G is for Gumshoe (16 page)

She reached into her handbag automatically and pulled
a cigarette from a pack of Virginia Slims. “I'm not smoking this. I just need to hold it,” she said when she caught my look. “I quit last week,” she added in an aside to him.

I glanced at Dietz to see what his reaction would be. He hadn't had a cigarette now for over twenty-four hours, a personal best perhaps. Fortunately, he seemed to be sidetracked by the pheromones wafting through the air like perfume. Vera didn't actually drape one long leg across the chair arm, but there was something provocative about the way she sat. As often as I've seen her operate, I've still never figured out exactly what she does. Whatever the behavior, most men will begin to sit, lie down, and fetch like trained pups.

“I hope you're not forgetting the dinner tomorrow night,” she said. She knew from my face I hadn't the faintest idea what she was talking about. “For Jewel. Retirement,” she said, keeping it simple for those of us who'd suffered brain damage.

“Oh, that's right! I completely forgot. Really, I'm sorry, but I just don't see how I can make it,” I said, with visual reference to Dietz. He was never going to permit my attendance at a public affair. Vera caught the look and said to Dietz, “You're invited, of course. Jewel's leaving the company after twenty-five years. Attendance is mandatory . . . no ifs, ands, or buts.”

“Where's it being held?” he asked.

“The Edgewater Hotel. A private dining room. Should be very elegant. It's costing enough.”

“How many people are we talking about?”

Vera shrugged. “Maybe thirty-five.”

“Invitation only?”

“Sure. It's California Fidelity employees and guests. Why?”

“Can't do it,” I said.

“I think we can manage it,” Dietz said at the same time. “It will help if there's been no advance publicity.”

Vera looked from one of us to the other. “What's going on?”

Dietz filled her in.

I waited, feeling oddly irritated, while they went through the catechism of disbelief and assurances. Vera expressed all the requisite attitudes. “God, that's awful. I can't believe things like that actually go on. Listen, if you guys don't want to risk it, I'll understand.”

“I'll want to check it out, but we'll see how it looks. Can we let you know in the morning?” Dietz said.

“Of course. As long as I know by noon, it shouldn't be any problem.”

“What time's the dinner?”

“No-host cocktails at seven. The dinner's at eight.” Vera glanced at her watch. “Oops. I gotta scoot. It's been nice meeting you.”

“You, too.”

She moved toward the door.

“Oh, and Vera . . .” he said. “We'd prefer to keep this quiet.”

She pulled her glasses down on her nose, looking at him over the rims. There was an elegant pause while she raised a brow. “Of course,” she said—the word
asshole
implied. There was something flirtatious in the very way she left the room. Lord, she was really going all out for this guy.

Dietz seemed to color. It was the first time I'd seen him disconcerted by anything. The most unlikely men turn out to be suckers for abuse.

When the door closed behind her, I turned on Dietz with an outraged tone. “I thought you said no public events!”

“I did. I'm sorry. I can see I caught you by surprise. I don't want to interfere any more than I have to. If this is something you want, then let's find a way to do it.”

“I'm not going to risk my life for something like that!”

“Look. There's no way we can eliminate every possibility of attack. I'm here to reduce the likelihood, that's all. The
president
goes out in public, for God's sake,” he said. His tone shifted. “Besides, I'm not convinced the guy we're dealing with is a pro. . . .”

“Oh, great. He might be a lunatic, instead.”

Dietz shrugged matter-of-factly. “If we play our cards right, you'll be safe enough. The guest list is restricted and these are people you know. Once we scope it out, the question boils down to, do you want to go or not? You tell me. I'm not here to dictate the terms of your life.”

“I don't know yet,” I said, somewhat mollified. “The dinner's no big deal, but it might be nice to be out.”

“Then let's see what it looks like and we'll decide after that.”

By noon, I'd wrapped up my business and locked my files again. The phone rang just as Dietz and I were heading out the door. I started to answer, but he held a hand up, stopping me. He picked it up. “Millhone Investigations.” He listed briefly. “Hold on.” He passed the phone to me.

“Hello?”

“Kinsey, this is Irene Gersh. I'm sorry to be a bother. You're busy, I know . . .”

“No problem. What's up?”

“Mother's disappeared. I don't suppose she's been in touch with you.”

“Well, no, but I'm not sure she'd know who to call if she wanted to. I only saw her twice. How long's she been gone?”

“Nobody really knows. The supervisor at the nursing home swears she was there at breakfast time. An aide took her to the dining room in a wheelchair and then went off to take care of someone else. She told Mother she'd just be a minute, but when she turned around Mother'd left her wheelchair and had taken off on foot. Nobody dreamed she could get very far. I guess they scoured the building and grounds and now they've started searching the neighborhood. I'm on my way over but I thought I'd check with you first, just in case you knew anything.”

“I'm sorry, but I haven't heard from her at all. You need some help?”

“No, no. There's really no need at this point. The police have been notified and they have a patrol car cruising the area. So far there's no sign of her, but I'm sure she'll turn up. I just didn't want to overlook the possibility that she might be with you.”

“I wish I could be more help. We've got an errand to run, but we can check with you later and see what's going on. Give me the address and telephone number at the nursing home.” I tucked the phone against my shoulder while I made a note on a piece of scratch paper. “I'll give you a call when we get back.”

“Thank you. I appreciate your concern.”

“In the meantime, don't worry. I'm sure she's somewhere close.”

“I hope so.”

I told Dietz what was going on as we headed down the back steps. I was half-tempted to have him take me over to the nursing home, but it didn't feel like a real emergency. He wanted to see the Edgewater and check the arrangements for the banquet. He suggested I call Irene from the hotel as soon as he was done. It made sense and I agreed, though I knew for a fact if I were on my own, I'd have done it the other way. I was feeling distracted and, for once, his driving style didn't bother me. It was hard to imagine where Agnes could have gone. I knew she was capable of raising hell when it suited her, but Irene had made it sound like she was resigned to the move. I had to shrug to myself. Surely, she'd turn up.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I leaned my head back on the seat, staring out the car window while Dietz circled the area surrounding the hotel. I could see that he was committing various routes to memory, getting a sense of the sections of the road where we might be vulnerable to attack. I wasn't that interested in attending the dinner. Now that I thought about it, what the hell did I care? Jewel was a nice lady, but I really didn't know her well. I wasn't feeling that good and—just to get basic—I didn't have a thing to wear. The all-purpose dress—the only one I owned—had been in my car at the time of the accident. In the auto body lot down in Brawley, I remembered packing soggy items in a cardboard box, which hadn't arrived in Santa Teresa yet. When the dress did get here, it was probably going to smell like a swamp, complete with primordial life forms wiggling out of the wet. I could always ask Vera to lend me some rags. She towered over me, outweighing me by a good twenty pounds, but I'd seen her wearing a sequined tunic cut right
to her crotch. It would probably hit me at the knee. Not that I could wear a skirt in my current condition, of course. I was sporting a bruised leg that made me look like spoiled fruit. On a more optimistic note, once I strapped on my body armor, what difference would it make that her bazookas were twice the size of mine?

Dietz had apparently satisfied himself with the general layout of the neighborhood and we were getting down to the particulars. He pulled into the Edgewater parking lot and turned his Porsche over to a parking attendant, passing the guy a folded bill. “Keep the car up here close and let me know if anyone takes an interest.”

The attendant glanced down at the bill. “Yessir! Hey, sure!”

Dietz and I moved toward the entrance.

“Why so quiet?” he asked as he steered me through the lobby by the elbow like the rudder of a boat.

I pulled my arm away automatically. “Sorry,” I murmured. “I've been thinking about the banquet and it's put me in a bad mood.”

“Anything I can help with?”

I shook my head. “What's this feel like to you?”

“What, the job?”

“Yeah. Trailing around with me everywhere. Doesn't it get on your nerves?”

“I don't have nerves,” he said.

I turned and scanned his face, wondering if that was really true.

He hunted down the hotel manager and had a long talk with him about the banquet room, the closest medical facility, and matters of that ilk. I would have jettisoned the whole
plan, but by now we'd invested so much time and energy, I felt I was obligated to follow through. Meanwhile, Dietz was triggering all the disagreeable aspects of my personality. I was beginning to remember certain personal traits that had probably contributed to my divorces. I prefer to believe it was all
their
fault, but who are we trying to kid here . . .

I left Dietz in the manager's office and wandered down the corridor. Just off the hotel lobby, there were little shops where rich people browsed, looking for ways to spend money without having to leave the premises. I went into a clothing boutique and circled the place. The merchandise seemed unreal to me, outfits laid out with all the color-coordinated accessories. My notion of accessories is you wear your gym socks with matching rims. The air smelled of one of those movie-star perfumes that cost a hundred and twenty bucks an ounce. Just for laughs, I checked the sale rack. Even marked down, most items cost more than my monthly rent. I crossed to the section where the evening wear was arranged: long skirts in brocade, tops stiff with sequins, everything embroidered, handstitched, hand-painted, appliquéd, beaded and otherwise bejeweled. The saleswoman glanced over at me with a practiced smile. I could see her expression falter slightly and I was reminded, yet again, how unnerving my appearance must be to those unprepared for it. I was hoping I looked like I'd just had cosmetic surgery. A little nose bob, eye tucks. For all she knew I was holing up here with some sugar daddy until the swelling went down.

Dietz appeared in the doorway and I moved in his direction. As usual, he grabbed me by the elbow without ceremony and marched me down the hall. He was brusque,
distracted, probably mentally several moves ahead. “Let's have lunch.”

“Here?” I said, startled. I'm more the Burger King type myself.

“Sure, why not? It'll cheer you up.”

We'd reached the entrance to the hotel restaurant, a vast room enclosed in glass, with polished red tile floors and white wicker furniture. The room was dense with greenery: palms and rubber plants, potted ficuses lending an air of tropical elegance. The patrons were actually very casually dressed: tennis outfits, golf shirts, and designer sweats. Dietz was wearing the same jeans and tweed sport coat he'd worn for two days, while I was in my jeans and tenny-bops. No one seemed to pay the slightest attention to us, except for the occasional look of curiosity that flickered to my face.

He spotted a sheltered table near a fire exit with a sign prominently displayed above it:
THIS DOOR MUST BE KEPT UNLOCKED DURING BUSINESS HOURS
. Perfect if needed to make a fast getaway. The service area nearby was being used as a station for linen and flatware. A waitress had been sentenced to folding napkins into cloth boats.

“How about that one,” he said. The hostess nodded and led the way, showing us to our seats without questioning his taste.

She handed us two oversized menus bound in leather. “Your waiter will be right with you,” she said and moved away. I'll admit I checked the menu with a certain curiosity. I'm used to fast-food chains where the menus feature glossy photos of the food, as if the reality itself is bound to disappoint.

The edibles here were itemized on a quarto of parchment, handwrit by some kitchen scribe who had mastered Foodspeak. “ . . . lightly sauced pan-smoked filets of free range veal in a crib of fresh phyllo, topped with squaw bush berries, and accompanied by hand-formed gaufrettes of goat cheese, wild mushrooms, yampa root, and fresh herbs . . .” $21.95. I glanced at Dietz, who didn't seem at all dismayed. As usual, I could tell I was completely out of my element. I hardly ever eat squaw bush berries and yampa root.

I checked the other patrons. My view was actually half-obscured by a Boston fern. Next to the plant stand was a cylindrical cage in which finches were twittering. There were small bamboo baskets affixed to the wire sides and the little birds hopped in and out with strips of newspaper, making nests. There was something charming about their bright-eyed busyness. Dietz and I watched them idly while we waited for our waiter.

“You know anything about crows?” he asked.

“I'm not much on birds.”

“I wasn't either until I met one personally. I used to have a crow named Albert. Bertie, when I got to know him better. I got him when he was just a little guy and had him for years. A young crow doesn't navigate well and they'll sometimes crash-land. They're called branchers at that age—that's about all they can do, lumber awkwardly from branch to branch. Sometimes they get stuck and they wail like babies until you get 'em down. Bertie must have bitten off a bit more than he could chew and he'd tumbled to the ground. I had a cat named Little John who brought him in, squawking hellishly. LJ and I had a tussle to see who was
going to take possession. Fortunately for Bertie, I won the contest. He and the cat became friends later, but it was touch-and-go for a while there. LJ was pissed off because he thought this was Thanksgiving dinner and I was getting in his way . . .”