Authors: Stephen Greenleaf
Lark McLaren was where she always was, waiting for her boss's summons. This time she had her laptop whirring and her fingers flying, but above the machinery her lovely face had taken on the exhausted countenance of a refugee.
I took the seat next to her and touched her arm. “How are you?”
Lark started and looked up. “Mr. Tanner. You surprised me.” She rubbed her face and closed the cover on her machine. “I'm fine. Just helping Gert put out a publicity release. You can't believe the pressâthey act like Chandelier's the reincarnation of Princess Di or something.”
“You look like you forgot to sleep this month,” I said easily.
“Nonsense. I'm up to three hours a night. It's a veritable feast of snooze.”
“How's the boss?”
“Better, actually. Even I can see it.”
“Can she have visitors?”
“Briefly.”
“I'd like to see her for maybe a minute.”
“Can I know why?”
“I'd like to give her my final report.”
Her eyes grew lively and inquisitive. “You know who planted the bomb?”
I nodded.
“It has something to do with the police, doesn't it? The guy who came to look at the computer and the thing on the news this morning.”
“Most of it does,” I agreed.
Her eyes grew lively. “Wait a minute. You're the private investigator who was out there, aren't you?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't they give your name?”
“I don't know,” I said, but what I thought was that Jill was trying to protect me from recriminations from the members of the Triad still afoot in the general populace. I didn't know if I liked that or not, since I wasn't in a position to protect Jill nearly as well.
“Are Chandelier and Violet out of danger?” Lark was asking fervidly.
“I think so.”
“Thank God.” She put her laptop aside and stood up. “I'll see what I can do.”
She hurried away and returned in two minutes, which was plenty of time for me to worry that I was being more optimistic than the situation warranted. “You can see her now.”
“Thanks.”
“Follow me.”
She led me down two and a half corridors to the area marked
INTENSIVE CARE
. A doctor was waiting for us. So was Ruthie Spring.
I pulled Ruthie off to the side. “How's it going?”
“Slow as Sunday. What brings you by?”
“It's pretty much wrapped up, I think. You can take off anytime.”
“That business on the news this morning have anything to do with it?”
I nodded.
“Quite a party out there, sounds like.”
“Hats and horns.”
“You were there?”
“Yep.”
“I didn't hear your name mentioned.”
“Just as well.”
“So the cops Sleet was disposing of the night he got shot were the ones who did the deed to Chandelier?”
“Right. Most of the rest were collared last night.”
Ruthie's eyes twinkled. “By your own personal DA, am I right?”
“So she says,” I bragged, and felt oddly ecstatic about the sound of it.
I turned Ruthie toward the exit and gave her a little shove. “Go. Make Conrad happy. And send me a bill or I'll sue you.”
Ruthie turned away, then back. “Some lady lawyer named Sundstrom was by. She wasn't pleased. With you or with me or with anything.”
“People like Ms. Sundstrom are never pleased. It's why they're lawyers. They get paid to be malcontents.”
After Ruthie had gone and Lark had introduced me to the young doctor, he gave me some scrubs and a mask to put on, then opened the door. “Second bed to the left. Don't make her laugh; don't make her cry; don't make her sneeze.”
“Noted,” I said, and entered the room, which, like all hospital rooms, gave me the willies and made me resolve to lose weight.
Chandelier Wells was a sight, and that was putting it mildly. There were tubes running into her and tubes running out. Her flesh was pink in some spots and black in others and swaddled in others with what looked like yards and yards of cheesecloth, as though they were preparing her for the deli case. The only part that looked normal were her eyeballs, and they were so bright they seemed fake. Even the bed was dramatic, with curved bars and ropes and pulleys and little motors that made it look like a car on a thrill ride, one that twists and twirls and makes you wish you'd skipped lunch. I wasn't sure, but I think it was so they could turn her over without touching her.
A nurse was hovering and so was the doctor. I walked to the side of the bed and sat in the chair already beside it. “It's Marsh Tanner, Ms. Wells. The detective. You hired me to learn who sent the notes and set the bomb.”
I paused to see if she'd heard me. Only the blinks of her eyes suggested she did. And even that much response seemed agonizing for her.
“In both cases, it was cops,” I went on, my voice a buzz through the mask. “Members of a gang called the Triad. The one Wally Briscoe told you about when you talked to him while doing research for your next book.”
I got another blink so I went ahead.
“The leader, Vincent Hardy, admitted what he did to you and the DA has it on tape. Hardy's in jail without bail and the rest of the gang is spilling its guts to the DA. I don't think you or your daughter will have any more trouble from them. As far as I'm concerned, I'm off duty. It's been nice working for you. I hope you feel better soon. Oh. They killed Wally Briscoe. It was my fault. It didn't have anything to do with you and your book.”
The next blink extruded a tear. Whether it was for Wally or me or herself was left for me to decide.
“If you have questions,” I said, “I'll be happy to answer them, but your doctor would probably rather you didn't ask.”
When nothing more happened, I stood up and left the ward after shedding the mask and the scrubs. Lark McLaren caught up to me as I was about to leave the hospital. “I want to thank you, Mr. Tanner.”
“I was lucky. It happens that way sometimes. I'm just sorry Chandelier got hurt so badly.”
“You were awfully nice to work with. People aren't, always. I just wanted to say I appreciate it.”
I grabbed her hand and kissed it. “You're easy to be nice to, Ms. McLaren. You ought to give some nice young man the chance to reciprocate.”
When I got back to the office, the phone was ringing. When I picked it up, a woman began screaming in my ear like a banshee.
Chapter 32
The woman was Jill Coppelia and she had five sentences out of her mouth before I understood a single one of them.
“You're going to have to start at the beginning,” I said as soon as I could get a word in edgewise.
Her breath heaved and wheezed as though she'd just played tag with someone far more energetic than I am. “Okay. Okay,” she panted. “Just let me take a few breaths. There. Now. Where was I? Oh. The beginning is, I got a call from Hank Hardesty.”
“The public administrator.”
“Right. He was calling about your friend Pearl Gibson.”
“Has he made the funeral arrangements?”
“Yes. Or almost.”
“Good. I just hope he holds down the expenses in case I end up footing the bill.”
Jill's titter was giddy, bordering on hysterical. “You're not going to believe it, Marsh.”
“Believe what?”
“What happened to Pearl.”
My pulse started thumping the way it does when the subject turns grisly. “What? Was she murdered after all? Was someone after me and got Pearl by mistake?”
“No, I ⦠Nothing like that. Calm down. Maybe I should start at the beginning again.”
My heart began to decelerate. “Please do.”
She gulped a deep breath. “Last night about three
A.M.
, the police got a call from a man named Guernsey. Peter Guernsey.”
“Like the cow.”
“Whatever. Anyway, this Guernsey guy called the cops to report a possible medical problem with a woman named Gibson.”
“What kind of problem was he talking about?”
“He didn't know. He just thought something might have happened to her.”
“Why?”
“This is where it gets good. Guernsey had talked to Pearl on the phone earlier in the dayâaround four in the afternoonâand he made an appointment to come by the apartment to see her at eight. But when he got there, she didn't answer the door.”
“Maybe she forgot.”
“He thought so, too, for a while. But he didn't think Pearl sounded like she had any sort of memory problem on the phone.”
“I never saw any sign of it.”
“And he also knew this appointment was one she'd definitely want to keep. So he lay awake half the night worrying that Pearl was sick or hurt or something and finally called the cops to have them check it out. To give himself peace of mind, if nothing else.”
“Which is where I came in.”
“Right. I talked to an officer ⦔
“Hollingsworth.”
“Right. Hollingsworth about the situation. He said he got the call a little after three. He and his partner responded right away, found a key under the mat, let themselves in, and found Pearl collapsed on the floor in the middle of the living room. No vital signs; no sign of violence or forced entry. He's pretty sure it was her heart or a stroke. And so is Guernsey.”
“What does Guernsey know about it? Is he some kind of doctor?”
Jill paused. “Guernsey didn't tell Pearl precisely why he called, but he could tell she was getting excited so he figured she'd guessed right away. He also figures the excitement is probably what killed her. He feels pretty bad about it, apparently.”
“I still don't get it. What excitement is he talking about?”
“Guernsey works for an outfit called the Manumission Corporation,” Jill went on, her voice taking on the fullness of parody.
“Never heard of them.”
“Neither had I. And for good reason. They publish a magazine called
Balls
.”
I laughed. “That sounds like something Pearl would have lying around. She read tons of magazines. Or subscribed to them, at least. She got them because she thought they would ⦔ A light came on somewhere in the vicinity of my frontal lobes. “Wait a minute. You're not going to tell me Pearl
won
something, are you?”
Jill could barely contain herself. “That's
exactly
what I'm telling you.”
“This guy Guernsey made an appointment to give her the prize.”
“Right. Which he knew she would want to accept. Which is why he thought there might be a problem when she didn't answer the door.”
“Makes sense.”
“Yes, it definitely does,” Jill said somberly, as though we'd solved the riddle of the Sphinx.
“So I guess this means she can pay for her funeral,” I joked, just because it hurt to think of Pearl lying dead in her little apartment for hours on end. And to think she finally won a prize that would capture some attention, but she wouldn't be around to enjoy it.
“That's not going to be a problem,” Jill was saying. “Pearl's final expenses will be easily covered out of the assets in her estate.”
“So I'm off the hook.”
“Right.”
“Did they find any family?”
“No. Hardesty is sure there isn't any.”
“Too bad. How much did she win, do you know?”
“I'm glad you asked that question.” Jill was practically bursting with news. “Are you ready?”
“Sure.”
“Six million dollars.”
“What?”
“Six million.”
“For a
magazine
?”
“This Manumission Corporation is new on the scene in this country. They're owned by a huge Dutch publishing conglomerate that's trying to get a foothold in our market. They're trying to make
Balls
the new
GQ
or
Maxim
or something. And they hoped to make their first big splash with this sweepstakes deal.”
I laughed. “Which was won by an eighty-four-year-old widow, not some swinging young stud.”
“Right.”
“Life does get good once in a while.”
“It's going to get even better. Believe me.”
“So Pearl was worth six million dollars when she died.”
“Right as rain, Sherlock.”
I still didn't like it when she called me Sherlock. “Too bad Pearl isn't around to enjoy it,” I mused, my mind on the fortress of magazines.
“There's something else.” Jill's tone of voice seemed tentative all of a sudden.
“What?”
“It seems Pearl left a will. Holographic. Written a few days before she died. Signed and dated. Completely valid in the state of California.”
“And?”
“She left her real property to a man named Larson.”
“What real property?”
“She owned an apartment house, apparently. Out on California Street somewhere. Do you know anything about this Larson person?”
“Not much.” I laughed. “I think he's our mailman.”
“You're kidding.”
“I'm pretty sure that's the guy. He and Pearl were buddies.”
“Well, he's a richer man today than he was yesterday.” Jill paused long enough to take a sip of something. “But he's not as rich as you are.”
“Then that apartment house must be a major slum.”
“Not really. Because Pearl Gibson's residual heir is you. Marsh Tanner. Apartment three. Which means you're worth at least
six million dollars
. Before estate and inheritance taxes, of course.”
When I didn't say anything, Jill laughed. “Did you hear me?”
“I'm afraid so.”
She laughed yet again. “Marsh?”
“What?”
“Maybe I'd better come over and help you get through this.”
Epilogue