It was a dark green house with a red tile roof and white trim. White, peach, and yellow roses grew in beds on either side of the porch steps, the blooms glowing against the dark siding. I decided it might be entertaining to grow roses.
“I’d like to finish photocopying those files first,” I said. “Sure,” said Chet, and dropped me at the police station.
A long hour later, I parked in front of Number 42, Mariposa Boulevard. The porch created a deep shade. When Marina Webster answered my knock, I couldn’t see much more than a trim figure silhouetted against the light that streamed in from the screen door at the other end of the passage. She turned sideways to let that light shine on my licence; her face was pleasant enough.
“Come through,” she said, and led me to the kitchen, a cheerful room with an aura of domesticity much enhanced by the smell of fresh baked cookies. I noticed them laid out on the counter to cool. Miz Webster followed my gaze, and laughed. “We’ll have some coffee and cookies while you tell me what it is you want to know,” she said. “Please sit down.”
She made the coffee from fresh-ground beans. The smell was enough to make me feel a good deal more alert than I really was. Steak in the middle of the day makes me sleepy, even with a cup of coffee to follow.
“Now,” she said,” what’s this about?”
“Vern Doherty,” I said.
A frown passed over her face like a summer cloud. “OK, I suppose you’ve been told we had an affair. We didn’t, but we did have a business relationship. Why would you want to know about that?”
“Vern Doherty called his wife two days ago, asking for help. He was in Las Vegas.”
“What? Vern’s dead! I went to his funeral!”
“Well, that’s one possibility. Mrs Doherty hired me to find out what’s going on.”
Marina Webster poured the coffee, and shoved the sugar and cream towards me. I added cream and sipped. “Good coffee”, I said. I nibbled a cookie. “Very good,” I said. Marina smiled. “I’ll pack up a few for you to take with you,” she said. “Now ask your questions.”
“What was your business relationship with Vern Doherty?”
“He placed bets for me at the track in Vallejo Verde.”
I made a note. “Can you give me names of the bookies, by any chance?”
“You know off-track betting is illegal in this state,” she said.
“I’d just like to confirm an idea that just raised its annoying little head. Vern may have placed bets for quite a few people besides you.”
“Oh, I know he did. This town has its share of respectable hypocrites.” She bit into a cookie. “You think some of those dealings weren’t as honest as the day is long, is that it?”
“Maybe. Respectable people aren’t in a position to complain if the runner ups his agent’s fee.”
“H’m, could be.” She finished the cookie and reached for another one. “I don’t know you,” she said, “so how do I know you’ll be discreet?”
“You don’t. But if the car was tampered with, murder is part of the picture, and you’d want to be a co-operative citizen.”
“OK. I had a half-interest in the casino in Vallejo Verde, courtesy of my late husband Graham. Also in the Blue Barn. But he wanted no more of a visible connection with those places than I did. Do.”
“Was Doherty involved in that business, too?”
“Doherty worked for Graham there, then he worked for me. Dropped in to check the books, consult with the manager, that sort of thing. He was honest, actually. Certain people may not want to believe that, but he was. I’ve been up there once in a while as a customer. None of the people there knew I half-owned the place except the senior manager.”
“If Doherty was honest, I don’t see how working at the casino for you fits in with his disappearance. If it was a disappearance. It could still be murder.”
“There were some business people, if you want to call them that, some business people who wanted the casino, and made several offers to buy into it. Graham refused, but his partner Bernard Smithers wanted out, and sold his share. The new partner introduced new products. Services, really. The casino bar became a place to pick up hookers. I mean, there were always part-time hookers in there, you can’t keep them out of a bar like that. But those freelance girls were replaced by professionals. Graham didn’t like that.”
“Were those business people Romero and friends?”
“I think they were fronting for him, for Romero, that is.”
“I see. So what happened?”
“About four months ago, I came home one day from having my hair done, and Graham was sitting in that chair where you are sitting, stone dead. The doctor said he died of a heart attack.” She paused, and I noticed that her eyes were suddenly shiny. “I loved him,” she said. “He was a respectable hypocrite, and he was twenty years older than me, but he was good to me. And we had a lot more going for us than most couples. We could talk to each other. We could talk about anything at all. He was an educated man, and I love to read, so we had lots to talk about. He was pretty good in bed, too. God, I miss him.”
She turned way from me. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought I was getting over him.”
After a moment or two, she turned back towards me. “I don’t think it was a heart attack,” she said. “He had been checked out just a month earlier. The cardiologist said his heart was ten years younger than he was.”
“Any evidence that it wasn’t a heart attack?”
“Two glasses had been used. Someone had washed them up carefully, and put them back in the cupboard. But they weren’t in the right place. I have two patterns that look almost the same. These two glasses were on the wrong shelf. And the dish cloth was damp. It should have been dry, because the last time I used it was for breakfast, four hours earlier.”
“That’s enough to make me suspicious,” I said.
She flashed me a grateful smile. “You’re the first one I’ve told this,” she said. “Please keep it to yourself. I don’t want those people to know I suspect them. They made me a very generous offer for my half of the casino and the Blue Barn. It wasn’t even a week after Graham died. I let them stew for a while, and they raised their offer. So I accepted it. They’re paying down what they owe me like a mortgage. I’m not extravagant, it’s enough to keep me as comfortable as I want to be. ”
“Is there anything else you can think of that might relate to Doherty?”
“The paper said the car they were driving was a 1957 Chevy Bel Air two door hard top, red and white. That was Graham’s car. I sold it to Doherty. Graham had kept it in top notch condition. Doherty was just as fanatical about maintenance. That car should not have gone off the road. According to the people who saw it go over the side, it was doing the speed limit.”
She paused. “Also, he was supposedly in the back seat. But if he was in that car, he would be driving it.”
I made a note. “Where was the car serviced?” I asked.
“McGrath Motors. They sell about half the cars in this town.”
I skimmed over my notes. “Thanks,” I said. “Can I call on you again if I need to know more?”
“Of course.” She smiled.
She packed up some cookies in wax paper, and showed me to the door. I didn’t think her story was a confabulation, but there were gaps. I hoped I could fill them.
It was now close to dinnertime, and I decided I wanted a companion who might be well versed in the local gossip. I went back to the library. Miss Matheson was putting the cover on the typewriter.
I smiled at her. “I’m not here to check out another paper,” I said. “But I do want to check out the unofficial news. I was wondering if you could direct me to someone who would be happy to provide me with information in exchange for dinner?”
“Let me think,” said Miss Matheson as she studied my face. Suddenly she smiled. “Would I do?” she asked.
“Well, technically, I can’t answer that until I’ve found out what you can tell me, but as a dinner companion you would do very well.”
“If you drive me home, you can pick me up at 7 o’clock.” She studied my face again. “If you don’t have a place to stay, I can vouch for the Dew Drop Inn. Silly name, but clean and cheap. The owners are friends of my parents.”
The Dew Drop Inn was indeed clean and cheap, and the bed felt firm enough to suit me. The front desk introduced himself as Richard, and declared himself ready to provide all kinds of services. I gave him a sawbuck to enlist him on my side. I had a shower and a shave, and arrived at Miss Matheson’s home just before seven. She lived with her parents, to whom she introduced me as someone she had met through Sheriff Booley, and who regarded me with undisguised hope.
“Call me Rachel,” she said as she settled into the car.
“I’m Tom,” I said.
Rachel directed me to the Flamingo Bar & Restaurant, three blocks from the motel. Its name disguised high-backed booths and a down-home menu served with good beer or excellent wine. I was ravenous despite my hefty lunch, and ordered a New York steak in pepper sauce, with new potatoes, baby asparagus spears, and a chef’s salad spiced up with a smattering of arugula. Rachel preferred sole amandine with rice, and a green salad with an oil and vinegar dressing.
We chatted about nothing in particular, which is always a good way to find out what you want to know about another person. As you might expect, Rachel liked to read. I do, too. We established that we shared a taste for the classics. Pride and Prejudice happens to be one of my favourites. I like dames with brains, I guess. Lizzie Bennet has enough brains for two, which I always thought she’d need, as Darcy seemed a bit dim to me. Or maybe merely average.
Rachel preferred Dickens, and besides Austen, we both liked Thackeray and Melville. I don’t know why I’m telling you this, because it has nothing to do with the case. It does have a lot to do with what happened afterwards, though, so you may as well have one loose end tied up.
After dinner, Rachel suggested a stroll in the park between the main street and the river. She didn’t want to be overheard while she dished on the respectable folk. It turned out that the respectable hypocrites were well known. Besides the late Graham Webster, there was his partner Bernard Smithers. They operated a hardware store, and were silent partners in the GM dealership owned by Alexander and Edwin McGrath and Ruth Doherty.
The pastor of the First Baptist Church, the Rev. Bobby Jones, was also known to patronise the casino in Vallejo Verde, and must have had a big win about a year ago because he was suddenly able to buy a brand new Cadillac Seville. And so it went. Rachel implicated pretty well all the prominent business and professional men in Elysium City in the semi-licit vices available in the county.
“How reliable is all this gossip you’ve passed on to me?” I asked her.
“I have most of it from my classmates,” she said. “For example, Doraine Jones was annoyed with her dad’s restrictions, and was happy to find out that he was a Painted Sepulchre, as she called him. I went to her church a couple of times, and Painted Sepulchre was one of his favourite phrases.”
“What’s your church background, then?”
“I’m Episcopalian. We have just as many Painted Sepulchres as the other churches. But Father Downs, our priest, keeps reminding us that church is for sinners, so we aren’t as uptight about it.” Her smile was not only mischievous, it was inviting.
“What do you know about Vern Doherty?”
“He was a runner for the gamblers. He was straight, though. Didn’t gamble himself, and didn’t play around either, though there were some people who were happy to suspect him. I think that’s one reason Ruth McGrath married him, that he was honest, I mean. That, and the fact that he was an incomer. He arrived when the McGrath’s opened the casino. That was Eddie’s doing. It’s a Romero franchise.”
“Was Doherty part of the franchise deal, do you think?”
“Yes, I think so, but there was no official confirmation. But he collected the insurance fees and picking up the net from Ruby.”
“Ruby?”
“Ruby Smithers. Bernard’s wife. She manages the, um, escort agency.”
We sat on a bench, enjoying the cool late evening breeze. Rachel had little more to tell me, but it felt comfortable sitting beside her and watching the glints of remote streetlights reflected in the river. Somehow, we were holding hands when we walked back to the car. The route back to her house led past the motel. As we approached it, Rachel turned to me and said, “Do you want me to stay the night with you?”
“Yes,” I said, surprising myself. “But what will your parents think of me?”
“They’ll think you may be a future son-in-law,” said Rachel.
“Will you think of me that way, too?”
“Too early to tell,” she said.
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