Bernhardt's Edge (16 page)

“Two years and three months,” she answered promptly.

“Was—is she a pretty good tenant, would you say?”

Grudgingly she nodded. “Yeah, she was—is. Like, when she went away, she left a note saying that she expected to be gone about a month. And she left a postdated check, for the next month's rent. Most people wouldn't do that. At least, not these tenants here.” Resentfully, she glanced over her shoulder. “Los Angeles—” Petulantly, she shook her head. “You can have it.”

“Do you have the note that Betty left?”

“No. I've got their check, not the note. It didn't say much, just that they were going away, and asking me to—you know—pick up newspapers from in front of her door, take packages, things like that. See—” Exasperated, she gestured. On the third finger of her left hand, a large diamond ring sparkled. Or was it a zircon? “See, that's what I mean, about being a servant. I can't tell you how much time I spend, just picking up after people.”

“You say ‘they' were going away. She and Nick Ames, you mean.”

“Right.” Scornfully, she accented the single word. “Nick Ames.” Contemptuously, she grimaced.

“You don't like him, I gather.”

“Well,” she answered, pursing her mouth, “I can't say he ever gave me any problems. It wasn't that. In fact, to be fair, he was better than most, around here. He and Betty, they're the best tenants I've got, except for the MacLeans, and maybe the Finks. But he was always hanging around. You know what I mean?”

“He didn't work. Is that what you mean?”

“Right,” she answered heavily. “That's it exactly. He's one of those men that just don't like to work, I guess. He said he used to drive stock cars, until he crashed. And maybe he did, I don't know.” She considered, then added thoughtfully, “He's a good-looking devil, though. I'll give him that.”

“Betty works, though,” he prompted.

“Oh, yeah. Sure.” Quickly she nodded. “She has irregular hours, sort of. But she must have a good job. A real good job, judging by her furniture, and everything.”

“What's her work? Do you know?”

E. Krantz shook her head. “No. I never found out. She's pretty closed mouth. Nice, but closed mouth. You know?”

Bernhardt nodded. “Yes, I know.” He let a beat pass, hoping that she would elaborate. When she offered nothing more, but instead looked pointedly at her wristwatch, he asked, “When did they leave, exactly? Do you remember?”

“It was, lessee—” Frowning, she touched the tip of a pink tongue to the bright red of her upper lip. “It was eight days ago. Or maybe nine, depending on how you count.”

“You didn't actually see them leave, then.”

“No.”

“Did anyone else see them, do you know?”

She shook her head, then shrugged. “Not as far as I know, no one saw them.” She looked again at her watch. “That poolman's due any minute.” She rose to her feet.

Rising with her, he said, “Can I ask you just one more question, Ms. Krantz?”

“What's that?” Once more, suspicion puckered her eyes, pulled at her mouth.

“You say they left in the night. So I was wondering, did you get the impression that they left in a hurry?”

“As a matter of fact,” she answered, “I did. The kitchen was clean, and they took the garbage out, and everything. But the place wasn't picked up—and the bed wasn't made. Which wasn't like Betty, at all. She's always been—” She broke off, looked quickly at Bernhardt. As if he hadn't noticed her landlady's lapse, he blandly continued to smile encouragement as she caught herself, explaining: “Sometimes, you know, apartment managers have to enter the tenant's place. If there's—you know—running water, anything like that. It's the law.” As she said it, her voice hardened defensively.

“Oh, sure,” he answered, turning toward the outside door. “You're right, it's the law. Absolutely.”

“Absolutely,” she repeated vehemently.

L
IKE THE OFFICE, THE
receptionist was impeccably high styled: every gesture, every glance, every nuance, was carefully calculated for its urbane effect. Standing in front of the receptionist's desk, Bernhardt was aware that, for this particular mission, he'd miscalculated both the character he'd intended to play and the costume he'd chosen for the role. He'd imagined that a smooth, knowing, with-it character, casually dressed, would maximize his chances for success in the sunny southland. He'd obviously been wrong. Without doubt, all the males at Powers, Associates wore ties—and all the females wore heels.

Holding his newly minted business card with manicured fingers, the receptionist was frowning slightly as she looked at Bernhardt.

“What is it, exactly, that you want?” she asked. “And why do you want it?”

He wasn't comfortable with the story he'd concocted, but neither had he been able to improve on it:

“There's an illness in her family. When her mother tried to reach Betty, to tell her, she discovered that Betty had left town for a month. Betty's apartment manager couldn't help me. So this is the next logical place for me to try.”

Without producing a single crease in the receptionist's flawlessly made-up face, the frown remained in place. “I haven't seen Betty Giles for weeks,” she said. “Maybe months.”

“But—” As if he may have wandered into the wrong office, Bernhardt looked quickly around. “But she works here.”

Condescendingly, she shook her head. “Not really. Not steady. I've been here six months. And I've only seen her two or three times.”

“Two or three—?” Incredulously, he looked at her. “Are we talking about the same Betty Giles? About thirty, thirty-five? Small, dark brown hair? Pretty? Good figure? Smart?”

“We are indeed,” she said. “That's definitely Betty.”

“So you
do
know her.”

“I know her, yes. She does business with Mr. Powers, occasionally. But that's it. She comes and goes. I always thought she was a consultant.”

“Then I'd like to see Mr. Powers.” As he said it, Bernhardt instinctively switched to a brusque, decisive persona, giving orders, not asking for favors.

“I'm sorry—” Smoothly, she shook her head. “That's impossible, without an appointment.”

“Listen, Miss”—he looked down at the etched-glass nameplate on her desk—“Miss Fairchild. Betty Giles' mother is desperate to find her. Otherwise she wouldn't've gone to the expense of sending me down here from San Francisco, which is where she lives. She's not a wealthy woman. Now—” He let a slow, solemn beat pass. “Now, I don't know the particulars. I don't know who's sick, who's dying. But I think that, if you'd talked to Betty's mother”—he let another beat pass, let his voice dolefully drop, let his face forlornly sag—“you'd want to help. Because this one day is the whole shot. Everything.”

Vexation deepened Miss Fairchild's frown. “I don't understand what you're saying.”

“I'm saying,” Bernhardt intoned, “that Betty's mother can only afford to hire me for one day. That's it. Period. The end.”

Miss Fairchild's mannequin-perfect face registered no emotion as she studied him. In the lengthening contest of silence, Bernhardt concentrated on keeping his expression balanced: not too confrontational, not too maudlin. It was, after all, just a job—at least to the character he was currently playing.

Finally he saw her come coolly to a decision: “I suspect, Mr. Bernhardt, that you're not giving me the whole story. But if you're lying, you're very good at it.” Suddenly she smiled: a slow, knowing smile, a speculative, woman-to-man smile. “And I've always admired chutzpah.” She let the smile linger, let her eyes linger a little longer with his before she lifted her phone and touched a button on her console.

“Julie, this is Kay. Have you got a few minutes? There's a gentleman here who's trying to locate Betty Giles. I thought you might be able to help him.” She listened, nodded. “Fine. I'll tell him.” She broke the connection and replaced the receiver just as a buzzer sounded.

“She'll be right out,” the receptionist said, speaking quickly, mindful of the buzzer's summons. “Her name is Julie Ralston, and she's just going on her break. You can buy her a cup of coffee. If you're around at five o'clock—” Perceptibly, her smile warmed. “You can buy me a drink.” As she watched his reaction, she lifted the phone. Her “Yes?” was richly spoken, perfect for its corporate purpose.

“We have to talk fast,” Julie Ralston said, diligently spreading butter on her hot croissant. “I've only got twenty minutes, portal-to-portal.” She smiled at Bernhardt. It was a wide, cheerful smile, utterly guileless. Just as Julie Ralston, Bernhardt had decided, was probably utterly guileless, perfect for the girl-next-door part: the brash, bouncy second female lead in a fifties “B” picture, the sunny, freckle-faced post-tomboy who never quite got the guy.

“You're a friend of Betty's,” Bernhardt said. “Is that right?”

Promptly, she nodded. “Right. We used to see each other every week or two. Lately, since she's been with Nick, we haven't seen each other so much. But we always talk on the phone, a couple of times a week”

“What's her job, at Powers, Associates? Do you know?”

“No,” she answered, “I surely don't. We've told each other everything, Betty and I. Or, anyhow, most everything. But Betty never talks about her job.” She bit into the croissant, sipped some of her steaming coffee, and smiled: another cheerful, candid smile. Her voice, Bernhardt realized, was softened by the suggestion of a southern accent.

“Did you two meet at Powers, Associates?”

She nodded. “That's right, we did. And Betty does stop by the office, here, every once in a while—every two or three weeks, I'd say. But it's usually just hello and goodbye, at least where I'm concerned. She goes right in to see Mr. Powers. They talk for a half hour, maybe, and then she leaves. And that's it.” She shrugged, drank more coffee, smiled again. Then, as the smile faded, she said, “Why're you asking? Is something wrong? Is there trouble?”

He'd expected the question and had already decided how he'd answer.

“Yes,” he said, “there's trouble. A lot of trouble, maybe. That's why I'm trying to locate her, to warn her that she could be in danger. That's not what I told the receptionist. But that's what I'm telling you.” He spoke quietly, evenly, looking at her squarely. Here, with Julie Ralston—now, with time running out—there was no leverage left but the truth. And there was no role left to him but the real one: Bernhardt, playing himself.

“What kind of trouble?”

“I'm not sure. That's what I'm trying to find out from you.”

“I don't understand.”

“I'm trying to talk to people, piece together what they know about Betty. Her mother helped; and so did her landlady, a little. I'm hoping you can help, too.”

“But I don't know anything. Not really.” As she spoke, apologetically, she looked at her watch.

“Tell me what kind of a person she is. What kind of things does she like? What doesn't she like? What frightens her?”

Earing the last of the croissant and drinking the last of her coffee, she considered. Then: “Betty is a quiet person. That's what I like about her. She's quiet, and she's considerate, too. She's one of those people who always remembers your birthday. She's a good friend.”

“I'm glad to hear it,” Bernhardt said, nodding appreciatively. His first time out on his own,
pro bono,
it would be sad to think that he was operating in the red on behalf of a dud or a deadbeat. “Is she a secretive person, would you say?”

She shook her head. “No. She's not secretive about anything but her job. I had the feeling that she was sworn to secrecy about her job, what she does. It was part of the deal, I think.”

“She makes good money, I understand.”

“Yes—” Judiciously, she nodded. “Yes, I think she does make good money. She sends money to her mother, I know. Regularly. And she buys things for cash. Even cars.”

“What about Nick Ames? Do you know him?”

Regretfully, she sighed. “I met him a few times. We didn't have much to say to each other.”

“Betty obviously likes him.”

Still regretfully, she nodded. Then, after a short pause, she decided to say, “Betty is one of those women who always seems to end up with the wrong man. And I've never understood why. She's got everything. She's very intelligent, and very well educated, too. And she's pretty. She's got a pretty face, and a great little body. But she doesn't—” Julie Ralston shook her head, searching for the phrase. “She doesn't
act
like she's pretty. Do you know what I mean?”

Gravely, Bernhardt nodded. “I think I do. It's called a negative self-image.”

Relieved, she nodded, briskly bobbing her head. “I think you've got it.” She began sliding out of the booth. “I'm sorry. But I've just got to go.”

He slid out with her, dropping money on the table. “I'll go up with you. I want to give you a card, and write on it where I'm staying in Los Angeles, what motel. If you think of anything else, I'd appreciate you giving me a call.”

“Oh, I will,” she answered. “I promise I will.”

“I believe you,” Bernhardt answered.

Entering the elegantly furnished reception room, Bernhardt said good-bye to Julie Ralston, then turned to Kay Fairchild, the receptionist with the provocative smile and the challenging eyes. Riding up in the elevator, he'd speculated on Kay Fairchild—and on what she'd meant, exactly, when she'd mentioned a drink after work. Was the high-styled Ms. Fairchild prepared to grace his debut as a free-lance investigator with the offer of her languidly exciting body? What would the high-styled Ms. Fairchild be like in bed, climaxing?