Muller, Marcia - [09] There's Something In A Sunday [v 1.0] (htm) (51 page)

The windowless interior of the mill was illuminated only by the candle in the red glass globe. Its light reflected bloodily off the eight angled walls; a gust of wind swirled through the door behind me and set the rays to shivering over the rough stone surface.

I left the door open—an avenue for quick escape—and stood with my back to it, gun ready. Another chill blast flung the door against the wall and spiraled upward through the hole where the stairway had once been. The sound of the door hitting the wall was shattering; as the echoes died, I heard the cries of birds that had been nesting on the upper floors, and their wings flapping as they flew out the windows.

At first I thought no one else was in the mill. Then a startled interrogative grunt came from the rear of the room, beyond where the candle sat on the floor.

I peered over there, narrowing my eyes. The halo of light showed the recumbent figure of a man on one of the nests of blankets. He struggled to a sitting position. It was Bob Choteau.

"Unh?" he said again. It was both a question and a protest.

I took a couple of steps forward, my gun extended in front of me in both hands. Choteau's beard and hair were wildly unkempt; his eyes had a vague, glassy look—the eyes of a man who was either very drunk or stoned.

It took him several seconds to focus on me, several more to react.

"Unh!" This time it was a growl. He flailed about and got up in a crouch.

I raised the gun higher. "Take it easy, Bob," I said. "I'm not here to arrest you."

He remained as he was for a moment, then dropped back to the floor.

"Do you remember me, Bob?" I asked. "I came to Rudy Goldring's a couple of weeks ago. You let me in the door."

He shook his head as if to clear it and put a hand to his eyes.

"Are you all right?"

After a moment he said, "Just drunk. Red had some gin left over from… he had some gin. Thought I didn't know about it, but I got into it while he was out. Not used to gin." He took his hand away from his eyes. They were still glazed, but worried now. His brows drew together. "Red's gonna
kill
me, he finds out I drank it all."

"Red's the fellow who just left with the white-haired man?"

"Were they here? Guess so. Red's my friend, knew him back when I was… long time ago. Helped me hide from the cops, let me move in here. And I stole his gin. How low can you get?"

Choteau drew his knees up against his chest, wrapped his arms around them, and began to rock back and forth. I couldn't tell if he was frightened of Red or ashamed of his own treacherousness or just wallowing in self-pity. I said, "Tell you what—I'll give you some money to replace Red's gin."

"Why'd you want to do that?"

"You have some information I need. I'll give you ten dollars to answer my questions."

"About what?"

"Let's start with this: A man came here late Saturday night, around one o'clock on Sunday morning, actually. What happened to him?"

Choteau motioned for me to come closer. I moved into the circle of light made by the candle, but stopped well out of his reach, the gun still trained on him. He looked me over for a moment, his eyes clearer now, and recognition began to seep into them.

"You're the private dick," he said. "Captain hired you to follow Rina's boyfriend."

"How do you know about that?"

"Wasn't a lot went on there I
didn't
know. Made it my business to listen in on things. Man's got to protect his interests."

"Did Mr. Goldring know you were aware of what went on?"

"Hell no. The captain was a good man, but people like me weren't real to him. I mean, he cared I got enough to eat, he was free with the beer. Let me sleep in the shed off the garage when I wanted to. But he didn't see me as a person. You know what I mean?"

I thought he was wrong about that; Rudy Goldring had thought him enough of a person to leave him five thousand dollars. But I merely nodded.

"Still," Choteau went on, "a damned good man. Sure as hell knocked me for a loop when I saw him lying there dead."

I lowered the gun and sat down on a wooden crate so I could talk with him at eye level. I wasn't particularly worried about him trying to overpower me now. Besides being drunk and off his guard, Bob was looking forward to getting his ten dollars. "Tell me about that day. Why'd you go up to the flat?"

"Door was open. I'd been off the stoop for a while, so I thought the captain might've gone up for just a few minutes. When he didn't come back down, I rang the bell. No answer. So I went up… see if he was okay."

Or to see what you could steal, I thought. "Go on."

"He was there in his own blood. I got out fast. Sort of thing the cops love to pin on people like me. Afterwards I realized I'd dropped my pouch. Guess that's why they're looking for me."

"What time was this?"

"One o'clock? Don't recall exactly. I'd been back of the restaurant around the corner, see if they'd thrown out anything good. So it might've been later—they don't quit serving till two."

"Were you there all morning?"

"Only till about ten. Captain came out of the offices and started upstairs. I complained I was out of beer, he gave me some money, told me to go to the liquor store."

As Choteau had said, Rudy Goldring had been free with the beer. Rudy had told me it was harmless enough, and I suspected that in the back of his mind he also thought it wiser to keep Bob happy and somewhat sedated. But to hand him money and send him off to the liquor store as soon as he complained… "Did you get the feeling he was trying to get rid of you?"

Choteau hesitated. "Well, he came up with the dough pretty quick, even for him."

"When did you get back?"

"Not till later, after I checked out the restaurant."

"Okay, let's go back to that afternoon. Where did you go after you saw Mr. Goldring was dead and left the flat?"

"Over to the Haight. Knew I had to get out of that neighborhood, and I'd heard Red was living here in the park. Hung around down on Stanyan and connected with him after a couple of hours. He brought me here."

"And you've been here ever since?"

His eyes shifted away from mine. "Sure."

"What about early Sunday morning when the man came?"

"What man?"

"A tall fellow. Slim. Limp brown hair. Wears western-style clothes."

"Never saw anybody like that around here. Wasn't nobody here but Red and the old man and me."

"The three of you weren't here, either—at least not after the man arrived. Did you take him someplace else?"

"Look, lady, I don't know about no man. At one in the morning I was probably asleep."

"You weren't that morning. I came inside, and the windmill was empty."

"You came… that was you went through our stuff!"

"Yes. Where were you?"

"A lot of nerve, going through our stuff that way."

"Don't change the subject. What happened to the man?"

"I said I don't know no man!"

I decided to let it go for now. "You get out of here a lot?"

"Not much. Like I said, where would I go?"

"Out foraging, maybe. Over to the Haight—"

"Lady, cops are looking for me. I been thinking I ought to get clear out of town, maybe catch a freight up to Oroville, maybe Portland. But winter's coming on. What I'd like to do is put a little money together—"

"Is that what you were hoping to do when you tried to get in touch with Irene Lasser?"

"How'd you— No, why would I do that?"

"When I went through this place, I found the sack of food she brought you."

"
He
brought it."

"Who?"

Silence.

"Who?"

"Man she works for. I never even saw Rina."

"Why did he bring it?"

"How the hell should I know? Probably Rina asked him to."

"Start at the beginning. You went up to The Castles…"

"That what they call that place? Well, yeah, I went there couple of days after the captain bought it. Knew where Rina lived, guess I thought she might help me."

"Only you saw Gerry Cushman instead."

"Yeah, him. I was trying to sneak in there. Didn't want to see anybody but Rina. Set off the alarm going over the wall. Son of a bitch came at me with a gun. Honest to Christ, I thought he was gonna shoot me. But then his wife—what's her name?"

"Vicky."

"Yeah, Vicky comes running outside and yells for him to stop. She knows me, see. She'd been to the captain's with Rina."

"What happened then?"

"They took me inside and we talked. They said I couldn't see Rina, she was still too upset. But he gave me some money, told me he'd bring food later."

"He brought it here?"

"No, I was afraid it was a trick to turn me over to the cops. I mean, why bring food when he could just've given me cash? So I met him over near the Beach Chalet on the Great Highway."

"And then?"

Again his eyes moved away from mine. "That's it."

"You didn't go back and try to see Rina? Try to get money from her, too?"

"No! Why the hell would I? He promised me plenty—"

I waited.

Choteau tugged at one earlobe and shifted position, squirming around on the filthy nest.

I said, "Promised you plenty of money to do what?"

"You got it wrong. He promised me plenty of food. Said Rina didn't want me to go hungry—"

"You just said you only
thought
Rina wanted him to bring you the food."

"No, I
know
she did. Getting me confused. And you haven't given me my ten bucks yet."

"I'll give you twenty if you'll tell me the rest of it—and what happened to the man who came here."

"There isn't any more! There wasn't any man!"

"Twenty dollars, Bob."

He stopped, raised his head and listened.

"What is it?"

"I think Red and the old man are coming back. They might get violent, they find you here."

I didn't hear anything, and I wasn't sure whether to believe him. But his cohorts might indeed become violent—or he might incite them to it. In any case, I doubted I'd get anything out of him, given his present resistance. I got to my feet and moved toward the door.

"Hey, what about my ten bucks?"

"You'll get it when you tell me the rest of it."

"You said twenty—"

"Twenty. Twenty or nothing." I fumbled in my bag, pulled out one of my cards, and dropped it on the floor. "Call me at that number when you're ready to talk."

Choteau gave a wounded howl. I went out the door.

I drove slowly through the darkened byways of the park, thinking about Bob Choteau and Gerry Cushman. Some of what Choteau had told me had been lies and evasions, but one thing rang absolutely true: It was strange that Gerry had brought him the bag of food when he could simply have paid him to go away and leave the residents of The Castles alone.

It meant Gerry thought he had a use for the derelict—which was further confirmed by Bob's slip about Gerry promising him "plenty" of money.

For what, though? Something to do with Irene? If so, I was reasonably sure she had no complicity in it; her innocent reaction to my mention of the windmill had been genuine. Gerry had not told Irene where Choteau was hiding, if he knew himself—might not even have revealed that Bob had tried to see her.

One explanation for Gerry's actions might lie in what the Cushman girls had inadvertently—or maybe not so inadvertently—told me: Vicky thought Gerry was having an affair with Irene. The girls had said Rina wouldn't do such a thing, but children, even prematurely worldly children like Betsy and Lindy, don't like to believe anything negative about the people they love. And it was clear they did love Rina, possibly more than the mother who was swiftly becoming a candidate for the psychiatric hospital.

I thought back to Lindy's description of the quarrel her parents had had Saturday night. Vicky had told Gerry he was going to "ruin everything," had said he wouldn't have done what he had for
her
. Ruin what? Their marriage? Their lives and those of the children? And what was it he'd done? Taken the bag of food to Bob Choteau, rather than turn him over to the police? That seemed minor in the scheme of things. Besides, Gerry had done that earlier in the week, probably Wednesday or Thursday. Vicky wouldn't have waited until Saturday to air her displeasure. What else had Gerry done?…

Saturday night was when Frank Wilkonson had gone to the windmill and disappeared. I was certain Choteau knew something about that; his evasion of my questions had been too obvious. And now Wilkonson had been found shot to death.

I gripped the steering wheel harder as I turned right out of the park onto Stanyan, where the Panhandle begins. It was nearly dark now and the perimeter of the park bordering the Haight was deserted. The streets were well populated, however, but not with the scruffy types I remembered from ten or even fifteen years ago. These people were relatively well dressed, many of them in business attire, and the warmly lighted establishments they homed in on were chic restaurants and shops. When I looked at my watch, I was surprised to find it was not quite seven.

I parked on Stanyan and dodged traffic as I ran across the street to a print shop owned by my friends Daphne and Charlie. I have a long-standing arrangement with them that I can drop in and use their phone in exchange for steering All Souls' clients' business their way. The shop was noisy and busy even at this hour; a collator clattered, copiers whirred and clunked, phones rang, and somebody—Charlie? Yes, Charlie—was swearing mightily behind a broken-down offset press. I hurried past the commotion to the rear, where Daphne was clearing her desk in her usual serene manner. She waved in greeting and moved calmly through the storm to the door—going home to their Clayton Street flat, where she would probably whip up something fantastic in the kitchen to soothe Charlie when he returned later, all inkstained, sweaty, and irate.

I sat down at the other desk, looked up the Cushmans' number, and dialed. A childish voice answered. I said, "Lindy?"

"Yes."

"Hi, it's Sharon. Is Rina there?"