Death Turns A Trick (Rebecca Schwartz #1) (A Rebecca Schwartz Mystery) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series) (7 page)

“Oh, Rebecca, I can’t—”

“You’ve got to. If he doesn’t tell them, I will.”

“I see. Okay, I’ll talk to him. ” She sighed and said goodbye.

Mickey and I turned off the lights, locked Tony’s place, and left. The minute we were in her car, the tears started coming. I do okay for a Marin County Jewish princess, but Superwoman I’m not.

I blubbered out the story to Mickey, leaving out only the senator’s identity. She was a good listener. A good sister, too. She said anybody would have wanted to go to Elena’s party, and no one could have foreseen it was going to get me involved in a traffic accident and a murder. She also said I acquitted myself handsomely with the cops and she wished she had as much presence of mind. Okay, so I’m bragging, but remember, I also told you I cried.

Mickey even tried to get my mind off Parker by dragging red herrings across the path. She said maybe Elena killed Kandi.

“After all,” she argued, “Elena was the only one we know of who actually knew where Kandi was. She could have followed her there and done her in.”

“But she was home when I called from the Hall,” I reminded her.

“Okay. Perfect. She could have gone to your place before she went to HYENA headquarters, beaned Kandi, and tore up the place in about ten minutes. Maybe Kandi’d robbed her and she was trying to get the money back. In fact, maybe the $200 she gave the cops came out of the…”

“Oh, stop. She came in a taxi. The driver’d know she stopped there.”

Mickey waved a dismissing hand. “Details.”

She stopped the car in front of the old stucco house where she and Alan shared the first-floor flat. It was furnished Berkeley-style, with bricks and boards for bookcases, cast-off furniture picked up at garage sales, and a stereo that was probably worth as much as the rest of the furniture put together.

We made up a bed for me on the Goodwill couch, and I got out of my bedraggled finery. I'd forgotten to pack anything, so I used Mickey’s toothbrush, borrowed a T-shirt for pajamas, and turned in. I was nearly asleep when I heard the thud of the morning paper on the porch.

The next thing I knew somebody was shaking me awake. From the light, it was pretty early morning. “Phone,” said Mickey. “It’s Parker. The cops told him where to find you.” I tumbled out of bed, quick. “Parker. Are you all right?”

“I’m in jail. Booked for suspicion of murdering my own sister.” He sounded miserable.

“Oh God, Parker. I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks. I need a lawyer.”

“You’d better tell me what happened.”

“It all happened so fast I hardly know. These guys Martinez and Curry showed up and told me about Carol and asked if she was my sister. Then, before I could even assimilate that, they asked me about my movements last night. I
had
been to your house—I don’t know if you know that.”

“I gathered. Was your sister there at the time?”

“I don’t know. No one answered the door, so I went away. Anyway, the cops asked me if I’d take a polygraph test, and I said no. I was nervous, and I didn’t see any point in it. My God, my sister was dead!

“So then they sent a lab guy to get my fingerprints, and they stayed with me while he went back to the Hall of Justice. After a while, he called and told Martinez something, and Martinez asked me if I’d ever touched that funny statue you have on the coffee table.”

“I suppose you know that was the murder weapon.”

“I do now, anyway. I said I couldn’t remember touching it.”

“But, Parker, you must have. Sometime in my apartment.”

“I just can’t remember it. But I must have, because they found one of my prints on it. They told me that, and I still couldn’t remember, and the next thing I knew they advised me of my rights and brought me down here.”

The more miserable he sounded, the stronger I felt, and I didn’t like it. Florence Nightingale Schwartz was back in business.

“Okay, Parker, two things. First, tell them you’ll take the polygraph.”

“No!”

“Why not?”

“I don’t believe in it. I don’t like it. It’s an invasion of privacy.”

“But they’re holding you for murder.”

“Can’t you get me out on bail?”

“That’s the other thing. I’m horribly afraid you’re going to have to spend the weekend in jail; they can hold you without charging you till Monday, and if they do charge you, they don’t have to arraign you till Tuesday. I’m not at all sure I can get you out before then.”

“But you’ll try?”

“Of course. I’ll have to call a judge at home. I’ll do that, and then I’ll come over to City Prison as soon as I can. Try to take it easy, okay?”

“Thanks, Rebecca.”

It was seven o’clock—I’d never get Parker bailed out if I called a judge at that hour. Mickey had gone back to bed, and I had no alarm to set, so I just lay down again, hoping I’d wake up about nine.

I did, mostly because Alan was playing the stereo in the bedroom.

Since I had no idea what judge was on call for the weekend, I called the cops and flung myself on the mercy of the desk sergeant. Luckily, I got a nice one; he said it was Judge Rinaldo.

I extolled Parker’s virtues at some length for Rinaldo’s benefit, but he said he’d have to call homicide and get back to me.

Depressed, I knocked on the bedroom door to beg for one of Mickey’s robes. Mickey had gone out for a minute, so Alan made the loan. Then he hovered while I made coffee. Instead of helping with the coffee, he offered conversation that made my teeth itch:

“What’s it like to find a stiff in your living room?”

“She was a human being, Alan.”

“Now she’s a piece of meat.”

“Haven’t you got any compassion?”

“Not for some doxie I never met. I’m saving it all for my poor, traumatized, old-maid sister-in-law. Must have been kind of tough on you, huh?”

Alan’s all right, really. It’s just that he has trouble remembering he’s not on stage all the time. If you don’t watch him, he does bits, like the tough-guy routine he was affecting this morning. Also, he has no sense of responsibility and will probably never make a decent living. But he’s got a good heart, deep down. That and a lot of curly hair.

I said it wasn’t exactly uplifting, finding Kandi, but I wasn’t his sister-in-law.

“Did your new boyfriend do it?”

“How do I know?”

“Well, I hope not. I was kind of hoping you’d marry him. Then your sister wouldn’t have to worry about you anymore.”

“Worry about me? She’s living in sin with Mr. Putz and she should worry about me?”

“You’ll get used to me in thirty or forty years.”

“I’ll brain you first,” I said, and instantly wished I hadn’t. It brought back a mental picture I could do without.

Alan picked up a cast-iron pan and held it out. “Here. No time like the present. Come on, get it over with. Face it, Rebecca, you’ve been wanting to for two years.”

He stretched out his arms, practically begging for it, and looked at the ceiling. “‘Ay, but to die and go we know not where,’” he said, “‘To lie in cold obstruction and to rot…’”

I took the pan and lifted it in what I hoped was a threatening gesture, but I doubt he even noticed, he was so full of himself: “‘This sensible warm motion to become a kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit…’”

If that had gone on much longer, I probably
would
have killed him, but Mickey saved his life by making a grand entrance with a fragrant paper bag. He shut up, and I lowered the weapon. “I was about to do you a favor,” I said to Mickey.

Alan sneaked up behind her and nuzzled her ear: “Would you have missed this sensible warm motion?”

She shook him off. “You children behave. I’ve brought breakfast.” She opened the bag and started arranging croissants on a plate. The pastries were a real extravagance on the kind of budget she and Jerko lived on. It disoriented Alan so much he set the table.

I poured coffee and orange juice, and Mickey dredged up some butter and strawberry preserves. After a croissant and two cups of coffee, I felt a lot better. Strong enough to talk to Mom and Dad. I would have called them if Mom hadn’t beat me to the punch. The phone rang just about then.

“Hi, Mom,” said Mickey. “Oh, she’s with us. Certainly she’s all right. I’ll prove it.”

She passed me the receiver. “Thank God you’re all right, darling,” said Mom. “I called and you weren’t home.”

“I know, Mom. I’m not at home a lot. I can drive and everything. But just this once, there
is
a little something wrong. I was going to call you before you heard it on the radio, but…”

“The radio? What, has your house burned down?”

"No, Mom. Now listen. Someone was killed there.”

“What, in your building? I knew it wasn’t safe on Telegraph Hill. Just last year they killed a girl in her own bed.”

“Her husband killed her. Look, this killing was in my apartment.”

“Your
apartment? Oy. Are you sure you’re all right, darling? I could come right over.”

“I’m okay. I wasn’t there at the time. I’d left my purse at a party. She—the victim—came to return it, and she got there before I did. By the time I got home, she was dead. Someone bashed her with my Don Quixote sculpture.”

“Thank God it wasn’t you!”

“The police don’t seem to think it was a burglary. My house was ransacked, but nothing was missing.”

“So why ransack it?”

“To make it look like a burglary, I guess. Or maybe because the murderer thought Kandi—the dead woman—had brought something that he wanted.”

“What? I’m not following.”

“Can I talk to Daddy? I’d like to tell him, too.”

“He had to run an errand. I’ll tell him. Listen, should we call off the party?” My parents’ thirtieth wedding anniversary party was scheduled for the next day. Sunday.

“What, are you crazy?” I said. “
I’m
not dead.”

“But, darling, you’re upset. Party or no party, my children come first.”

“Mom, I’ll have a great time. Everyone’ll want to talk to me because I’ll be notorious.”

“You sure? It’s not too late.”

“Positive. Listen, I’ve got to go home and put my house back together.”

“You’re not going back to the place alone?”

“Mickey will drive me. I’ll have her come in and make sure no one’s there.”

“You’re not under suspicion, are you, dear?”

“No, Mom. They’ve arrested a friend of mine. I’m his lawyer.” Once that was out, I had to tell her the whole story, and I believe she was more upset by my going to a party at a bordello than she was about the murder.

Not being able to fit into any of Mickey’s jeans, I had to wear my silver blouse and black skirt back to my house. I looked as grubby as I felt. I contemplated a shower and then a blitz of my house, but I knew the blitz would have to wait until I’d seen Parker.

Mickey didn’t want to go in with me, because it meant taking me to my car, then driving all the way back to Telegraph Hill. But I needed her to help me move furniture. That Flokati rug had cost me $150 on sale at Macy’s and I wasn’t about to throw it out; I planned to wash the bloodstains out in the bathtub.

We found the place in worse disarray than the night before, if that was possible. But I didn’t let myself think about it. Mickey and I heaved the sofas and coffee table off the rug, and I gathered it up while she ran some cold water. Then she left me alone.

I added detergent and left the rug to soak while I called Judge Rinaldo. “I’m sorry, Miss Schwartz,” he said. “Martinez and Curry are dead against bail for your client. They’ve got witnesses and fingerprints.”

“Yes, but he’s not a flight risk.”

“They say he’s in such a depressed state he might try suicide.”

“Bull—” I stopped myself just in time. “I mean, nonsense! I talked to him this morning.”

“I’m sorry,” the judge repeated. “You’ll have a bail hearing if he’s charged.” He hung up.

It was no more than I expected. The bit about suicide disturbed me, though. I hadn’t thought Parker was that upset, but then he had rather unreasonably refused to take the polygraph test. Unreasonably if he were innocent, that is. I had to assume he was innocent, so why not take the test? Was he really so upset he just wasn’t thinking straight? Could be; I would be if I were in his shoes. But so upset he was suicidal?

I hoped to God not. And not only on his account—I wanted a man I didn’t have to mother.

I went back to the rug. A little scrubbing and the blood came out pretty easily, but the feathers were something else again. Even after I’d gotten bored picking them off, you could hardly see the difference. So I decided to vacuum it when it was dry, and addressed myself to the hard part of the task: wringing the damn thing out.

Then I bathed, put on a white silk shirt, gray flannel slacks, and a coral necklace. That was good enough for a Saturday at the Hall of Justice.

The Hall of Justice was eerily quiet. I took the elevator to City Prison and asked to see my client. The cops showed us into an interview room about the size of my bathroom, painted in two shades of blue. Two ugly shades. It was furnished with a table and two chairs.

As soon as they left us alone, we kissed and held each other for a long time. Parker’s eyes were red, either from crying or lack of sleep. Maybe both.

“No bail?” he asked, sitting down.

I shook my head. “I’m sorry. Martinez and Curry told the judge you might be suicidal.”

“Christ, I just might be.” He waved his hand in a futile gesture. I put a notebook and pen in the middle of the table so he’d have something to fidget with. “I’m having a very hard time believing any of this is actually happening.”

“I know. So am I. But we’ve got to talk about it.”

“Yes. Rebecca, she was only twenty-four. God! Just twenty-four!” He picked up the pen and made two fists around it. “I remember how jealous I was when she was born. Everyone adored her because she was so pretty. I did too, by the time I got over my jealousy.

“It’s funny the things you remember.” Animation came into his voice. “Mom had a black velvet cape that she used to wear to the opera.