Muller, Marcia - [09] There's Something In A Sunday [v 1.0] (htm) (38 page)

"You what?" she asked. Dragged deeply on the joint. "Oh yes. I forgot. I see. No, it's okay—"

There was a long pause.

"I'm not, Gerry," she finally said. "I'm just relaxing with a friend. What's wrong with that? Can't I have friends, too?" There was a childish whine in her voice, and I decided this encounter was getting too embarrassing—for both of us. I'd come for information, not to pry into what was obviously a difficult domestic situation. I got to my feet.

Vicky motioned for me to stay, but I mouthed the words, "I'll call you," and hurried to the door.

Outside, the day had gone pinky gold and dusky—a further harbinger of autumn. Somewhere in the eucalyptus grove I heard the caw of a crow. For a number of reasons—the obvious and the purely personal—I always associate that type of bird with death. I listened to it as the trees' leaves shivered and flashed silver in the early evening breeze.

Don't be silly, I told myself. This may be a troubled household, but they'll work it out.

Then I looked at my watch. It was close to six-thirty, and tonight Rae had promised—with her Girl Scout salute and an offer of a stack of Bibles—that she would for sure be at the Remedy Lounge by seven. I dismissed Vicky, Gerry, the hapless Betsy, and even the threat my alma mater's medical center was posing to Haight-Ashbury, and retraced my earlier route to the Mission District.

"Sharon, I understand why you're not pleased with my work, I really do. It's just that Doug is so needy right now." It was the fourth time Rae had said that—or at least some variant on it. She was reasonably drunk; I suspected she'd fortified herself with something from the All Souls refrigerator before making the trek downhill to the Remedy Lounge.

I said, as I also had three times before, "I'm not unhappy with your work—
when
you do it."

She moved her glass around on the gouged formica tabletop, making wet circlets with the beer that had slopped around its base. "But that's what I'm trying to explain. It's a real bad time for Doug. He's got to declare his intention to go for the doctorate or take a terminal M.A.
Terminal M.A
. Wow, it sounds like you die if you do that!"

I had to admit they could have found a better term for it, but it was a tangential issue that I didn't want to get off on. I sipped wine, giving myself time to think. Finally I said, "Rae, what do you want to do with your life?"

"With my… what?"

"With your life. Do you have a dream?"

"Me? Oh yeah, of course."

"What is it?"

"Well, I guess I want to be like you."

It took me aback; I'd never been a role model before. When I didn't reply, Rae flashed me a mildly reproachful look and finished her beer. She looked over at the bar, and Brian, the bartender, gave her a thumbs-up sign and began drawing another Bud. It annoyed me vaguely; the Remedy doesn't have a waitress, but Brian had been bringing Rae's beers to our table as if it were a common practice. In all the years I'd been coming here, he'd never taken so much as one step out of his way for me—or any other customer.

I studied Rae: her untended auburn curls, lack of makeup, mangy coat, and moth-eaten sweater. She looked like hell most of the time, and even on her good days she dragged around half dead. Yet she had so much to offer—so much intelligence and good humor and guts—that it had even caught the eye of Brian, who probably hadn't really seen any of the Remedy's clientele since 1952. It seemed a shame that she was willing to throw away her life for the sake of "needy" Doug.

I said, "By being like me, I take it you mean you want your license and a good job that affords you a certain amount of freedom and flexibility."

She nodded, taking the beer from Brian.

"What about Doug? Does he want that for you?"

"… I guess."

I tried another tack. "Does Doug also have a dream?"

As soon as I spoke, there was a change in her: her face grew animated, and she even sat up straighter. "Yes—he's a wonderful writer. He wants to sell short stories to magazines like
The New Yorker
."

Inwardly I winced. I knew a couple of short-story writers; what they mainly did was not make much money at it.

Rae went on, "That's one of the reasons Doug is thinking of taking the terminal M.A. He's in the English lit program right now, but he doesn't like it. He really wants to switch to creative writing."

I thought back to a conversation I'd had with Rae a couple of months ago. She'd told me that before Doug had entered the English program at SF State, he'd been studying filmmaking at UCLA. And two years before that, when they'd first been married, he'd been working on a graduate journalism degree at Berkeley.

My silence told Rae what I was thinking. She said, "If he goes ahead with it, this will be absolutely the last change. He's finally found himself. I really believe that."

She did, too. I could see that in her eyes, hear it in her voice. And maybe she was right; after all, she knew Doug better than anyone. But it bothered me that she was so committed to living his dream rather than her own.

That, however, was a philosophical point we could argue all night, and I had more practical issues to attend to. I said, "Rae, how much do you make a month?"

"A thousand. You know that."

"And out of it you pay what for rent?"

"Six hundred, and then there's the other stuff."

"Which leaves you… ?"

"Well, nothing, on account of the car and the cost of food and utilities— Do you know my damn landlord wants to start charging us for garbage and water? I think that's illegal, and I'm going to ask Hank—"

"Rae, do you want to always live hand-to-mouth?"

"Well, of course not!"

"And do you want to work as a gofer at All Souls for the rest of your career?"

Her fingers clenched on the glass, and her freckles stood out against her sudden pallor. "Are you firing me?"

"Lord no! Just answer the question."

"Well, of course I don't. I want to get my investigator's license. I meant it when I said I want to be like you."

"Getting that license is predicated on you doing a good job for me."

"Oh God, Sharon…"

"Don't whimper. I can't take whimpering." Her furrowed brow and trembling mouth were both heart-wrenching and annoying. I thought, If she were a man, she wouldn't dare pull that crap on me. And then I thought, But if she were a man, we wouldn't have a situation like this on our hands because very few men would cater to their wives the way she does to Doug. It's a bind that our upbringing puts us women in, and one that's not all that easy to break free of.

"Listen," I said, "I'm going to give you another chance. I think we've been going about this wrong."

She nodded, looking hopeful and releasing her stranglehold on the glass.

"I realize," I said, "that I've been loading you down with scutwork and not taking time to teach you the things you need to know. So what I'm going to do is—in addition to the routine work—let you take on some special projects." When she started to speak, I held up my hand. "I know it sounds good, but you've got to remember this: they'll take extra time—cause you to work long hours, odd hours. You may have to neglect Doug, so you'd better talk it out with him first."

"I'll talk to him as soon as I get home tonight."

"Good. And after you've completed a few projects, we'll talk again, to evaluate your work and decide if you're really suited to this business." Good Lord, I thought, I sound like a genuine supervisor. I could see myself years hence, directing a full staff of operatives, generously dispensing the wisdom gleaned through years of experience.

"What's the first project?" Rae asked.

The vision of my managerial future faded. "Uh, I don't know yet. When something comes up, I'll brief you. In the meantime, do you think you could try to get to work on time tomorrow?"

I sensed she was disappointed by my lack of a definite project, and I hoped my somewhat wheedling tone hadn't undermined my authority. As it worked out, however, I didn't have to worry about her arriving at All Souls on time the next morning. I decided I needed to get some food into her before she drove home, so we went back to the co-op, and I threw together a pot of spaghetti, like Hank used to do in the old days. Jack and a couple of the other inmates of the second floor joined us, we drank more beer and wine, and before I knew it, Rae had passed out on the waiting room couch. I covered her with Jack's spare blanket and went to call Doug—taking an unreasonably sadistic pleasure in telling him Rae wouldn't be home until after work the next day.

The deep blue Friday morning sky promised a day as splendid as the one before. I took my coffee and newspaper out onto my back deck, studiously ignoring the brussels sprout plants, bulbs, soil, and fertilizers I'd bought on Sunday and left on the steps that led to my weedy, overgrown backyard. (The crassula and baboon flower resided in the living room.) Watney, who had not mended his wandering ways for very long, came bounding out of the shrubbery; when he saw I had nothing for him to eat, he darted off again. I settled down with the
Chronicle
, and after a while, on an inside page, found a half-column item headed SEARCH FOR MURDER SUSPECT CENTERS ON PARK.

The story said that Robert Choteau, wanted for questioning in the murder of clothier Rudolf Goldring, had been seen by several witnesses in Golden Gate Park, and the SFPD was now concentrating its search there. It didn't surprise me. In recent years the park has become a refuge for many of the city's homeless; estimates of how many make it their permanent abode soar as high as a hundred.

Of course, the park has always sheltered its share of hermits; one of the witnesses who had reported seeing Bob was a self-styled "forager" named John, who claimed to have lived there a dozen years and had told reporters he didn't want "criminal elements destroying the ecology of my home." According to park officials, John may have a point. The problem is more serious these days than at any time since the hippies took to camping out there in the late sixties. Many of these new inhabitants have serious alcohol and drug problems, others are simply destructive, and there's not much that can be done about them. If they're run off or arrested, they simply return later.

As a park administrator whom I'd met at an All Souls party had told me, the situation there wasn't going to get better until society itself improved. My reply to him had been an ironic "good luck."

I set the paper to one side, got myself more coffee, and thought about Bob Choteau. My gut-level instincts—which I wouldn't have mentioned to Ben Gallagher to save my life—said that Bob hadn't killed Goldring. There had been too much genuine affection between the men—as shown in the way Bob had addressed Goldring as "Captain," for one example. More important, Bob had not stood to gain anything by the murder. With Rudy alive, he had a supply of beer, probably a small amount of pocket money, a stoop to sit on, and thus what—to him—must have been a certain standing in the derelict community. Without Rudy, Bob was just another bum on the street, a nobody.

But what about a crime of passion? my internal devil's advocate asked. What if Bob had wanted more beer, and Rudy had been out of it? Or more money than Rudy was willing to give him? The killing showed no signs of premeditation. The ultimately fatal blow was probably impulsive, struck in anger.

But the person who had struck it didn't necessarily have to be Bob. Rudy had had an appointment that day; that was what his office manager, Mrs. Halvorsen, had said when I'd stopped by the office asking for him. I'd thought she meant the appointment was set for someplace away from the building, but she could merely have assumed that. What if it had been for his apartment?

I toyed with my coffee cup, constructing a trial scenario.

First, I thought, Rudy has an appointment. Sometime between ten, because he leaves the office a little before that, and one, when he has the fitting scheduled with the new client. Okay, he's to meet the person upstairs in his flat. Maybe he doesn't want his employees to know he's meeting that particular individual—either because he or she is known to them, or just because he doesn't want them to overhear what he plans to discuss. Either way, he leaves, goes upstairs. The person arrives, they quarrel, the person kills him and leaves.

What next? I wondered. What time had Goldring died? A number of hours before I'd gotten there, from the degree of rigor I'd observed. And surely before the woman employee had called up there at a little after one, to see why he hadn't arrived for the fitting. Would Gallagher have a reasonably accurate estimate of the time of death by now? Probably. I'd have to call and ask him.

But I made myself think through the rest of the scenario first.

Next Bob would have arrived, gone upstairs—maybe because he noticed the door was open. He found Goldring's body, dropped his pouch, and took off for the park. I didn't believe his running was as clear an indication of guilt as Gallagher seemed to think. A streetwise man like Bob Choteau would have known he'd be a prime suspect, and the more than thirteen hundred acres of park would have seemed an easy place to lose himself. He might even know others who made it their home, who would shelter him and share their tricks of "wilderness" survival. And then? The woman in Vicky Cushman's BMW had arrived. Vicky's claim that the car had been inside The Castles compound at the time was another thing my instincts told me to disbelieve. She might be flat out lying, or she might have been tricked, but I was certain she knew the woman who had been driving her car. Why else, in her mellow marijuana haze, had she so lost her temper when her daughter had interrupted us? Given the morning's hard pragmatic perspective, Vicky's outburst at Betsy seemed out of proportion to the child's request to have friends in to make popcorn. I sensed she had been reacting to the pressure of the questions I'd been asking her, and had directed her panic, or hostility, or whatever, toward a convenient and relatively helpless person.

So there it was—a script with everything but the two key roles filled in. Who was the person Rudy Goldring had scheduled that appointment with? And what was the name of the handsome dark-haired woman? Were they one and the same? Possibly, if the woman had stayed in the flat after she'd killed him. But I doubted she could have done so, given the panicked state in which I'd found her.