The Oxford Book of American Det (105 page)

I made a suitably horrified noise and he went on.

“Well, you know, about Marcia, it’s kind of tragic. She doesn’t talk about it.” But he was dying to.

“Yes?” I said, as if he needed egging on.

He lowered his voice. “She used to work for Justin Thayler over at the law school, that guy in the news, whose wife got killed. You know, her work hasn’t been worth shit since it happened. She’s always on the phone, talking real soft, hanging up if anybody comes in the room. I mean, you’d think she was in love with the guy or something, the way she...”

I don’t remember what I said. For all I know, I may have volunteered to type his thesis. But I got rid of him somehow and then I scooted around the corner of Church Street and found a pay phone and dialled Mooney.

“Don’t tell me,” he said. “Somebody mugged you, but they only took your trading stamps.”

“I have just one question for you, Moon.”

“I accept. A June wedding, but I’ll have to break it to Mother gently.”

“Tell me what kind of junk Justin Thayler collected.” I could hear him breathing into the phone.

“Just tell me,” I said, “for curiosity’s sake.”

“You onto something, Carlotta?”

“I’m curious, Mooney. And you’re not the only source of information in the world.”

“Thayler collected Roman stuff. Antiques. And I mean old. Artifacts, statues—“

“Coins?”

“Whole mess of them,”

“Thanks.”

“Carlotta—“

I never did find out what he was about to say because I hung up. Rude, I know. But I had things to do. And it was better Mooney shouldn’t know what they were, because they came under the heading of illegal activities.

When I knocked at the front door of the Mason Terrace house at 10:00 A.M. the next day, I was dressed in dark slacks, a white blouse, and my old police department hat. I looked very much like the guy who reads your gas meter. I’ve never heard of anyone being arrested for impersonating the gasman. I’ve never heard of anyone really giving the gasman a second look. He fades into the background and that’s exactly what I wanted to do.

I knew Marcia Heidegger wouldn’t be home for hours. Old reliable had left for the Square at her usual time, precise to the minute. But I wasn’t 100 percent sure Marcia lived alone. Hence the gasman. I could knock on the door and check it out.

Those Brookline neighbourhoods kill me. Act sneaky and the neighbours call the cops in twenty seconds, but walk right up to the front door, knock, talk to yourself while you’re sticking a shim in the crack of the door, let yourself in, and nobody does a thing. Boldness is all.

The place wasn’t bad. Three rooms, kitchen and bath, light and airy. Marcia was incredibly organised, obsessively neat, which meant I had to keep track of where everything was and put it back just so. There was no clutter in the woman’s life. The smell of coffee and toast lingered, but if she’d eaten breakfast, she’d already washed, dried, and put away the dishes. The morning paper had been read and tossed in the trash. The mail was sorted in one of those plastic accordion files. I mean, she folded her underwear like origami.

Now coins are hard to look for. They’re small; you can hide ‘em anywhere. So this search took me one hell of a long time. Nine out of ten women hide things that are dear to them in the bedroom. They keep their finest jewellery closest to the bed, sometimes in the nightstand, sometimes right under the mattress. That’s where I started.

Marcia had a jewellery box on top of her dresser. I felt like hiding it for her. She had some nice stuff and a burglar could have made quite a haul with no effort.

The next favourite place for women to stash valuables is the kitchen. I sifted through her flour. I removed every Kellogg’s Rice Krispy from the giant economy-sized box—

and returned it. I went through her place like no burglar ever will. When I say thorough, I mean thorough.

I found four odd things. A neatly squared pile of clippings from the
Globe
and the
Herald,
all the articles about the Thayler killing. A manila envelope containing five different safe-deposit-box keys. A Tupperware container full of superstitious junk, good luck charms mostly, the kind of stuff I’d never have associated with a straight-arrow like Marcia: rabbits’ feet galore, a little leather bag on a string that looked like some kind of voodoo charm, a pendant in the shape of a cross surmounted by a hook, and, I swear to God, a pack of worn tarot cards. Oh, yes, and a .22 automatic, looking a lot less threatening stuck in an ice cube tray. I took the bullets; the unloaded gun threatened a defenceless box of Breyers’ mint chocolate-chip ice cream.

I left everything else just the way I’d found it and went home. And tugged my hair.

And stewed. And brooded. And ate half the stuff in the refrigerator, I kid you not.

At about one in the morning, it all made blinding, crystal-clear sense.

The next afternoon, at five-fifteen, I made sure I was the cabbie who picked up Marcia Heidegger in Harvard Square. Now cabstands have the most rigid protocol since Queen Victoria; you do not grab a fare out of turn or your fellow cabbies are definitely not amused. There was nothing for it but bribing the ranks. This bet with Mooney was costing me plenty.

I got her. She swung open the door and gave the Mason Terrace number. I grunted, kept my face turned front, and took off.

Some people really watch where you’re going in a cab, scared to death you’ll take them a block out of their way and squeeze them for an extra nickel. Others just lean back and dream. She was a dreamer, thank God. I was almost at District One Headquarters before she woke up.

“Excuse me,” she said, polite as ever, “that’s Mason Terrace in
Brookline.”

“Take the next right, pull over, and douse your lights,” I said in a low Bogart voice.

My imitation was not that good, but it got the point across. Her eyes widened and she made an instinctive grab for the door handle.

“Don’t try it, lady,” I Bogied on. “You think I’m dumb enough to take you in alone?

There’s a cop car behind us, just waiting for you to make a move.” Her hand froze. She was a sap for movie dialogue.

“Where’s the cop?” was all she said on the way up to Mooney’s office.

“What cop?”

“The one following us.”

“You have touching faith in our law-enforcement system,” I said.

She tried a bolt, I kid you not. I’ve had experience with runners a lot trickier than Marcia. I grabbed her in approved cop hold number three and marched her into Mooney’s office.

He actually stopped typing and raised an eyebrow, an expression of great shock for Mooney.

“Citizen’s arrest,” I said.

“Charges?”

“Petty theft. Commission of a felony using a firearm.” I rattled off a few more charges, using the numbers I remembered from cop school.

“This woman is crazy,” Marcia Heidegger said with all the dignity she could muster.

“Search her,” I said. “Get a matron in here. I want my four dollars and eighty-two cents back.”

Mooney looked like he agreed with Marcia’s opinion of my mental state. He said,

“Wait up, Carlotta. You’d have to be able to identify that four dollars and eighty-two cents as yours. Can you do that? Quarters are quarters. Dimes are dimes.”

“One of the coins she took was quite unusual,” I said. “I’m sure I’d be able to identify it.”

“Do you have any objection to displaying the change in your purse?” Mooney said to Marcia. He got me mad the way he said it, like he was humouring an idiot.

“Of course not,” old Marcia said, cool as a frozen daiquiri.

“That’s because she’s stashed it somewhere else, Mooney,” I said patiently. “She used to keep it in her purse, see. But then she goofed. She handed it over to a cabbie in her change. She should have just let it go, but she panicked because it was worth a pile and she was just babysitting it for someone else. So when she got it back, she hid it somewhere. Like in her shoe. Didn’t you ever carry your lucky penny in your shoe?”

“No,” Mooney said. “Now, Miss—“

“Heidegger,” I said clearly. “Marcia Heidegger. She used to work at Harvard Law School.” I wanted to see if Mooney picked up on it, but he didn’t. He went on: “This can be taken care of with a minimum of fuss. If you’ll agree to be searched by—“

“I want to see my lawyer,” she said.

“For four dollars and eighty-two cents?” he said. “It’ll cost you more than that to get your lawyer up here.”

“Do I get my phone call or not?”

Mooney shrugged wearily and wrote up the charge sheet. Called a cop to take her to the phone.

He got Jo Ann, which was good. Under cover of our old-friend-longtime-no-see greetings, I whispered in her ear.

“You’ll find it fifty well spent,” I said to Mooney when we were alone.

Jo Ann came back, shoving Marcia slightly ahead of her. She plunked her prisoner down in one of Mooney’s hard wooden chairs and turned to me, grinning from ear to ear.

“Got it?” I said, “Good for you.”

“What’s going on?” Mooney said.

“She got real clumsy on the way to the pay phone,” Jo Ann said. “Practically fell on the floor. Got up with her right hand clenched tight. When we got to the phone, I offered to drop her dime for her. She wanted to do it herself. I insisted and she got clumsy again. Somehow this coin got kicked clear across the floor.” She held it up. The coin could have been a dime, except the colour was off: warm, rosy gold instead of dead silver. How I missed it the first time around I’ll never know.

“What the hell is that?” Mooney said.

“What kind of coins were in Justin Thayler’s collection?” I asked. “Roman?” Marcia jumped out of the chair, snapped her bag open, and drew out her little .22. I kid you not. She was closest to Mooney and she just stepped up to him and rested it above his left ear. He swallowed, didn’t say a word. I never realised how prominent his Adam’s apple was. Jo Ann froze, hand on her holster.

Good old reliable, methodical Marcia. Why, I said to myself, why pick today of all days to trot your gun out of the freezer? Did you read bad luck in your tarot cards?

Then I had a truly rotten thought. What if she had two guns? What if the disarmed .22

was still staring down the mint chocolate-chip ice cream?

“Give it back,” Marcia said. She held out one hand, made an impatient waving motion.

“Hey, you don’t need it, Marcia,” I said. “You’ve got plenty more. In all those safe deposit boxes.”

“I’m going to count to five—“ she began.

“Were you in on the murder from day one? You know, from the planning stages?” I asked. I kept my voice low, but it echoed off the walls of Mooney’s tiny office. The hum of everyday activity kept going in the main room. Nobody noticed the little gun in the well-dressed lady’s hand. “Or did you just do your beau a favour and hide the loot after he iced his wife? In order to back up his burglary tale? I mean, if Justin Thayler really wanted to marry you, there is such a thing as divorce. Or was old Jennifer the one with the bucks?”

“I want that coin,” she said softly. “Then I want the two of you”—she motioned to Jo Ann and me—“to sit down facing that wall. If you yell, or do anything before I’m out of the building, I’ll shoot this gentleman. He’s coming with me.”

“Come on, Marcia,” I said, “put it down. I mean, look at you. A week ago you just wanted Thayler’s coin back. You didn’t want to rob my cab, right? You just didn’t know how else to get your good luck charm back with no questions asked. You didn’t do it for money, right? You did it for love. You were so straight you threw away the cash. Now here you are with a gun pointed at a cop—“

“Shut up!”

I took a deep breath and said, “You haven’t got the style, Marcia. Your gun’s not even loaded.”

Mooney didn’t relax a hair. Sometimes I think the guy hasn’t ever believed a word I’ve said to him. But Marcia got shook. She pulled the barrel away from Mooney’s skull and peered at it with a puzzled frown. Jo Ann and I both tackled her before she got a chance to pull the trigger. I twisted the gun out ‘of her hand. I was almost afraid to look inside. Mooney stared at me and I felt my mouth go dry and a trickle of sweat worm its way down my back.

I looked.

No bullets. My heart stopped fibrillating, and Mooney actually cracked a smile in my direction.

So that’s all. I sure hope Mooney will spread the word around that I helped him nail Thayler. And I think he will; he’s a fair kind of guy. Maybe it’ll get me a case or two.

Driving a cab is hard on the backside, you know?

SUE GRAFTON (b. 1940)

In the evolution of American detective fiction, the rise of the well-wrought, believable female private eye may be the most important trend of the past twenty years. There can be no doubt about Sue Grafton’s contribution to this development as the creator of Kinsey Millhone, a self-confident, independent, smart divorcee in her thirties whose outlook on life, Grafton says, is patterned after her own. After all, Grafton admits to having turned to mystery writing as a means of getting her aggressions out on the page at a particularly difficult time in her life.

Millhone’s clients—Californians who work for a living—and their problems are also realistic. In her novels, memorably titled after successive letters of the alphabet, Grafton’s sleuth deals with issues that have directly affected the author’s own life. For instance, in
D Is for Deadbeat
Grafton deals with alcoholism, a problem that she knew firsthand as the daughter of two alcoholics. Grafton says that her family was

“classically dysfunctional,” but it was also a household that revered the written word.

Grafton’s father was C. F. Grafton, a lawyer who wrote the classic courtroom novel Beyond a Reasonable Doubt.

It has been said that Grafton’s work takes that of Ross Macdonald into another dimension. As did Macdonald, Grafton lives in Santa Barbara, California. And in homage to Macdonald, Grafton has Kinsey Millhone, like Lew Archer, reside in the fictional Santa Teresa.

Grafton notes that
The Parker Shotgun
grew out of reading that a long-defunct firearms company had made only two copies of a particular model, of which one had been lost. “I know nothing at all about guns, but here was a chance to make the murder weapon also the motive,” Grafton says. The story displays another of the strengths that make her work notable: the minor characters have personalities of their own—something difficult to accomplish in short fiction. And while the reader is more likely to remember the grimness of this dysfunctional family than the detection involved, the doer of the fatal deed is nicely concealed until the end.