Pennies on a Dead Woman's Eyes (14 page)

Melissa Cardinal's facial features were cruelly scarred. The flesh on her left cheek was pitted and puckered, the corner of her mouth warped in a perpetual one-sided grin. Seen from the right, she would have appeared perfectly normal, but from the left the disfigurement was jarring. The plane crash, I thought, back in ‘sixty-one.

My expression must have betrayed my surprise, because she touched a pudgy hand to her cheek—briefly, before beginning to stroke the cat. In order not to compound her discomfort, I got out my notepad while glancing around the room. It was shabbily furnished, except for a tall glass-fronted cabinet full of animal figurines, carefully arranged and probably lovingly dusted.

I felt a swift stab of sympathy for Melissa Cardinal, living alone in semi-darkness with her disfigurement. It was no wonder Frank Fabrizio hadn't recognized her until the man she was with spoke her name; at that, he must have seen only her good side.

“So what do you want to know?” Cardinal asked defensively, as if she sensed my sympathy and wanted no part of it.

“I understand that you were a friend of Cordy McKittridge.”

She started so violently that the cat flew off her lap. “Cordy! Cordy's been dead years and years now.”

“One of our attorney's has asked me to reinvestigate the case. I understand that you—”

“I can't talk about Cordy.”

“Why not?”

“I just can't, is all.” She tried to get up, pushing hard on the arms of the recliner, but sank back helplessly. “You better go. I'm expecting company.”

Ms. Cardinal, there's no reason to get upset. As you said, Cordy's been dead a very long time. It can't hurt to talk about—”

“It can't?” Her eyes glittered. “Shows how much
you
know.”

“How can it hurt?”

Silence.

“Has someone told you not to talk about Cordy? Threatened you?”

Melissa Cardinal looked around for her cat, located it under the glass-fronted cabinet. She made a clicking noise with her tongue, and the animal leapt onto her lap. Melissa cradled its fury body against her breasts like a shield.

I tried a less intimidating tack. “Do you remember Frank Fabrizio? The baker who rented the flat to you and Cordy and your other friends?”

“Sure, I remember Frank. I see him around the neighborhood, but he doesn't see me.”

“Why not?”

“Because I only go out at night, that's why.” She touched her cheek gingerly, as if it still hurt. “Over thirty years it's been now, but I can't face the daylight, much less a mirror. I used to be pretty, you know—an airline hostess, flew all over the world. Then there was the crash, fall of sixty-one, at Orly. One of the passengers, a little boy traveling alone, didn't get evacuated with the others. I went back for him. Wasn't heroism—just what I'd been trained to do. He got out without a scratch, but I was so badly burned that two operations wouldn't fix it any more than this. And you know what? His parents never even thanked me.”

“I'm sorry.”

“No sorrier than I am.” Her voice grew bitter and weary. “Look, I don't want to remember Cordy or the days when I was still pretty. Please go away.”

Pressuring vulnerable people like Melissa Cardinal is something I thoroughly dislike, but a necessary part of my job. I said, “Did you know that Frank Fabrizio saw you one morning a couple of weeks ago?”

“I never go out—” She broke off, remembering.

“He saw you and a companion outside the Haven.”

For a moment I thought she'd deny being there, but then she asked almost shyly, “What did he say about me?”

“That you'd aged well,” I lied.

She nodded. “Frank always had his eye out for me, and I guess I led him on a little. Gave me a kick—his wife was such a prune-face. But he must've seen my good side. Otherwise . . .”

“Why did you go out that morning, Ms. Cardinal?”

“What?”

“If you never go out in the daytime, you must have had a good reason. Was it because of the man Frank saw you with?”

“What man?”

“Frank described him as medium height, well dressed, a gentleman.”

“. . . Oh, him. That was just somebody who brought me a drink at the bar.”

“So you went out by yourself at eleven o'clock in them morning to have a drink—that's all?”

“Why else?”

I just looked at her. Before she looked away, I caught a glint of fear in her eyes.

“Ms. Cardinal,” I said, “if you're in trouble, I can help you.”

“Why would I be in trouble?” But she clutched so hard at the cat that it yowled in protest. She released it, and it again bounced to the floor.

I took one of my cards from my bag and wrote my home number on the back. “You can reach me at one of these numbers day or night, if you need help or want to talk.” I stood and extended it to her. When she didn't take it, I set it on the table.

“Miss McCone,” she called after me as I went to the door, “I'm sorry, but I just can't risk it.”

“Risk what?”

She shook her head. “Please go. I don't have much of a life, but I'm not suicidal.”

After I left Melissa Cardinal, I went over to the Haven and tried to get a better description of the man Frank Fabrizio had seen her with. The bartender said he'd worked the early shift every day for six weeks running, but at first he claimed not to remember Cardinal. Ten of my dollars later, his memory improved to the point that he remembered her but not the man. Five additional dollars bought me a description of the man that conflicted with Fabrizio's in several respects. The barkeep, who was very short, said the man was tall; he thought his hair might have been blond, rather than gray or white. Distinguishing features? Well, he'd paid more attention to the woman, gross-looking as she was. Would he call the customer with her a gentleman? Well, he wasn't the sort of guy you usually served in the Haven, but you get all kinds.

What now? I thought as I stepped out of the murky bar and into the sun glare that was breaking through the fog. I really wanted to talk with Justice Joseph Stameroff, but that would have to wait at least until Judy returned from New York. I'd also have liked to question Leonard Eyestone about the workings of the Institute for North American Studies, but the director had said he couldn't talk again next week. Why such a delay? A busy schedule—or a desire to avoid further conversation? I supposed in the meantime I could do library research on the subject, but that seemed unnecessarily time-consuming.

Still undecided, I headed crosstown in the general direction of All Souls, but at Market and Church I pulled into the parking lot of Safeway and used the pay phone. Jack, conveniently, was manning Ted's desk over the noon hour. I had no urgent messages, he said, and nothing at all from Rae who had gone to lunch with Willie Whelan.

“So he's back from Reno,” I commented. “Even if her skylights aren't done on schedule today, my house'll be my own again. Undoubtedly she'll prefer his bed to my guest room.”

“Undoubtedly. But, Shar, you're not going to like this: Willie hinted to me that he brought her back a diamond ring.”

“The new store opening must have been a wild success. God, what if she actually marries him?” It was a prospect I couldn't bear to contemplate. After all, hadn't I already suffered with Rae through the demise of her first ill-stared union?

Jack said, “If she does, she ought to be committed. There used to be a law in this state that you could get fifty dollars for turning in a lunatic. Wonder if it's still on the books?” He paused, then added, “You coming back to the office?”

I'd intended to, but quickly I said no. I couldn't stomach yet another microwaved meal at my desk; I couldn't deal with painters grinning idiotically at me through every window; and I certainly couldn't stand to witness Rae's raptures should she indeed return from lunch with a diamond. “I'll be at home until further notice,” I told Jack.

At the Safeway fish counter I bought a container of marinated mussels, then added a freshly baked sourdough roll and a pint of pear ice to my shopping basket. When playing hooky, I told myself, do it in style.

There was an accident at Thirtieth and Church involving the streetcar and a delivery truck, and access to my own little tail end of Church, beyond the car tracks turn and stop, was blocked. I had to detour to the south, and by the time I entered my street from the far end, grumpy and hungry, it had been nearly an hour since I'd talked with Jack.

And there, right smack in front of my house, stood a big gray Lincoln Towncar whose dark-suited driver seemed oblivious to the fact that he was causing any number of my neighbors excessive inconvenience. On top of that, he was blocking my driveway. I came to a stop and leaned on my horn, gesturing.

The driver looked up, then spoke to someone in the backseat.

I stuck my head out my window and shouted, “You're blocking my driveway!”

He ignored me, kept right on talking to the passenger.

Who was this person keeping me from my own driveway—and my long overdue lunch? I leaned farther out the window and hollered, “Get that goddam thing out of my way!”

My neighbor across the street, who was trying to get
out
of her driveway, gave me a thumbs-up sign. The driver of the Lincoln looked around and frowned. Then he started it and backed up a few feet.

I pulled the MG into the drive, grabbed my grocery sack and got out. The Lincoln's driver was at its rear door now, opening it. I strode over there and said, “Look, you're making trouble for a lot of people by blocking a narrow street like this.”

The driver shrugged and turned toward the man who was emerging from the car.

He was perhaps seventy—tallish and slender, with a lined face that suggested intelligence and reflectiveness. He had a full head of white hair and hard gray eyes that didn't even try to mask their arrogance. From newspaper photos I recognized Justice Joseph Stameroff of the State of California Supreme Court.

Stameroff looked down his long nose at me, then glanced along the street, his eyes resting on my neighbor's car, whose rear bumper was nearly touching the Lincoln. His expression made it clear that he found visiting such a place distasteful.

The look brought my anger to a full boil. I said, “Tell your driver to move the car. Where the hell did you learn your manners—in a barn?”

Spots of color appeared on the justice's cheekbones. “And where, young woman, did you learn to speak to your elders that way?”

“Just because you've lived a long time doesn't give you the automatic right to be inconsiderate.”
Shut up McCone. This man's Judy's father; you're trying to get him to talk with you about the case, remember?
“And just because you're a justice on the state supreme court doesn't make you above the law.”
By God, you'll never learn, will you?

Surprisingly, Stameroff's lips rippled in what I supposed was as close to a smile as he ever got. “Miss McCone,” he said, “I'll forgive your rudeness if you'll forgive me mine.”

“. . . Fair enough.”

“Now, if you'll invite me into your home, we'll talk. My driver will take the car around the block.” He turned to talk to the man and added, “Twenty minutes should be sufficient.”

As I led him up the steps of my brown-shingled cottage, Stameroff commented, “I see this is one of the earthquake houses.”

“You're familiar with them?” I shook my front-door key loose from the others on the ring.

“Reasonably. Some forty-six hundred were built as temporary housing after the quake and fire of oh-six. Two or three rooms; yours must have been one of the three-roomers. Stoves, but no plumbing. Tenants became owners if they moved the houses to new sites at their own expense by August of oh-seven.”

And that recital told me that Stameroff enjoyed showing off his knowledge. I flattered him. “You're well versed.”

“History was my first love, before the law.”

Inside the cottage I considered where to take him for our talk and opted for the informal sitting room. As I led him down the hallway, I noticed he was studying the interior with keen interest.

“You've done a great deal with the cottage,” he said. “How many rooms is it now?”

“Six. Two of them, as well as the garage and basement area were added by the previous owners. I added the sixth and a deck, and I modernized the kitchen and bathroom.”

“By yourself?”

“Some by myself, some by hiring contractors.”

“You young women are so enterprising these days.” The words sounded fatherly and indulgent—and condescending as hell.

“It's been an interesting project” was all I replied. I motioned for him to be seated and took my groceries to the kitchen.

When I returned, Stameroff was perched on the edge of a chair, his arrogant eyes skipping from the ash-clogged fireplace to a tumbled stack of paperbacks on the rug, to a finger-smudge wineglass on the coffee table, to my scuffed athletic shoes lying loose-laced and pigeon-toed underneath it. Suddenly I saw the room as he did: not as a warm, cheerful haven but as the shabby lair of an uppity woman who was also a poor housekeeper. Being unfairly made to feel defensive only increased my annoyance with him, and I sat down on the sofa, offering neither refreshment nor apology.

“I assume,” I said, “that you spoke with Jack Stuart, who told you I would be at home this afternoon?”

“Yes. My daughter has been urging me to meet with you, and I had some free time, so I decided to come here. What we have to say is best said in privacy.”

“I appreciate your talking with me. While I can't expect you to sympathize with my investigation—”

“That's fortunate, Miss McCone, because I have no sympathy whatsoever. I am here, in fact, to ask that you cease your efforts on Mrs. Benedict's behalf.”