Читать книгу The Bessie Blue Killer - Richard A. Lupoff - Страница 10

CHAPTER FIVE

Lindsey headed for Walnut Creek and the International Surety office after all. As he crossed the threshold he felt a wave of emotion sweep over him, a feeling of homecoming mixed with a sense of loss.

Ms. Wilbur was at her desk, the same as ever. She looked up and gave a glad cry. She came around her desk in a fluid motion and wrapped Lindsey in her arms. She planted a kiss on his cheek. She was a few years older than Lindsey’s mother.

He started to fend her off, then changed his mind and returned the kiss.

They separated, laughing.

“I thought you were too high and mighty to come and see us again, Bart!”

He shook his head. “I missed you. I’ll still be working out of the office. You’ll see me around.” He took her hands. “How’s it been?”

“You mean since Mr. Mueller took over here?” She made the title sound like an epithet. “He’s out of the office this afternoon. On business. He says. I think he’s looking after those real estate interests of his in Emeryville.”

“Not good, eh?”

“I have almost enough years in for retirement. My husband is still working. My kids are grown up. I’m a grandmother, Bart. I think I’ll just be a housewife and a grandma for a while. I think I’ll enjoy that.”

Lindsey plopped into a familiar chair. “You going to do it?”

Ms. Wilbur exhaled loudly. “I don’t know. I think so.”

“That bad?”

“You wouldn’t believe it.”

“Yes I would. I had breakfast with the man today. I mean, I tried to.”

Ms. Wilbur grinned. “Don’t tell me he was stewed.”

“No. Just obnoxious. I couldn’t take it, and I realized that I didn’t have to. I’ve never enjoyed missing a meal so much.”

“And what are you doing for International Surety now? Ever since you went off to the mysterious SPUDS I’ve been wondering.”

Lindsey told her about Bessie Blue and Double Bee Enterprises and about the murder of Leroy McKinney.

Ms. Wilbur shook her head. “I’ll take a look and see if we have life coverage on him.” She called up the alpha file of policy holders. “No policy. You don’t think they’re going to try and claim a death benefit under the umbrella policy, do you? He wasn’t even working for Double Bee, was he? Wasn’t he some kind of maintenance man or janitor at the airport?”

“That’s right. No, I’m only afraid that the investigation is going to hold up the project and Double Bee will come after us with an indemnity claim. If we could clear up this killing it would be a big help.”

Elmer Mueller strode into the office. He’d cleaned the egg off his chin but he had some on his tie and he wore the same stained black suit he’d worn at Oakland International. He dropped his briefcase on his desk. “Lindsey, Harden says I have to let you use this hole. I guess he’s sucking up to Ducky Richelieu, God knows why. But I want you to you remember who’s the boss here now. I am. Get it? You’re supercargo.”

He turned and pointed a finger at Ms. Wilbur. “As for you, Mathilde, if you don’t have anything better to do than gossip with visitors, maybe we should see about cutting your hours.”

Mathilde! Lindsey had worked with Ms. Wilbur for more than a decade. She was a gray-haired, older woman. She’d helped him learn the ropes of International Surety. Mathilde! He’d never even thought of calling her by her first name.

He settled into a spare desk and began writing up his notes on the day’s work. He’d been back in California for a mere matter of hours, and he was already involved in another murder case and in an intracompany mess.

He shot a covert look at Ms. Wilbur, feeling like a schoolboy and expecting the teacher to scold him at any moment for not concentrating on his textbook. All he could see was the back of Ms. Wilbur’s neck. It was flaming red.

He clicked on the computer on his desk and called up KlameNet. Ms. Wilbur had determined that there was no policy in the name of Leroy McKinney, but he knew the umbrella policy issued to Double Bee would appear. He called up the full text of the policy and verified that it contained a moral turpitude clause. If Double Bee suffered a loss through its own illegal or immoral conduct, the coverage was void.

Not that he expected anyone from Double Bee to have killed the janitor. Ina Chandler had arrived with Lawton Crump when Crump discovered the body. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to have a talk with Mrs. Chandler. Or even with Mr. Crump. Sergeant Finnerty had already questioned them, but Lindsey would approach the man from another angle. Sometimes that made a difference. Sometimes it made a very big difference.

He phoned Berkeley police headquarters and reached Marvia Plum. Now that she was a sergeant in Homicide, she was spending more time at her desk and less time in the field. She complained about it. Doc High made the same complaint. Lindsey hardly knew Sergeant Finnerty, but undoubtedly he would grumble out the same gripe if he had the chance. They all worked for promotion and then they all complained that they weren’t in the field any more.

Lindsey would pick Marvia up and drive her back to Walnut Creek for dinner. That way she couldn’t go home afterwards by herself. He’d have to drive her back.

“You’re a schemer,” she said. She laughed. The sound was like a hot jolt that ran through his body.

When he arrived at Oxford Street one of Marvia’s housemates let him into the restored Victorian house. She was another woman, heavyset and orange-haired. She said, “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Suburb. Back to grace the land of peace and progress with your presence?”

Lindsey managed a polite banality before racing up the stairs two at a time. He reached Marvia’s turret apartment gasping for breath.

Marvia had showered after work and was standing before a full-length mirror in her underwear, drying her hair. There was a fireplace with kindling and a quartered log, but the only heat in the room came from the evening’s warmth. Lindsey ran across the carpeted room and put his arms around Marvia, his hands on her naked arms. She shut off the dryer and turned to him.

There were still a few drops of water on her chest.

He bent and kissed them off. He said, “I missed you. Denver was okay but I really missed you.”

She said, “I love you, Bart.”

He sat on the edge of her bed, on the Raggedy Ann quilt. She held him and he pressed his face against the blackness of her belly, between the whiteness of her brassiere and the whiteness of her panties. He said, “I love you, Marvia.”

She finished dressing and they drove to Walnut Creek, fighting the thousands of commuters struggling home from San Francisco and Oakland to the bedroom communities of Contra Costa County.

In the car Lindsey said, “Mother’s doing well. She’s making dinner. But we can’t expect too much. I mean—we can’t expect too much.”

Marvia said, “Does she still think I’m your football coach’s daughter?”

“I don’t know what she thinks. I told her you were coming for dinner. She said something like, ‘Oh, that nice colored girl.’ I don’t want you hurt. When you are, I feel it too. I know I can’t feel it the way you do, but I can see it and—”

Marvia put her hand on his thigh. They’d left the classic Mustang that Marvia’s brother had restored as a gift for her, at Oxford Street. She said, “I have some vacation time coming up. I’ve been saving my days. You think we could get away for a little while?”

“I’d love it! What about Jamie? You don’t mind leaving him with your parents?”

“We could do that. Or maybe we could take him with us. I thought we might go down to Monterey. He’s interested in fish, he’d like the aquarium.”

“As soon as I wrap up this case!” Lindsey was ready to jump out of the car and dance on the freeway.

Dinner went amazingly well. Mother had stayed with a simple pasta dish. The result was far from gourmet fare, but for a woman who had been almost helpless a few months before, it was an achievement.

Mother served coffee and ice cream and told Lindsey and Marvia that she had seen a wonderful movie on cable while Lindsey was away. She’d enjoyed it so much she’d got Mrs. Hernández to take her to Vid/Vid/Vid and she’d bought a copy and now she watched it every day.

It made her think, she said.

At first it had confused her and upset her, but then she started to understand it better.

Now she understood a lot of it, and every time she watched it, she understood more.

Lindsey asked what movie it was.

Mother said, “It’s called Sunset Boulevard.”

Lindsey exchanged looks with Marvia.

“Have you young people seen it?” Mother asked. “I’m sure you’ve seen it. Haven’t you?”

“I know the picture,” Marvia said. “Gloria Swanson and William Holden and Erich von Stroheim.”

“Yes.” Mother’s eyes were shining. Her expression was gleeful. “Gloria Swanson. And Norma Desmond, don’t you see? And this other picture I’ve seen, where Janet Gaynor is Esther Blodgett but then she’s Vicki Lester. But who is she really?”

She held her hands to her cheeks. She was growing agitated. Marvia started to move toward her, but Lindsey stopped her, put his hand on her wrist. “She’s all right. She’s—” He stopped.

Mother went on.

“But Norma Desmond. She was an old-time movie star, but she was Gloria Swanson but she was really an old-time movie star. An actress playing an actress. A silent star. But she couldn’t bear it. Everything changed and she couldn’t bear it. She lived in this huge mansion and she had a butler and she just pretended it was the old days. But it wasn’t, don’t you see? Everything was changed. Everything was changed. Everything was changed.”

She took a paper napkin from the table and wiped her eyes. She buried her face in the napkin, in her hands. Lindsey held her by the shoulders. She looked up, looked at him, looked at Marvia, said, “Everything was changed.”

After a few minutes she said, “Well, if everyone is finished with their coffee, I’ll clear these cups and saucers away.”

A little later she said, “Hobart, if you and your friend want to go on, I’ll just clean up a little and go to bed. I’m so glad that you’re back. I’m a little tired, though.”

Lindsey stood holding her hands, studying her face. “You’re all right, then, Mother. Is Mrs. Hernández coming in tomorrow?”

She said, yes.

“Then I may stay over in Berkeley. I’ll phone you in the morning. And Joanie Schorr is right next door, if you need her. You’re sure you’ll be all right?”

She said, yes.

When they reached Marvia’s home and climbed to her apartment, Marvia put on a CD and knelt to light the fire. She had worn a loose shirt and dark jeans for dinner at the Lindsey house. She had not changed her clothing since.

Lindsey sat in an easy chair, watching Marvia and listening to the music. A woman sang to a judge, pleading guilty as charged. The fire flared up with a crackle, sending a huge shadow of Marvia dancing around the circular room. She stood up, fetched a bottle of wine and two glasses, filled the glasses. She gave one to Lindsey and raised the other. “Welcome home,” she said.

She settled onto his lap. He put his free hand on her back, at first gingerly. Then he tugged the tail of her shirt loose and ran his hand up her naked back. She rubbed her head against his, like a cat claiming ownership of a human.

Lindsey said, “That’s a blood-curdling song. That’s a murder song. Who’s singing it? Is that new?”

Marvia laughed. “That’s Bessie Smith. She’s been dead since 1937. That’s a great song. ‘Send me to the Lectric Chair’.”

I caught him with a trifling Jane

I warned him ’bout befo’

I had my knife and went insane

And the rest you ought to know.

Lindsey swallowed wine. It was red and dry. He rubbed his cheek on Marvia’s and ran his free hand around her waist, underneath her shirt.

Bessie Smith sang,

I cut him with my bilo

I piqued him in the side

I stood there laughing over him

While he wallowed ’round and died.

Lindsey said, “What’s a bilo?”

Marvia opened Lindsey’s belt and slipped her hand in the top of his trousers. “It’s a corruption of ‘Barlow.’ It’s a kind of knife, something like a Bowie knife. It’s a kind of double-bladed dagger, very nice. Some people say it wasn’t really named for Barlow, that bilo comes from bilobated. I found that in the dictionary myself. Cops know everything.”

Lindsey said, “What happened to Bessie Smith? That was a great song. I like this next one, too. How did she die?”

Marvia said, “She was hit by a cab. They rushed her to the nearest hospital. She might have survived, but they refused to treat her there. It was a white hospital, you see. So they took her to a black hospital, but then it was too late. She was forty-two years old.”

Bessie Smith was still singing. She sounded happy. The song was “Take me for a Buggy Ride.”

Lindsey and Marvia finished their wine and climbed into bed. The fire cast moving shadows on the walls and ceiling. It was a turret room in a restored Victorian, the kind of room where you’d keep a crazy aunt.

Lindsey held Marvia’s hand in his own and brought it to his face. He closed his eyes and used his face as an organ of touch, feeling Marvia’s palm and fingers. He ran his tongue down the vee between her fingers, feeling and tasting her flesh.