a woman do crazy things. He’d be the one she’d kill herself over. Not somebody like Henry.”
“Who would Henry be?”
“Henry Nyland. Been after her to marry him for months.”
Henry Nyland. That was the name of the guy Charley Valdene and I had had the brief run-in with in the parking lot Friday night. I said, “Is he the politician, the one running in the special election for city councilman?”
She nodded. “Retired admiral with plenty of money, inherited it from his wife when she died five years ago. Good-looking too. Not a bad catch, but Elaine didn’t see it that way.”
“How come?”
“Who knows? Didn’t love him, I guess.”
“Was Nyland upset by her rejection?”
She said “Who knows?” again, and then belted down some more of her pineapple drink. She squinted at me over the straw, using it like a gunsight. “I guess you’re married, huh?” she asked.
“Uh, no. No, I’m not.”
“Got a lady friend, though?”
“Yes.”
“Sure. Figures. I’m too fat anyway. Too fat and too old and too drunk.”
Uh-oh, I thought, she’s going to get sloppy and maudlin. But she wasn’t that kind at all. She pushed the drink away, saying, “No more for me. Any more and I’ll fall on my face. Or wrap my car around a pole somewhere. One death today’s enough.” She squinted at me again. “Thanks for talking to me. I wish it’d been an accident.”
“So do I, June.”
She put the cigarettes into her purse and hoisted herself out of her chair. She was a little unsteady, but it didn’t look as though she were in any danger of falling over. I said, “You want me to walk you out?” and she said, “No, I’m okay. Just need to be alone for a while. Walk on the beach’ll sober me up.” She patted my hand, gave me a melancholy smile, and went away across the terrace to a gate in the side wall, moving carefully and with dignity.
I stayed where I was, watching her waddle through the white sand toward the water. The angle of her passage made it look as if she were walking off into that elegant sunset — walking straight into the dying fire of the sun.
15: McCone
The first person in Elaine’s address book I tried to call was her lawyer, Alan Thorburn. I reached an answering service, and the operator told me Mr. Thorburn was out of town until Monday morning. Was there any way I could reach him? I asked. Well, he was out on his boat, but due to call in sometime this evening, or perhaps tomorrow... I left my name and my parents’ number, hoping Counselor Thorburn would indeed check with his service.
Then I examined the addresses for Rich Woodall, Rich James, and the man listed only as Rick. Rich James’s was the closest to the shopping area near Elaine’s house where my phone booth was located, but his telephone had been disconnected. I decided to drive over and see if he was home.
The address turned out to be a decaying apartment house right on Imperial Beach, south of the Silver Strand. Built in the garish architecture of the fifties, it had a gigantic pink-and-turquoise mosaic peacock on the end wall by the parking area. A number of the tiles had fallen away, including those that formed the bird’s left eye, so he appeared to be a molting old peacock with a cataract.
I left my car in the lot and went around to the beach side of the building. Although it was late — close to seven o’clock — the heat had not let up and the sand was still crowded. The sun was low, and flame-like color spread across the water, reducing the people who strolled in the surf to purple-gray silhouettes. Here and there a barbecue fire sent smoke skyward, and a few diehard athletes tossed Frisbees and volleyballs around.
The apartment building was two-tiered, with iron balconies over which a number of beach towels were draped. I went up a concrete stairway at one end and along the top floor, avoiding a tricycle, a surf board, and an assortment of sand toys, to the apartment number that had been noted in Elaine’s book. Already I’d begun to doubt that Rich James was the man Wolf had seen with my friend in the Cantina Sin Nombre. This place had a seedy air that didn’t match the sharp dresser he’d described.
The door to the apartment stood open, and from inside I could hear the dull beat of rock music. I pounded on the doorframe and a few seconds later, a young man with a fluffy blond beard appeared. He wore cutoff jeans and had a dishtowel tucked into his belt.
“I’m looking for Rich James,” I said.
“Sure. Hi. That’s me.”
Disappointed, I said, “I’m Sharon McCone, a friend of Elaine Picard’s—”
“Oh, yeah, Elaine. Look, can you come in?” Without waiting for my answer he turned and disappeared into the gloom beyond the door.
I followed him into a sparsely furnished living room. The drapes were pulled against the sunset’s glare and two little boys, around six or seven, sat on a lumpy rattan couch watching a TV program whose sound competed with the stereo. Newspapers were scattered on the threadbare carpeting, and pop and beer cans sat on every available surface. When the little boys saw me, they stared for a moment, then exchanged a solemn, knowing look. One of them said, “Daddy, we’re hungry.”
“Supper’s coming up any minute now. It’s just got to heat.” To me, he added, “Come on out to the kitchen. I’m cooking. Weekend father, you know.”
I followed him into the kitchen, a tiny, airless room at the rear of the apartment, on the side that faced the street. He picked up a can and dumped its contents into a pot on the stove. “Franco-American spaghetti,” he said, holding up the can. “It’s not much, but I never learned to cook. Mama didn’t tell me it would be like this.”
I glanced around, noting the dirty dishes and the trash that overflowed the wastebasket. A pizza box sat on the counter, full of gnawed crusts. Mama hadn’t taught him to clean up, either. Mentally I shuddered, thinking of my brother John. Would it be like this when he got his own place and took the kids on weekends? What if, by some strange quirk, he managed to get permanent custody of them? Would they live like this all the time?
“So you’re a friend of Elaine’s?” Rich James asked, extending a beer can toward me.
“Yes.” I took the can, eyeing it suspiciously and wishing there were a polite way of wiping off its top before drinking from it.
“What’s wrong this time — the water heater?”
“Huh?”
“Well, the last time she called, it was on the fritz. I replaced the pressure valve, but you never know with these cheapo things they’re installing these days.”