“You started it.”
“I had all these great things I was going to say to you—”
“Well, it’s too late now. Someone wants me in the operating room.”
“I want you in the operating room,” Aragon said. “Or any other room.”
“I love you, too. Bye.”
“Laurie—”
But she’d hung up, and he swallowed all the great things he had to say to her with the aid of another bottle of beer. Then he called Charity Nelson at her apartment on the West Side. When she answered the phone there were loud staccato noises in the background.
“Hello. I’m too busy to talk. Call back.”
“What’s all the hubbub?”
“I’m watching an educational program.”
“It sounds more like a shoot-em-up western.”
“All right.” She turned down the sound. “What do you want?”
“Is there any connection between Smedler and Mr. Jasper?”
“How would I know?”
“I have a notion you might have looked it up.”
“Of course I looked it up. They’re not friends really but they both belong to the Forum Club and serve on a couple of the same boards of directors, the Music Academy and Holbrook Hall. And they have this bond between them that rich men develop — you put your money in my bank and I’ll buy stock in your copper mine. It’s a great system if you own a bank or a copper mine. The best way to get rich is to start rich.”
“Don’t let it depress you,” Aragon said. “Go back to your shoot-em-up.”
“If I had a million dollars—”
“You’d blow it.”
“By God, I believe you’re right,” she said thoughtfully. “But what a blow, junior, what a blow.”
“Am I invited?”
“I’ll consider it. First, I’d buy me a racehorse. Not one of your ordinary nags but a real thoroughbred with class and guts and stamina. Boy, he’d leap out of that starting gate like a bullet.”
“There goes your million.”
“You’re a wet blanket, junior, a killjoy, a—”
“Okay, okay, with my million I’ll buy a house in the country where you can keep the horse between races.”
“Do you know anything about feeding horses?”
“I thought they fed themselves.”
“You’re not taking me seriously, junior. Go to bed and have a nightmare.”
He went to bed. If he had a nightmare he couldn’t remember it when he woke the next morning to the ringing of the phone. A woman identifying herself as Frieda Jasper spoke in a sharp, brittle voice. Making no apology for the earliness of the hour and giving no reason, she asked him to come immediately to 1200 Via Vista.
6
The house, built on a hill overlooking the Pacific, was a two-story adobe with a red tile roof and iron grilling across the lower-floor windows. It looked as though it had been there for a hundred years through a succession of earthquakes, fires and floods. It was a California house, with ice plant covering the ground instead of grass, and landscaped with drought-resistant native plants like ceanothus and sugar-bush.
The woman who crossed the patio to meet him was tall and sturdily built, with a mass of curly red hair just beginning to turn grey. She held a newspaper in one hand, clutching it as though she intended using it to swat a fly or discipline a dog. There were no flies or dogs in sight.
“Mr. Aragon? Please sit down. I thought we’d talk out here on the patio. It’s such a pleasant morning.”
It was lightly foggy and the wind blowing in from the sea was cold. He buttoned his coat.
“Unless, of course, you would prefer to go inside?”
“Oh, no.” The way she was holding the newspaper made him think she would have used it on him if he’d disagreed.
They sat on cushioned redwood chairs with a small redwood table between them.
“My husband was called to Sacramento by the governor for an emergency meeting on offshore oil leases. Only such an important matter would have taken him away from the house at a time like this. He left me with instructions on what to do if anything new developed. The first was to call you immediately. He’s taken a liking to you. Hilton does things like that — perhaps every good executive has to.” One corner of her mouth curled up in a small, unamused smile. “I know what every executive’s wife has to do, and that is obey orders. So here we are, you and I.” She made it sound like the opposite of a fun date.
“Has anything new happened, Mrs. Jasper?”
“I think it’s going to. Have you seen the morning paper?”
“Not yet.”
“It contains the advertisement about the dog. I didn’t even have a chance to check it out before the phone began to ring. A man who said he was on welfare described a dog he’d found on his front porch. It was obviously a beagle, not a basset, and I advised him to ask the Animal Shelter to pick it up. The second call was more interesting. A woman with an accent, perhaps Irish, told me that one of her tenants had brought home a dog. She manages an apartment house where dogs are not allowed and she’s bringing the dog here in about an hour. It’s undoubtedly Zia. She spoke of a small shaved area on the dog’s chest where he’d been treated for a hot spot. I’d like you to stay and meet her, Mr. Aragon.”
“Did she give a name?”
“Griswold. Mrs. Griswold.”
“And address?”
“I forgot to ask. I was terribly rattled. I even had the wild idea that it might be Cleo herself playing a trick on us. She likes to play tricks, but of course anything that elaborate is way beyond her ability.”
“Did Mrs. Griswold seem eager to collect the reward?”
“She never mentioned it.”
“Not a word?”
“No. I’m prepared to hand it over to her, of course. Hilton left me five one-hundred-dollar bills in case something like this happened. I don’t think he expected it though.” She glanced at her wristwatch. It was large and serviceable-looking, like Frieda Jasper herself. “We have at least forty-five minutes to wait, assuming Mrs. Griswold arrives on time. I have some coffee made. Would you like some?”
“I would, yes.”
The fog was lifting. Steam rose from the swimming pool and the heavy shake roof of the house next door. The sea shone like a bright new revelation. In the distance Mexican palm trees, skinny and shaggy-topped, stood like a row of upside-down dust mops.
She returned carrying a tray with a glass pot of coffee and two ceramic mugs.
“Cream? Sugar?”
“Black.”
“Troc’s working in the citrus grove out back. I haven’t told him yet about the dog. He’s old and very emotional and I would be afraid of the consequences if the woman doesn’t show up.” She sat down again. “We have well over half an hour to wait. I suppose you’ll want to ask questions about Cleo.”
“Yes.”
“The second of the instructions Hilton left me was to be discreet. I’m not sure I can talk about Cleo and be discreet at the same time. I’ll try.”
She didn’t try very hard. After a swallow of coffee and a couple of deep breaths of air she was off:
“I didn’t want to take the girl in. She was eight, a year older than my son, Ted, already fixed in her ways and spoiled by a half-crazy grandmother. But there was no one else willing and able to do it, so she came here. At first Hilton couldn’t stand the sight of her because he’d always blamed her for his mother’s death. When he came to realize her innocence and her vulnerability, he felt terribly guilty, to blame a child for being born. He gave her everything, everything he had, and unfortunately everything I had, too. Ted was sent away to school so I could spend more time educating her.”