“They just would, that’s all. Because I went away and put myself through school. Neither of them approved of my doing that. A girl is supposed to do what she’s told.” Her voice was stony with resentment.
“Who do you blame for everything that’s happened?”
“Myself, of course. But I blame Stanley, too.” She lowered her eyes again. “I know that’s a dreadful thing to say. I can forgive him for the girl. And all that foolish business about his father. But why did he have to take – bring Ronny with him?”
“He wanted money from his mother, and Ronny’s visit was part of the transaction.”
“How do you know that?”
“Elizabeth said so.”
“She would. She’s a cold woman.” She added as if in apology to the house: “I shouldn’t say that. She’s suffered a lot. And Stanley and I haven’t been much comfort to her. We’ve taken a great deal, and haven’t given much.”
“What have you taken?”
“Money.” She sounded angry at herself.
“Does Elizabeth have much money?”
“Of course – she’s wealthy. She must have made a fortune out of the Canyon Estates development, and she still has hundreds of acres left.”
“They’re not producing much, except for a few acres of avocados. And she seems to have a lot of unpaid bills.”
“That’s just because she’s rich. Rich people never pay their bills. My father used to run a small sports shop in Reno, and the ones who could best afford to pay were the very ones he had to threaten to take to court. Elizabeth has thousands a year from her grandfather’s estate.”
“How many thousands a year?”
“I don’t really know. She’s close-mouthed about her money. But she has it.”
“Who gets it if she dies?”
“Don’t say that!” Jean sounded scared and superstitious. She added in a more controlled voice: “Dr. Jerome says she’s going to be okay. Her attack was just the result of overexertion and strain.”
“Can she talk all right?”
“Of course. But I wouldn’t bother her today if I were you.”
“I’ll take it up with Dr. Jerome,” I said. “But you haven’t answered my other question. Who gets her money when she dies?”
“Ronny does.” Her voice was low, but her body was tense with feeling she couldn’t hold. “Are you worried about who will pay you? Is that why you’re hanging around here when you should be out looking for him?”
I didn’t try to answer her, but sat and maintained a low profile for a while. Anger and grief were alternating in her like an electric current. She turned the anger against herself, taking the hem of her skirt between her hands and pulling at it as if she was trying to tear it.
“Don’t do that, Jean.”
“Why shouldn’t I? I hate this dress.”
“Then take it off and put on another one. You mustn’t go to pieces.”
“I can’t stand waiting.”
“It may stretch out for a while, and you’ve got to stand it.”
“Isn’t there anything more we can do? Can’t you go out and find him?”
“Not directly. There’s too much ground to cover. And too much water.” She looked so cast down that I added: “But I do have one or two leads.” I got out the advertisement again, with its picture of Stanley’s father and Kilpatrick’s wife. “Have you seen this?”
She bent her head over the clipping. “I didn’t see it until some time after it came out. Stanley placed it in the Chronicle without telling me, when we were in San Francisco last June. He didn’t tell his mother, either, and when she saw it she was furious.”
“Why?”
“She said he was bringing the whole scandal back to life. But I don’t suppose anyone cared, really, except for her and Stanley.”
And Jerry Kilpatrick, I thought, and Jerry’s father, and possibly the woman herself. “Do you know who this woman is?”
“Her name was Kilpatrick, according to Elizabeth. She was married to a local real estate man, Brian Kilpatrick.”
“What kind of terms are he and Elizabeth on?”
“Very good terms, I think. They’re partners, or co-investors, in Canyon Estates.”
“What about Kilpatrick’s son Jerry?”
“I don’t think I know him. What does he look like?”
“He’s a lanky boy about nineteen, with long reddish brown hair and a beard. Very emotional. He hit me over the head with a gun last night.”
“Is he the one who took Ronny away on the yacht?”
“He’s the one.”
“I may know him after all.” Her sight turned inward and stayed that way for a while, as if she was doing a sum in mental arithmetic. “He didn’t have a beard then, but I think he came to our house one night last June. I only saw him for a moment. Stanley took him into the study and shut the door. But I believe he had that clipping with him.” Her head came up. “Do you think he’s trying to strike back at us? Because his mother eloped with Stanley’s father?”
“It’s possible. I think the boy really cares about his mother. In fact, he may be on his way to her now.”
“Then we’ve got to find her,” Jean said.
“I agree with you. If I can believe my informant, the ex-Mrs. Kilpatrick is living somewhere south of San Francisco, on the Peninsula.”
She seized on the lead because it was the only one. “Will you go there for me? Today?”
The life was coming back into her face. I hated to disappoint her. “I’d better stay here until we get something definite. Jerry sailed in the Ensenada race last summer, and he may have gone that way.”
“To Mexico?”
“A lot of young people are ending up there. But our lead on the Peninsula ought to be checked out.”
She stood up. “I’ll go myself.”
“No. You stay here.”
“Here in this house?”
“Here in town, anyway. I doubt that this is a kidnaping for ransom. But if it is, you’re the one they’ll be getting in touch with.”
She looked at the phone as if it had just spoken. “I have no money.”
“You’ve just been telling me about Mrs. Broadhurst’s money. You can raise some if you have to. As a matter of fact, I’m glad you brought the subject up.”
“Because I haven’t paid you?”
“I’m not anxious. But we’re going to need some actual cash pretty soon.”
Jean was getting disturbed again. She moved around the little room, awkward and angry in her ill-fitting black dress.
“I’m not going to ask Elizabeth for money. Of course, I could go and look for a job.”
“At the moment, that isn’t very realistic.”
She paused in front of me. We exchanged a quick stabbing glance. It carried the possibility that we could be passionate enemies or friends. There was angry heat stored up in her like deep hot springs beyond the reach of her marriage or her widowhood.
She said in a more confident voice, as if she had somehow taken my measure: “Speaking of realism, what are you going to do to get my son back?”
“I have a call in to a man named Willie Mackey who runs a detective agency in San Francisco. He knows the Bay area thoroughly and I’d like to co-opt him.”
“Do that. I can raise the money.” She seemed to have made a decision involving more than money. “What are you going to do?”
“Wait – and ask questions.”
She made an impatient movement and sat on the couch again. “All you do is ask questions.”
“I get tired of it, too. Sometimes people tell me things without being asked, but you’re not one of them.”
She looked at me distrustfully. “That’s just another question, isn’t it?”
“Not exactly. I was thinking you’ve had a strange marriage.”
“And you want me to tell you about it,” she stated.
“If you want to, I’m willing to listen.”