The Best of Sisters in Crime (16 page)

“No, no, no. I
tended her myself and I know they ran toxicology tests. I guess at first they
thought it might be acute alcohol poisoning, but it turned out to be her heart.”

I quizzed him on
a number of possibilities, but I couldn’t come up with anything out of the
ordinary. I thanked him for his time, got back in my car, and drove over to the
trailer park where Justine Crispin lived.

The trailer
itself had seen better days. It was moored in a dirt patch with a wooden crate
for an outside step. I knocked on the door, which opened about an inch to show
a short strip of round face peering out at me. “Yes?”

“Are you Justine
Crispin?”

“Yes.”

“I hope I’m not
bothering you. My name is Kinsey Millhone. I’m an old friend of your mother’s
and I just heard she passed away.”

The silence was
cautious. “Who’d you hear that from?”

I showed her the
clipping. “Someone sent me this. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I didn’t even know
she was sick.”

Justine’s eyes
darkened with suspicion. “When did you see her last?”

I did my best to
imitate Sis Dunaway’s folksy tone. “Oh, gee. Must have been last summer. I
moved away in June and it was probably some time around then because I remember
giving her my address. It was awfully sudden, wasn’t it?”

“Her heart give
out.”

“Well, the poor
thing, and she was such a love.” I wondered if I’d laid it on too thick.
Justine was staring at me like I’d come to the wrong place. “Would you happen
to know if she got my last note?” I asked.

“I wouldn’t know
anything about that.”

“Because I wasn’t
sure what to do about the money.”

“She owed you
money?”

“No, no. I owed
her
. . . which is why I wrote.”

Justine
hesitated. “How much?”

“Well, it wasn’t
much,” I said, with embarrassment. “Six hundred dollars, but she was such a
doll to lend it to me and then I felt so bad when I couldn’t pay her back right
away. I asked her if I could wait and pay her this month, but then I never
heard. Now I don’t know what to do.”

I could sense
the shift in her attitude. Greed seems to do that in record time. “You could
pay it to me and I could see it went into her estate,” she said helpfully.

“Oh, I don’t
want to put you to any trouble.”

“I don’t mind,”
she said. “You want to come in?”

“I shouldn’t.
You’re probably busy and you’ve already been so nice. . . .”

“I can take a
few minutes.”

“Well. If you’re
sure,” I said.

Justine held the
door open and I stepped into the trailer, where I got my first clear look at
her. This girl was probably thirty pounds overweight with listless brown hair
pulled into an oily ponytail. Like Sis, she was decked out in a pair of jeans,
with an oversize T-shirt hanging almost to her knees. It was clear big butts
ran in the family. She shoved some junk aside so I could sit down on the
banquette, a fancy word for the ripped plastic seat that extended along one
wall in the kitchenette.

“Did she suffer
much?” I asked.

“Doctor said
not. He said it was quick, as far as he could tell. Her heart probably seized
up and she fell down dead before she could draw a breath.”

“It must have
been just terrible for you.”

Her cheeks
flushed with guilt. “You know, her and me had a falling out.”

“Really? Well, I’m
sorry to hear that. Of course, she always said you two had your differences. I
hope it wasn’t anything serious.”

“She drank. I
begged her and begged her to give it up, but she wouldn’t pay me no mind,”
Justine said.

“Did she ‘go’
here at home?”

She shook her
head. “In a welfare hotel. Down on her luck. Drink had done her in. If only I’d
known . . . if only she’d reached out.”

I thought she
was going to weep, but she couldn’t quite manage it. I clutched her hand. “She
was too proud,” I said.

“I guess that’s
what it was. I’ve been thinking to make some kind of contribution to AA, or
something like that. You know, in her name.”

“A Marge Crispin
Memorial Fund,” I suggested.

“Like that, yes.
I was thinking this money you’re talking about might be a start.”

“That’s a
beautiful thought. I’m going right out to the car for my checkbook so I can
write you a check.”

It was a relief
to get out into the fresh air again. I’d never heard so much horsepuckey in all
my life. Still, it hardly constituted proof she was a murderess.

I hopped in my
car and headed for a pay phone, spotting one in a gas station half a block
away. I pulled change out of the bottom of my handbag and dialed Sis Dunaway’s
motel room. She was not very happy to hear my report.

“You didn’t find
anything?” she said. “Are you positive?”

“Well, of course
I’m not positive. All I’m saying is that so far, there’s no evidence that
anything’s amiss. If Justine contributed to her mother’s death, she was damned
clever about it. I gather the autopsy didn’t show a thing.”

“Maybe it was
some kind of poison that leaves no trace.”

“Uh, Sis? I hate
to tell you this, but there really isn’t such a poison that I ever heard of. I
know it’s a common fantasy, but there’s just no such thing.”

Her tone turned
stubborn. “But it’s possible. You have to admit that. There could be such a
thing. It might be from South America . . . darkest Africa, someplace like
that.”

Oh, boy. We were
really tripping out on this one. I squinted at the receiver. “How would Justine
acquire the stuff?”

“How do I know?
I’m not going to set here and solve the whole case for you! You’re the one gets
paid thirty dollars an hour, not me.”

“Do you want me
to pursue it?”

“Not if you mean
to charge me an arm and a leg!” she said. “Listen here, I’ll pay sixty dollars
more, but you better come up with something or I want my money back.”

She hung up
before I could protest. How could she get her money back when she hadn’t paid
this portion? I stood in the phone booth and thought about things. In spite of
myself, I’ll admit I was hooked. Sis Dunaway might harbor a lot of foolish
ideas, but her conviction was unshakable. Add to that the fact that Justine was
lying about
something
and you have
the kind of situation I can’t walk away from.

I drove back to
the trailer park and eased my car into a shady spot just across the street.
Within moments, Justine appeared in a banged-up white Pinto, trailing smoke out
of the tail pipe. Following her wasn’t hard. I just hung my nose out the window
and kept an eye on the haze. She drove over to Milagro Street to the branch
office of a savings and loan. I pulled into a parking spot a few doors down and
followed her in, keeping well out of sight. She was dealing with the branch
manager, who eventually walked her over to a teller and authorized the cashing
of a quite large check, judging from the number of bills the teller counted out.

Justine departed
moments later, clutching her handbag protectively. I would have been willing to
bet she’d been cashing that insurance check. She drove back to the trailer
where she made a brief stop, probably to drop the money off.

She got back in
her car and drove out of the trailer park. I followed discreetly as she headed
into town. She pulled into a public parking lot and I eased in after her,
finding an empty slot far enough away to disguise my purposes. So far, she didn’t
seem to have any idea she was being tailed. I kept my distance as she cut
through to State Street and walked up a block to Santa Teresa Travel. I
pretended to peruse the posters in the window while I watched her chat with the
travel agent sitting at a desk just inside the front door. The two transacted
business, the agent handing over what apparently were prearranged tickets.
Justine wrote out a check. I busied myself at a newspaper rack, extracting a
paper as she came out again. She walked down State Street half a block to a
hobby shop where she purchased one of life’s ugliest plastic floral wreaths.
Busy little lady, this one, I thought.

She emerged from
the hobby shop and headed down a side street, moving into the front entrance of
a beauty salon. A surreptitious glance through the window showed her, moments
later, in a green plastic cape, having a long conversation with the stylist
about a cut. I checked my watch. It was almost twelve-thirty. I scooted back to
the travel agency and waited until I saw Justine’s travel agent leave the
premises for lunch. As soon as she was out of sight, I went in, glancing at the
nameplate on the edge of her desk.

The blond agent
across the aisle caught my eye and smiled.

“What happened
to Kathleen?” I asked.

“She went out to
lunch. You just missed her. Is there something I can help you with?”

“Gee, I hope so.
I picked up some tickets a little while ago and now I can’t find the itinerary
she tucked in the envelope. Is there any way you could run me a copy real
quick? I’m in a hurry and I really can’t afford to wait until she gets back.”

“Sure, no
problem. What’s the name?”

“Justine
Crispin,” I said.

I found the
nearest public phone and dialed Sis’s motel room again. “Catch this,” I said. “At
four o’clock, Justine takes off for Los Angeles. From there, she flies to
Mexico City.”

“Well, that
little shit.”

“It gets worse.
It’s one-way.”

“I knew it! I
just knew she was up to no good. Where is she now?”

“Getting her
hair done. She went to the bank first and cashed a big check—”

“I bet it was
the insurance.”

“That’d be my
guess.”

“She’s got all
that money
on
her?”

“Well, no. She
stopped by the trailer first and then went and picked up her plane ticket. I
think she intends to stop by the cemetery and put a wreath on Marge’s grave. . .
.”

“I can’t stand
this. I just can’t stand it. She’s going to take all that money and make a
mockery of Marge’s death.”

“Hey, Sis, come
on. If Justine’s listed as the beneficiary, there’s nothing you can do.”

“That’s what you
think. I’ll make her pay for this, I swear to God I will!” Sis slammed the
phone down.

I could feel my
heart sink. Uh-oh. I tried to think whether I’d mentioned the name of the
beauty salon. I had visions of Sis descending on Justine with a tommy gun. I
loitered uneasily outside the shop, watching traffic in both directions. There
was no sign of Sis. Maybe she was going to wait until Justine went out to the
gravesite before she mowed her down.

At two-fifteen,
Justine came out of the beauty shop and passed me on the street. She was nearly
unrecognizable. Her hair had been cut and permed and it fell in soft curls
around her freshly made-up face. The beautician had found ways to bring out her
eyes, subtly heightening her coloring with a touch of blusher on her cheeks.
She looked like a million bucks—or a hundred thousand, at any rate. She was in
a jaunty mood, paying more attention to her own reflection in the passing store
windows than she was to me, hovering half a block behind.

She returned to
the parking lot and retrieved her Pinto, easing into the flow of traffic as it
moved up State. I tucked in a few cars back, all the while scanning for some
sign of Sis. I couldn’t imagine what she’d try to do, but as mad as she was, I
had to guess she had some scheme in the works.

Fifteen minutes
later, we were turning into the trailer park, Justine leading while I
lollygagged along behind. I had already used up the money Sis had authorized,
but by this time I had my own stake in the outcome. For all I knew, I was going
to end up protecting Justine from an assassination attempt. She stopped by the
trailer just long enough to load her bags in the car and then she drove out to
the Santa Teresa Memorial Park, which was out by the airport.

The cemetery was
deserted, a sunny field of gravestones among flowering shrubs. When the road forked,
I watched Justine wind up the lane to the right while I headed left, keeping an
eye on her car, which I could see across a wide patch of grass. She parked and
got out, carrying the wreath to an oblong depression in the ground where a
temporary marker had been set, awaiting the permanent monument. She rested the
wreath against the marker and stood there looking down. She seemed awfully
exposed and I couldn’t help but wish she’d duck down some to grieve. Sis was
probably crouched somewhere with a knife between her teeth, ready to leap out
and stab Justine in the neck.

Respects paid,
Justine got back into her car and drove to the airport where she checked in for
her flight. By now, I was feeling baffled. She had less than an hour before her
plane was scheduled to depart and there was still no sign of Sis. If there was
going to be a showdown, it was bound to happen soon. I ambled into the gift
shop and inserted myself between the wall and a book rack, watching Justine
through windows nearly obscured by a display of Santa Teresa T-shirts. She sat
on a bench and calmly read a paperback.