Death Was the Other Woman (19 page)

SOMETIMES I
still miss my father, though I'm not sure exactly why. He abandoned me. He left me without resources, without recourse. He left me holding a lot of a mess that he'd created. It's like the gift of life he gave me was given under false pretenses. With one careless act he changed the picture of my life. Everything he'd taught me, every gift he'd given me, all of it turned into a lie.

I think about that sometimes. How could I not? I think about all the things he told me, about what was true and what was not.

I don't miss my mother. I can't. I miss not having had one, but I have no recollections of the woman who gave me life. Since I was old enough to understand what it meant, the word “mother” stood for a sort of lack of something. She was the void, the cold spot in my recollection. There only in absentia, always.

But my father . . . that was different. He could be demanding; he could be brooding; sometimes he could be absent even when he was there. But he
was
there, even when I was at school in San Francisco. He was the cornerstone of my life, the one I could depend upon.

And then he was not.

I thought about these things as I sat in my room that night. It had been late by the time Mustard dropped me off. I'd wanted to sit alone in my room, not be a part of the gentle hustle and bustle of a house full of boarders. Some nights it was soothing to be among them. Tonight it hadn't felt that way.

Marjorie said I looked wan, as though I was coming down with something. She insisted on bringing a plate of food up to my room. The heel of a loaf of her good bread, some cheese, an apple carefully peeled and sliced. Simple food, but it was so good, an oasis in the storm that had been my day.

It was uncommonly cold for October. Not bitter cold, not freezing cold. Just a very real chill that no amount of warm clothing could chase away. Not in my room. Marjorie had felt the chill and insisted on starting the fire in the hearth in my room as she had in the days
before,
when my comfort had been one of the two most important considerations in the house.

She sensed my need that night, I think. Sensed that my spirit was low, perhaps near breaking, and that I needed looking after. And sure, maybe it wasn't just food I needed. Nor even physical warmth. Still both things went a long way toward restoring me to the cheerier place from which I usually greet the world.

Viewed from the safety of my own warm room, and with a plate of food and a cup of warm tea inside me, the events of the last few days seemed more manageable, if no more understandable. I could cope with these things, move beyond them.

I missed Dex. There were things afoot that his experience would help with. He'd know, for instance, what to make of the bill for Brucie's dress. And the steamship tickets that had been secreted in Dempsey's office. He'd know what to do with the questions I was asking, know whether to think Dempsey was dead or alive.

More than anything else, I found I missed his quiet assurance, even if that assurance was often tainted by his demons and his drink. And, yes, I was a modern woman. I didn't need the presence of a man to confirm my decisions or my place. But I felt I
could
be modern, could be independent, and yet I could still value another voice, one more experienced than my own. I valued not feeling lonely, and I didn't want to feel alone.

Acknowledging these things, combined with the food and warmth, relaxed me. That night I gave myself up to my fate in a way. Allowed myself to realize that I couldn't always be in control of every situation, every aspect of my life. Some things are inherently not to be controlled.

After a while I stopped thinking big thoughts. I had a bath with bubbles, a mug of hot tea balanced on the edge of the tub.

When I went to bed, my hair was still damp from the bath. The room was warm; my tummy was full. And when I slept it was a dreamless sleep. Uncomplicated.

And it was good.

IN THE MORNING
, I approached the office door with some trepidation. The last two times I'd come down this hallway, things had been amiss. First the broken lock—Calvin—and then the window—parties still unknown. On this morning, however, all was as it should be. I found myself almost ridiculously relieved, though it was a relief I didn't allow to flood in fully until I'd entered the office and had a look around. We were on the fifth floor. A break-in that didn't come in the front door was unlikely. Still, the way things had been going, no thought seemed too outlandish.

I was disappointed not to find Dex in the office. I knew he probably wouldn't get back from San Francisco until later in the day, if even that early. Nevertheless, I had wished for his presence. The things that needed to be done on this day felt too big for me to deal with on my own.

I started out easy with the telephone.

Mustard answered on the first ring with a harried sounding “Hullo?”

“Mustard, it's me. What did she say?”

“She wasn't there, Kitty. Her and Calvin had cleared out.”

“She leave anything, Mustard? A note? Anything?”

“Nothing, Kitty. Just. . . nothing. I'll let you know if I hear from her.” But he didn't sound hopeful, and he rang off before I could say anything more.

It was not as easy to get Dr. Josiah Elway on the line. It took a series of misconnections and reconnections to place the long-distance call. Finally I got him. “Elway here,” he said crisply. I felt relief at hearing his voice after spending half the morning trying to get him. And the line was clear and good, another reason for relief.

“Dr. Elway, I don't know if you remember me. This is Katherine Pangborn. I was in your office a few nights ago with my boss, Dexter Theroux.”

“Right, of course. I remember you. Dex called you Kitty. And you lost your lunch in the crypt.”

I grimaced at the reminder. “Yes, yes, that was me.”

“Well, but. . . you've missed Dex, you know.”

“Have I?”

“Yes. I saw him yesterday. With his lovely client, what was her name?”

“Lila Dempsey?”

“Yes, yes, that's right. They were horribly disappointed, of course. Or perhaps relieved, I'm not sure. You understand.”

“No, Dr. Elway, I'm sorry. I don't.”

“Oh. I thought Dex would call and tell you.”

“Perhaps he did,” I said. “I've been out of the office more than I've been in.”

“Well, the body the two of you saw the other night? The one that made you lose your lunch? She hit the floor like a sack of spuds when she saw it.”

“I can understand that, Dr. Elway. The body was in pretty bad shape.” I could almost feel the nausea rise again when I thought about Dempsey's corpse. It would have been worse when Lila saw it. I didn't imagine it would have improved any since Dex and I were there.

“That's not the only thing that shocked her,” Elway replied.

You could have knocked me over with a feather after what he told me next.

I HAD PICKED UP A NEWSPAPER
on the way to the office. I now spread it out on my desk looking for the departures list. It didn't take me long to find, or to discover that the
City of Los Angeles
was due to leave the harbor from berth 158 at three o'clock that afternoon.

Since I didn't have a car and it didn't look like the cavalry was going to rush in anytime soon, I needed to decide if I was going to go down there on my own. And if I
was
going to do that, I needed to leave pretty much right away so I could get to the harbor in San Pedro by Red Car with plenty of time to look around before the ship set sail.

I pondered a bit about it. And then I paced. I knew that, odds being what they were, I'd probably get down there and discover absolutely nothing. On the other hand, what if I didn't go? Would I forever wonder if a dead man had steamed away with a mystery partner? Would I think about chances missed and doors that were closed?

And I was anxious. Where was Harrison Dempsey and what was his connection to Brucie? Who had taken the fingerprints from the safe? Who was the stiff on Doc Elway's slab up in Frisco? And why did all of these unrelated things suddenly seem as though they were connected by some gossamer line?

I knew I should probably sit in the office all day and wait for Dex to show up, so he could be given all the facts and half facts I now had and use them to detect whatever could be detected. But if I did that, the
City of Los Angeles
would surely have steamed away. And it seemed to me there was a good chance I was wrong about the whole thing, that Harrison Dempsey would
not
be aboard and miraculously cured of whatever mishap had befallen him. Cured and with his beautiful mistress—or one of them—on his arm. I knew I
could
be wrong. But I really didn't think so.

Before I left the office, I scrawled a hasty note to Dex, telling him what I'd found and where I'd gone. I didn't think he'd get back before I did, but it seemed like the right thing to do, in any case. It's what a
detective
should do, I thought. And I wasn't one of those, but if I was going to act like one, I may as well get the procedure right.

Getting to San Pedro by streetcar was not an all-day affair, but it felt like it. When I finally got to the harbor, I resisted the urge to stand in line with the small well-dressed throng waiting to take the ferry out to Terminal Island in order to board the
Avalon
for passage to Catalina. Seeing them standing there reminded me of my own carefree past, and I felt a fleet but profound sadness. What would it mean, I wondered, to be without care and concern? A time like that seemed impossibly distant now. When I recalled my own trips to Catalina Island, it was like I was enjoying someone else's memories.

As I hurried past, I saw a small girl, beautifully dressed, tuck her hand into her father's and look up at him with excitement and anticipation. And happiness—that was the other thing I saw. I hoped I'd looked at my father like that. It was beginning to feel so long ago now; I couldn't be sure anymore. Maybe I never was.

I followed the signs to the Los Angeles Steamship Company's berths 155 to 158. En route, the docks were a zoo of departures. One of the “white flyers of the Pacific” that chugged up and down the coast between Los Angeles and San Francisco had recently arrived and was disgorging its passengers into the general melee.

People were coming and going in every direction. Stevedores were straining, porters were porting, and between them were tearful good-byes, joyous hellos, and other expressions of human emotion pushed to the extreme. My head swam with the colors, the scents, and the sensations of travel.

I finally located the
City of Los Angeles
at the far end of berth 158. And then I chided myself: how could I have ever thought I'd miss it? I hadn't needed directions; I'd only needed my eyes. The ship was the most beautiful one in the harbor. It was creamy white with stacks painted red and trimmed in black. I'd read about this boat, the largest steamer in American waters: 581 feet long, 62 feet across, with first-class accommodations for over four hundred passengers. When the steamship company purchased her, they'd added a gymnasium and a swimming tank. Standing next to her on the dock was like standing next to a floating hotel or a small well-trimmed city. She took my breath away. I shook my head at the wonder of it all, then realized that none of my gawking was bringing me closer to my target.

My target. Truth be told, I wasn't even sure what that was. When I thought about it, I was looking for a man I'd never seen, traveling with a companion whose identity I wasn't sure of. Just what, I thought, was I doing here? Yet in some very real way—and even though I'd contemplated it—
not
coming had never really been an option.

And then without really knowing anything at all, I suddenly understood
precisely
why I was there. Though it was difficult to see from the dock to where the passenger I'd spotted was making her way across the deck of the boat, hers would have been a difficult outline to ignore.

Unlike the people all around her, she wasn't waving down to the crowd. Even though that's something you do when aboard a boat.
Bon voyage.
Was she avoiding waving? I wondered. Trying to avoid being seen?

I was sure . . . well. . . almost sure. The flash of red hair, the swivel in her hips as she moved away, the careless touch on a dark and expensive-looking coat. Could it be anyone besides Rita Heppelwaite? Well, it could. But deep down, I felt certain that it was her.

My dilemma in that moment was huge. Though I had no proof, I believed that the boat was carrying Rita Heppelwaite and Harrison Dempsey—perhaps disguised as one John Harrison—away to some island in the South Pacific where they'd be safe from the law as well as whatever mobster mess Dempsey had managed to ignite. And it was one thing to think that—and to think that I
knew
that. And quite another to understand what to do. And I didn't.

I'd done everything I could to alert Dex by leaving a note at the office. But the chances of him seeing it and then thinking enough of the message to get here in time were slim. I found a phone box and tried to reach Mustard, but there was no answer. I thought about calling the police, but it brought the two flatfoots to mind again. And anyway, I really had nothing to tell them beyond some suspicions and uneasy feelings about things not fitting together properly. I knew that those weren't the circumstances that brought the police rushing to your aid. According to Dex, when it came to this matter and this particular man, it was hard to tell who was more crooked: the police or the dark characters Dempsey ran with.

In the end, though, I didn't call for help for one simple reason: what if I was wrong and neither Rita nor Dempsey was aboard? What if it was all some figment of my overactive imagination? Even then, I believed this to be a possibility. After all, how could even a fraction of the things I was imagining be correct? A world like that would make no sense. I wanted a world where one was one and two was two. I didn't want to be right about any of the things I was supposing. But I had to know.

There was an hour left before the
City of Los Angeles
was due to launch. I
had
to get aboard. The crew was watchful though. As if waiting for just such a move. Perhaps it was a sign of the times? I took a seat on a bench near the gangplank and just kept my eyes open for a while. Perhaps an opportunity would present itself. After a while it did.