Ken Kuhlken_Hickey Family Mystery 02 (23 page)

A nun entered, carrying medicine. Hickey and the priest slipped away and down the pungent hall, double-timing until they escaped and tasted fresh air. As they walked side by side through the patio toward the lobby, Hickey said, “I figured the old guy didn’t need to know about his grandbaby.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

There was still a sign marking the place in which Venus and Henry Tucker had conceived all this madness Hickey’d gotten tangled in. The sign read
OTHERWORLD
in flowing calligraphy. The gate was locked. A newish chain fence skirted the olive groves, just beyond which lay the foundations of several enormous houses whose completion awaited the end of the war. Between the foundations and the sea cliff, the low sun flashed so brilliantly off the bronze dome of the mosque that Hickey couldn’t look straight at it.

A few hundred yards up the road, across the street from where the last olive grove met the cemetery, Hickey made a U-turn and pulled up in front of Joshua Bair’s home. During his brief stop at Riverview—where he’d only dropped off the papers, learned that the doctor was out on a call and the girl was sleeping—he’d phoned the Hillcrest Plen Aire Gallery, claimed to be an L.A. reporter, and gotten the painter’s number. He called, said he had questions about the Tuckers.

The painter’s house was a low-slung sidehill place. The front was all redwood siding and windows. A redwood stairway led up from the road to a wide deck, furnished with lounges and umbrella tables. Hickey crossed it and met the painter, who waited beside the door. A tall, gangling fellow like Henry Tucker used to be. Hickey figured his age, probably from something he’d read, as close to seventy-five, yet he stood erect, shook hands vigorously, walked in large strides. His skin looked sun-parched, flecked with dark blemishes. He wore a clipped goatee and a sporty driving cap, which he left on, though Hickey removed his hat the moment he crossed the threshold. His sainted mother had demanded such impeccable manners. If he’d worn his hat indoors, in a minute it would’ve pressed on his skull like an anvil. He gave his name and occupation. “You knew all the Tuckers, right? Henry, Venus…”

“Very well.” The painter’s voice was deep, touchingly gentle.

“Good, because Cynthia’s neck-deep in hot tar. I’ve got an idea what landed her there, but could be I’m missing something.”

Mr. Bair showed him to a den beside the entryway, seated him on a couch facing a picture window. The view was immense: the crystalline Pacific and most of Point Loma from the lighthouse, across Fort Rosecrans Cemetery, over the grounds of what used to be Otherworld, miles northeast along Sunset Cliffs. The section of Otherworld straight ahead was checkered with mounds of dirt that must’ve once been flower or vegetable gardens, and a shed-sized building made of rocks about twenty yards in from the cliff. The sanctuary, Hickey surmised. Where Cynthia and Laurel watched their mother frolic with Pravinshandra the day Will Lashlee fell to his death, Murphy the realtor mangled his legs, and Henry Tucker’s life exploded.

The painter asked what drink he could serve, retreated to the kitchen, brought his juice and Hickey’s scotch, set them on a scarred plank coffee table between the couch and his tattered easy chair. He sat down, wriggled until he got comfortable. “So, tell me what’s become of the Tuckers?”

“Well, Venus is thriving. She and Master Pravinshandra have got a swell racket, doing their magic show, bilking their followers, and investing the loot in Shasta real estate. Laurel is prospering, maybe in cahoots with Mama. Henry’s got TB, appears to be heading for the last roundup, and Cynthia—she’s standing one foot in hell.” He gave the painter her whereabouts, told him about her singing career and plans to hit the big time under the wing of Charlie Schwartz. He left out Donny Katoulis and lied about his acquisition of Cynthia’s ledgers, said he found them in Cynthia’s room at the boardinghouse when he’d gone searching for her. Then he started from the beginning, from the death of Ophelia.

Several times Mr. Bair stopped him to ask for a repeat or elaboration, or to reminisce. About the beauty of Venus as a child. The charismatic presence of Madame T. The inspired life of people at Otherworld during the years when they still believed in their utopian dreams. Listening to Hickey describe Pravinshandra’s pregnant disciples, Mr. Bair had nodded credulously. Even the rape, though it induced a woeful frown, didn’t appear to surprise him.

But when Hickey said Emma Vidal was dead, the painter tottered to his feet as though age, which had been in hot pursuit, suddenly caught up and thumped him. He staggered to the picture window, leaned against it, both palms flat on the glass, muttering sounds too low and slurred to make out. Hickey let him grieve. After minutes of silence the painter returned to his chair. He sat breathing deeply, laboriously. He cleared his throat. His voice seemed to echo out of a distant room. “My wife died twelve years ago. She’d gone to India with Madame Torrey and contracted malaria there. Since then…Emma is thirty-four years younger than me, Mr. Hickey. Aren’t I a foolish old man?”

“Naw.”

“She would’ve married me, regardless, except…she was one of those who keeps her purity by prizing her dreams more than her life, and consequently choosing to love from afar, people she could never have.”

“Henry Tucker,” Hickey offered.

“And Pravinshandra.”

Mr. Bair rolled his hands palms up on his lap and stared as if he blamed them for something.

Hickey said, “Maybe you could tell me what you think about Cynthia’s story?” The old man looked up perplexedly, as though stumped by a riddle. “Cynthia’s story,” Hickey repeated. “Any truth in it?”

Crooking his head stiffly toward the picture window, Mr. Bair shaded his eyes. The window flickered like a kaleidoscope. In its center, the half of the sun that remained above the Pacific threw violet streaks that started brilliant and gradually dulled until they blended with the gray-blue sky.

“Oh, yes. The story’s quite accurate. Factually. I only question her interpretations. Did Venus truly kill her sister, intentionally? I’ve always believed it was an accident. Because Venus…though she may at times have a murderous heart, wouldn’t foul her own hands. She’s too…refined.”

Mr. Bair fell into silence, gazing thoughtfully at the window as though analyzing colors of the sunset, deciding how to match them in oils. He picked his glass off the table and sipped.

“Care for something stronger?” Hickey asked.

Mr. Bair nodded, told him where to find the liquor, what to pour. When Hickey served the drinks, the old man lifted his as though in a toast to someone invisible. “Cynthia, you said, believes Venus seduced Henry, but I’m not convinced it wasn’t the other way. Tucker was a vital, experienced man. Venus was a girl. No doubt she took charge later and treated him with disregard. Still, her withdrawal and remoteness, even her disloyalty, might never have flourished if it weren’t for Henry’s jealousy. I suspect he tried to constrain her, fearing that if she rose too high, she’d leave him behind.”

The sky had faded, dusk settled in. Hickey had to squint to catch the old man’s expression. He’d expected Mr. Bair to get up and turn on a light, but the old man had slipped into a dimension where you could see just as well in darkness. “Let’s review the murders Cynthia charges. Ophelia, very likely an accident. Will Lashlee—certainly you could lay the blame on Venus, if it’s true that Laurel ran to the cliff in response to watching her mother fornicate, but that doesn’t strike me as consistent with Laurel’s character.

“About Madame Esmé…although clearly she died of grief over the demise of Otherworld, the doctors called it pneumonia. I think, under our jurisprudence, that’s hardly a punishable murder. If, Mr. Hickey, any of us looked back and saw each tragedy one of our actions played a role in, we might all hold hands and plunge into the sea.” Mr. Bair reclined his head. His eyelids dropped. For long enough to startle Hickey into wondering if he’d lapse into a faint or coma, the old man kept perfectly still except that his nostrils flared with each breath. Then he sat up, struggled to his feet. “Have you noticed the portraits?” He gestured toward the wall opposite the picture window, crossed the room, and flicked on lights. More than a dozen portraits appeared.

The first portrait on the left was a beauty with long black hair, eyes so humble, mouth so broad and kind, it made you want to thank her for living.

“Emma?” Hickey asked.

Mr. Bair nodded stiffly and turned to the portrait of a naked girl, about thirteen, walking out of the ocean in knee-high shore break. Her right hand flipped the cinnamon-colored hair out of her eyes while the other hand poised in front of her hip as though reaching to cover a private part, but unable to decide which. Her emerald eyes gleamed as if the painter had secreted a light bulb behind them.

“Venus,” Mr. Bair said reverently. “Her power is subtle, elemental, tremendous. It’s almost as if she only has to wish and someone appears to do her bidding. Madame Torrey. Henry. Laurel. Pravinshandra.” His hand lifted to chin level. He stood a moment, pondering. “If Venus were to stand trial, even if she’d ordered those people killed, for each death she’d plead self-defense and believe it. Ophelia was killing her spirit, stealing her father’s love. Madame Esmé tried to keep her from inheriting the kingdom, Otherworld. Henry Tucker had stolen the best years of her life and would
not
let go. Emma…”

He waved his hand in front of his face and turned to the next portrait. A brazenly handsome fellow about forty with a shy, lovable tilt to his head, a comic seriousness to his mouth. Eyes that just missed looking straight at you, no matter from what angle you watched them. “Poor Henry. He broke the first rule of manhood. He let go the reins on his heart. Those are his words, by the way.”

Laurel was next. A young beauty, nineteen or so, full of zest and gaiety. But Hickey noticed something that repelled him, made him want to look away. He studied until he saw that the eyes were out-of-round and had tiny sparks of flame orange behind the green.

“In torment,” Mr. Bair said. “As if she inherited her mother’s guilt, and it lives like a devil inside her. She’s the one who frightens me.”

The last portrait in the row was of Cynthia, a few years younger but the same girl Hickey’d watched dozens of times while the audience threw her kisses and flowers. The smile looked like she’d just bought the deed to heaven.

Hickey stood for minutes admiring the paintings, until Mr. Bair said, “May I ask a favor of you?”

“You bet.”

“If you would see to the punishment of the man who killed Emma, I’d be more than indebted. I’d give you Emma’s half of everything I own.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Hickey muttered. He shook the painter’s hand, walked out, and hustled across the deck with Mr. Bair’s last words echoing inside him. From the top of the stairs, he glanced south, at the sky over Sunset Cliffs where he’d watched the girl meet Katoulis. He stopped and stood a moment, realizing how perfectly he’d botched things. He should’ve let Pravinshandra die.

***

There would be no orchestra at Rudy’s tonight. The few parties of early diners clustered in and near the booths. Hickey took a corner table, ordered his usual sirloin, vegetable, bread, no potatoes, a glass of cabernet.

A cacophony of thoughts bombarded him. About Cynthia’s family, the master, Donny Katoulis. The loudest concerned Joshua Bair’s conception of Venus as a far less evil being than Cynthia made her. Things could be like the painter saw them or, Hickey mused, Bair might’ve pardoned her on account of he’d fallen for her charms.

Thrapp arrived a few minutes early. He was a broad, hard-packed fellow with reddish gray hair Hickey suspected he got cut at the navy base. He had ruddy skin, a smashed nose, and a neck that appeared wide enough to tunnel out and drive cars through. Before the club had cornered Hickey’s time, he and the captain had met for a drink and an hour of gab every week or so. The last time had been around September.

Thrapp looked sour, purely unthrilled about their reunion.

After forking his last piece of steak, Hickey chewed it on his way to meet the captain. They shook hands coolly and Hickey led toward the office. As they passed the bar, he ordered a Dewar’s, a manhattan for Thrapp, told the bartender to send them in. He rapped once and threw open the office door.

Castillo must’ve been startled, the way his hands lay fisted on the desk and his face craned forward, accenting his big liquid eyes.

“We got some talking to do, partner,” Hickey said flatly. “Soon as I get done with the law here. Go out and have a drink, why don’t you? Make it a stiff one.”

Castillo sat still long enough to pretend he was choosing to leave. He got up, sidled around the desk, nodded chummily at Thrapp, wedged past, and made his exit. Hickey rounded the desk. The captain hung his overcoat on the rack. As they sat and eyed each other across the desk, before either of them spoke, the drinks arrived. Hickey lit his pipe, watched the smoke rising toward the vent. He asked about Thrapp’s family and a couple mutual pals.

“So you gonna send me back to Denver?”

“Depends if Donny had his gun out, Tom. They’re still interviewing tattletales—you know how things move a little slow around Christmas, what with relatives and all. Lousy time of year.”

“Thanks for getting me outta there.”

“Sure. I had to argue like that guy Socrates. I’ll tell you, if you’d shot anybody else but Mr. K, Houdini couldn’t of got you loose. The guy in Denver called L.A., and somebody up there told him you oughta get a congressional medal. How about it, Tom? The boy have his gun out when you popped him? Or’d he keep it stashed, like that night in the alley, back a few years?”

“Not losing your memory quite yet, are you, Rusty?” Eleven years, Hickey thought, and he’d only told four people about that night. Madeline, Leo, an old pal from his USC days, and Thrapp. If you land in the hot seat, he mused, that’ll teach you to get tipsy and run off at the mouth.

“How about it?”

“Some fella in Denver took it all down shorthand, made me sign the paper. I think they call it a statement. Remember those things? Why don’t you get them to send you a copy, save me some breath?”

Thrapp shrugged, sipped his manhattan, nibbled the cherry. “I did that, Tom. Got it over the wire, read it three or four times. Still sounds fishy.”

“Aw well. Next item, Leo’s been telling me you guys don’t make my business partner for a respectable type. Something about a mob from Jersey.”