Paula hadn’t traded the accent God gave her for fame and fortune in a heathen land. Paula hadn’t tossed aside all the moral values she had been brought up to believe in. Paula hadn’t changed the name her parents had christened her with.
Too late to do anything about that now. Sarah finished her whisky. It was time to go back to the cottage.
“Catch you later,” she said to Paula, who was busy serving a man in a fisherman’s jersey, then she zipped up her jacket, put on her mittens and left. As she walked out, she was struck by the thought that the tour was by far the most logical place to start looking for her tormentor, if only she could remember more about it. After all, just about everyone had been crazy back then.
17
Arvo spent most of Sunday at home sprawled on the floral-pattern sofa in the living-room watching Tunes of Glory for the thousandth time and putting his notes on the Sarah Broughton case in order.
He lived in a tiny, detached Spanish Colonial Revival bungalow hidden away on a residential street in the southern part of Santa Monica, near the college. Apart from one or two new low-rise apartment buildings in the modern, cubist style, most of the houses on the street were older, like his. They were similar in design, all white or beige stucco with low-pitched red tile roofs, but each was just a little different from its neighbor. Some had shutters, for example, while others had metal grille-work around the windows. Arvo’s had both.
A short path wound through a postage-stamp garden crammed with small palms, ferns, jacaranda and bougainvillea, so overgrown that you had to push the fronds aside with your hands as you walked to the portico. Sometimes it felt like walking a jungle path, but the shrubbery provided excellent shade and kept the place cool in summer.
Inside, the living room was immediately to the left, the kitchen and dining area to the right. A short hallway, with closet space for coats and shoes, led to the hexagonal hub, off which doors led to the three small bedrooms and the bathroom. The floors were of unglazed tiles, the color of terracotta, and there were little art deco touches over the tops of the doorways and windows: a zigzag here and a chevron there.
The living room was where Arvo spent most of his time. Nyreen had had very particular ideas about art, and after she left with all her contemporary prints, he put up two large, framed movie posters on the walls, one for Casablanca and one for The Big Sleep.
There were two large built-in bookcases in the room, flanking the shuttered windows: one was filled with an eclectic mix of books, from movie history to theater, urban planning and hard-boiled detective fiction; and the other housed his video collection, from Citizen Kane to Hollywood Chainsaw Hookers.
He had found the down payment for the house from the money he inherited on the death of his parents, and bought it as soon as he knew he had the job on the TMU. The mortgage stretched his resources almost to the limit, but he hoped to hang on to the place if he could, even if he never got to eat out again.
A good house in a pleasant neighborhood was hard to get in LA, real-estate prices being what they were, and apartment living didn’t appeal to him. He had done it in the past and found he quickly tired of smelling someone else’s cooking, or listening to someone else’s music, domestic arguments and sexual gymnastics.
When he had finished note-taking, the movie was over, the pot of coffee was empty, and he had sheets of paper spread out all over the floor and armchairs. But he was still no better off than when he started. The list of names Stuart Kleigman had faxed him gave him thirteen people with the initial M in either their first, middle or last names.
In addition, Stuart had found out very quickly through the movie-industry grapevine that Justin Mercer, Sarah Broughton’s ex-lover, had been working on a movie in a London studio for the past two months. Which let him off the hook.
Arvo stuck some leftover chili in the microwave for dinner, tossed a quick salad and opened a bottle of Sam Adams lager.
While the chili reheated, he dialed Ellie Huysman’s Toronto number again. There was a three-hour time difference, so it would be about nine-thirty in the evening there. He had tried three or four times during the day but got neither an answer nor a machine he could leave a message on. This time, as he was about to hang up after the tenth ring, he heard a breathless voice in his ear.
“Yes?”
“Is this Ms. Ellie Huysman?”
“Yes, yes it is. Who’s calling? Oh, damn — Magwitch! — hang on a minute, will you? Magwitch!” She put the phone down on a hard surface.
Arvo heard what he thought were a dog’s paws scrabbling over a wood floor.
“I told you not to do that. Darling, could you... ”
Arvo heard a man’s voice, but didn’t catch what he said, then Ellie Huysman picked up the phone again. “Sorry about that. The dog. We just got back from the carol service and he seems rather more than pleased to see us. Can you hang on a minute?”
Before Arvo could answer, she had put the phone down again. He heard more voices, laughter, a door opening and closing, then she picked up the phone again. “Hello? Are you still there? I’m sorry about that. What can I do for you? Who are you anyway?”
Arvo introduced himself.
“What’s it about?” she asked. “Hang on again, will you, I want to take this in the living room, on the sofa. I’ve been sitting on a hard pew all night and my bum feels like pressed cardboard.”
Arvo kept his patience as she set the receiver down once again on the hard surface. A few seconds later, she picked up the other extension and called for someone to replace the hall phone. That done, she said, “That’s better. Now I can sit down, kick my shoes off and have that stiff G and T, which I’ve been dying for all evening. Now then, Detective Hughes of the LAPD, what’s it all about? I’m curious.”
“Sarah Broughton.”
“Sal? Nothing’s happened to her, has it?”
Arvo had already debated what to tell her and decided there was no point holding back. She wasn’t a suspect; she was a friend of Sarah’s; and she lived in another country. “She’s been getting some disturbing letters,” he said, “and the writer seems to indicate that he knows her, that she should know him. Normally, we wouldn’t take a lot of notice of claims like that, but... ”
“But what, Detective?”
“Well, she discovered a body on the beach near her house the other day, just before she left for England. She didn’t know the victim, and there’s probably no connection, but even so—”
“It’s a coincidence you don’t like? I don’t like it, either. Poor Sal.”
“Are the two of you still close?”
“Ye-es, I’d say we are. Maybe not as close as we’ve been at some points in our lives — distance is a problem — but still firm friends. Look, if I can help you in any way, I will, but shouldn’t I verify your identity? I mean, you could be any Tom, Dick or Harry, couldn’t you? You could even be the person who’s been writing these letters. Why don’t you give me your police switchboard number and I’ll ring you back?”
A light breeze fluttered through the window and brushed Arvo’s cheek. He could hear the leaves and fronds rustling in the dark garden. Beyond that was the constant hum of cars on the freeway. He took a swig of Sam Adams. “I’m calling from home,” he said. “I could give you my badge number, and you could call the duty officer downtown and verify it.”