Читать книгу Healthy, Wealthy, and Dead - Gregg Ward Matson - Страница 4

Loralee called about a month later. It was January. Raining hard.

I got to my office about 9:30, having no reason to show up earlier. I had done some insurance work and a little research for a lawyer, but overall, the month had been slow. In the holiday season, even people who are out to screw each other tend to mellow out on rich food and good liquor.

My office was in the 926 J Building, fiftteen stories of brick. When it was built in the twenties, it was one of the highest things in the Valley. By the nineties, shiny new high-rises had dwarfed it. Across the street was Wino Park, now officially called Cesar Chavez Park. Before that the official designation was Plaza Park—I suppose to make Sacramento seem like one of those glorious centers from old Spanish days, like Portola used to visit there all the time. But that ruse was as shallow as a vernal pool around Labor Day. From Sutter on up, the town has been a chessboard for real estate developers. And the park has always been called Wino Park.

My office building used to have a flashy brass revolving door, but they took that out after I moved in. The rent wasn’t bad and I could walk to work.

There was only junk mail and not much of that: one for a Mervin Kemp and another for a Marvin Kentmar. At the moment I had no sense of humor so I tossed them. There was a message on my telephone. I dialed my password. It was dated that morning, eight o’clock, from Loralee Carlisle.

Hoping it was not business but suspecting it would be, I listened. Her voice was cool and affable, like someone wanting to discuss painting the house. She wanted to meet me as soon as possible. She left her number.

I called, talked to a maid or secretary, who told me the address and that 2:30 that afternoon would be a convenient time for Mrs. Carlisle.

I left the office and walked home. I took a shower, shaved, and put on after-shave, cologne, and deodorant. I put on my navy blue silk shirt, and over it my neat gray herringbone with maroon highlights, and my wine-blue tie. I found my gray wool slacks and checked them carefully for food stains from the last wedding or funeral I’d attended, made sure I had black socks that matched, then polished the shiny shoes I rarely wear. I even made sure the clean underclothes I put on were free of holes, though I really didn’t know why that would matter. I grabbed my new Stetson fedora and was nearly out the door when I looked at the clock and saw it was barely 11:30. I took off my coat, draped it carefully over a kitchen chair, got a towel and wrapped it around my shirtfront. I made a sandwich and listened to the jazz station while I read a little Vonnegut. At a quarter-to-two I brushed my teeth, put on my coat and overcoat, grabbed my umbrella, and went downstairs to my car.

My studio apartment is over a basement garage. The gate opened slowly to let me out and I was, at last, on my way.

Loralee’s address was in that narrow band of posh houses between H and T Streets, and between 38^th and 50^th. Until the late fifties, it was the neighborhood. The mansions stood amid blocks of well-kept, plebian houses. On some blocks the size and style of houses varied—a reminder that Sacramento was once a democratic little burg, where the aristocrats and proles at least had the chance to know one another. Many of the old-line aristocrats still lived there, although with time that would of course change. Urban center rot was encroaching on all sides, and it wouldn’t be long before the remaining gentry would pick up their money and flee to safer havens in the hills.

Along Loralee Carlisle’s street, all the houses were huge, with large, manicured yards. In summer the sycamores and elms would form druidic arches over the streets, but now they were just thick boles of deep gray or eggshell, reaching up to scratch a gray sky. What few cars you saw on the streets this time of day were Cadillacs, Lincolns, or Mercedes’. Most of the houses were shiplap or brick colonial, with enough Spanish and classical designs here and there to vary the architecture.

I parked on the street in front of one of the colonials, two-storied with a window on a third, which somehow looked out of place. It was greenish-gray with deep green around the windows. Cool and inviting in the summer. An old sycamore grew in the front yard, with a circle of tilled dirt around it. Near the sidewalk were stumps of the standard three birch trees; back about twenty feet were three new birches, about ten or fifteen years old judging by their height. The rectangular flowerbeds were inlaid with healthy evergreen hedges of escalonia, privet, and photinia, and a couple lemon bushes, all trimmed into domes. The driveway was lined on both sides by tree roses. It was like the “Father Knows Best” house.

I walked up to the porch. It had only enough room for one person standing. The mat had no inscription. I rang the bell. Looking at the green door I was reminded of the song, which I tried to get out of my head as soon as it came in.

A woman answered the door: a little above average height, with short, curled blond hair and very light gray eyes. Pretty, thin, strong even underneath that neat, starched white blouse and long blue dress, dark stockings and blue oxfords. Hard to tell her age. She smiled politely. “Hello, Mr. Kent. You’re a bit early. I hope you don’t mind waiting.”

“No, not at all.” I am still amazed at how quickly you can get from place to place within the city core, and at how unbearably long it takes to get anywhere in the suburbs.

She smiled again and shut the door in my face.

Well, the awning kept the porch dry. I turned around for a look at the sodden neighborhood. No matter what the weather, it always looked like if anybody was at home, it was a secret.

In about five minutes, the blond let me in. The entry hall was light green with dark green carpet. The first sight you saw inside was a bright modern painting that I wouldn’t even try to interpret, but which was sure to cost more than the average American would have in his retirement fund, even in those prosperous times. She took me through a front room, with the same green carpet and a few more of the weird paintings. The room, though spacious, had only a long, white couch facing the picture window. A small wooden table was set in front of the couch. Many huge, bright pillows lined the walls. At one end of the room stood a wall with a white door in the center, a sign of remodeling.

The blond led me up a flight of stairs, moving quickly, while I moved like a fifty-year-old. The banister was mahogany or teak. She opened the first door on the right for me, and disappeared once more down the stairs.

Going inside I smelled incense and heard soft new-age music. The only light came from a candle and what little daylight entered through half closed Venetian blinds. The room was large, with a superbly varnished hardwood floor, and a single rug in the middle. Upside down on that rug was Loralee Carlisle. “Come in, Mr. Marlowe,” she joked in a mysterious tone.

I smiled, having of course heard that one before. She was wearing leotards and tights colored like those paintings downstairs. The more my eyes adjusted to the dim light, the better she looked. I took a couple steps inside. She rolled off her head and onto her feet gracefully. Yeah, the wheels started turning again.

She walked over to the wall, bent slightly to pick up two large pillows, which I suddenly realized were in the room, and brought them over to me. She didn’t seem to mind my watching her. She sat down on one pillow with a single sweep, without using her hands, and motioned for me to do the same. I did, but I used my hands, thinking how far away the floor got the older I got.

The blond came in, wheeling a silver tray with a silver pot and some fancy cups and saucers, and a large tray of scones and muffins. She poured out two cups.

“Thank you, Clarissa,” said Loralee.

The blond turned around and smiled at her, then at me. I thought her smiles were flirtatious, but I was having fantasies. She left.

“Coffee?”

“Thanks.”

Loralee reached over and got a cup for each of us. “Is the light all right?”

“Fine.”

An envelope lay on the tea tray. She picked it up and handed it to me. “For your first day’s work.”

I shook my head. “I don’t charge for coming out here.”

She smiled. “If we can work, then take it.”

“Sure.” I put the envelope back on the tray, aware that if she told me to put it in my pocket, I would. “What can I do for you?”

“Try the coffee.” I did. I could tell it was rare: grown on the cinder cone of an active volcano, on an island guarded by King Kong.

“Mm.”

“It’s a special blend our roasters create just for us. From our plantations in Costa Rica, New Guinea, Mindanao, Kona Coast…I could go on.”

“It’s good.”

“You know my late husband, Aaron Carlisle, owned the Vita Green Company.”

“No. Of course I’ve heard of the company.” A successful marketing firm for alternative herbal health products. The corporate structure was built on the reverse pyramid scheme, whereby individual agents bought products outright and sold them either to sub-agents or to customers; the greater the initial investment, the higher the percentage on the final sale. I’m no entrepreneur, so it seemed to me that the business was dependent on selling percentages, and that selling the actual product was a secondary afterthought. Still, somebody must be buying the stuff, because selling the privilege of selling it was obviously lucrative.

“We grew coffee as a sideline,” she observed. “I still own that part. Have a coffee cake. They’re made from pure organic grains, honey, and energizing herbs.”

“Thank you.” It wasn’t a doughnut, but it was tasty in its own way.

“Clarissa bakes them here, but the same recipe is used in our Vita Green breads and rolls.”

I nodded. “Do you run the company now?”

She laughed, crinkled the eyes and raised the cheekbones. “Oh, my God, no! I say ‘our Vita Green’ out of habit. My skills don’t go that way at all. I sold the business after Aaron’s death.”

“Who to?”

“A conglomerate from the Bay Area. As far as the sidelines I held onto, I hire people to operate them on a percentage.”

“You trust them?”

“Wasn’t it you who said an honest person should be able to find trustworthy people?”

“Gotcha! So you steer clear of business?”

She rolled her eyes. “All that jes goes right out of mah pretty little haid.”

“But the arts stay inside?”

“They seem to. I’m a promoter, mainly. A couple of theater and dance companies I sponsor—they let me perform with them, in some very minor roles, of course.”

“You’ve been at it all your life. I’m sure they wouldn’t let you if you weren’t good enough.”

“Thank you. You always were a real sweetheart. I told you I had a tremendous crush on you back when we were fourteen. Now I can see you’re not really my type. Still, you’re awfully sweet.”

“Well, then, we can probably work together,” I stammered, hoping the thud from the machinery in my brain, coming to a sudden halt, wasn’t too disturbing. But, I’m paid to have a thick hide.

Her eyes flashed brightly, innocently, in the candlelight. “Oh, I didn’t mean….”

“Forget about it,” I tried to laugh. “What do you need a peeper for?”

“You can’t tell?”

“No.”

She shook her head in sudden realization. “Why did I expect you to? My intuitions are fine-tuned, but we need facts, right? I’m trained to interpret the world through many dimensions. Great for keeping the artistic perceptions coming on strong. But in this case,” she giggled, “I need clues.”

“A common shortage.”

“You’re funny, Marvin. Do you believe we can’t receive our gifts until we know our limitations?”

“Makes sense.”

“Well, my talents are not great for surviving in the real world.”

I looked around.

She laughed. “Don’t think I had anything to do with this. I was extremely lucky in marriage. Materially that is. My first husband, Charles Morehouse, was descended from the Alabama Morehouses, who came from the Carolina Morehouses. They made money from slaves, and they sent their sons into the military. They lost their plantations in the Civil War, but there was a branch of the family out in California, and they were doing well. So they all came out here, and learned to exploit Mexicans as well as they had the blacks.

“Chuck’s dad, Ferris Morehouse, was in the Air Force with my dad. From World War II they remained friends. My dad settled in Sacramento when he retired from the service. Chuck and I had always known each other, we started dating, got married, had two kids, and Chuck got killed. His family took away the kids. It caused, shall we say, a rift between the two families. They paid me off handsomely, though, out of guilt I guess. I drifted into the artistic scene: Frisco, L.A., Greenwich Village, Paris, Rome, all over. Through artists and hangers-on I got to know Aaron Carlisle, who had made a pile selling pot. But he saw the writing on the wall and he was investing in other kinds of herbs when we met. We were married in 1980. He expanded his business and I patronized the arts.

“Then, four months ago, he died.” She frowned, baffled. “Fifty-four years old, didn’t smoke, rarely drank, lived a healthy, happy, active lifestyle. And he dropped dead.”

I nodded.

“I know anybody can have a heart attack. And the autopsy report came back saying that’s all it was. But the more I think about it, the more….It all just seemed too routine. You know? It’s intuition, and the psychic vibrations.” Her beautiful neck and shoulders twitched.

“As you said, psychic vibrations are fine, but I can only deal in three-dimensional facts.”

“I know, I know, I know. I’ve been wondering, since we met, if you could find some facts that would either back up my feelings, or convince me to toss them. I’ll be honest with you, Marvin. I’ve learned to trust those inner voices. Still, the facts go against it. So what I need to find out—are there some facts I’m not party to?”

I scratched my chin.

“I know what you’re thinking. In my grief I just can’t accept Aaron’s death.”

“Well—“ She was perceptive, all right.

She sighed, gave me a patient—not condescending--smile. “Of course I’ve been grieving. But grief has nothing to do with my uneasiness about all this. I want you to see if you can uncover some facts. We all have a role to play. I don’t believe in coincidence or accidents. And it was not a coincidence that we met the other day in Capitol Park.”

“Maybe. I guess I could make some inquiries. I don’t know. What you’re getting at is not in my usual line.”

“But who else might?”

“Probably no one,” I admitted.

“I’m not asking you to uncover some massive conspiracy. I know life isn’t like the movies.” She smiled. “It’s more exciting. But I need to know if there’s anything to know.”

“Where did Aaron die?”

“At his Vita Green office, in Sloughhouse. It’s been sold.”

I winced. “Probably under ten feet of water right now.”

She nodded. “Or mud. You’re not likely to turn up anything there.”

“I have to be forthright with you, Loralee. I don’t see how I can help you out.”

“Why don’t you just indulge a middle-aged, wealthy woman, and an old friend?”

I started trying to stand. “As they say, I’ll see what I can do.”

“Don’t forget.” She pointed at the envelope with the check inside.

I shook my head. “I’ll bill you if I find anything out.”

“Marvin.”

I nodded, like a bad little kid. I avoided the controversy by saying, “Oh, well, you’re the boss.”

“Thank you, Marvin.” She stood, in one graceful, sinuous motion, which only accentuated my own clumsiness. Just as gracefully she moved toward me and we hugged, she in her flashy tights and me in my Sunday best. Here we were, each attired in the way that makes us most attractive to the opposite sex: nearly naked woman, fully decked-out man—gender differences that neither side would ever understand.

I went downstairs. Clarissa was waiting with my hat and overcoat and umbrella, and a folder with some papers. “I apologize for making you stand in the rain, Mr. Kent,” she said. “But she never allows her meditations to be interrupted.”

“No big deal, Clarissa. As a matter-of-fact, we have the same boss now, so call me Marv.”

It was raining harder as I went out. I didn’t want to go to work. I wanted to go back in that big house and be kept there, surrounded by all that warmth and wealth and womanliness. But instead of what I wanted, I had what I needed: a job.