Part 5 (1/2)
”He had me go back in there and see her,” she said. ”I thought there was some mistake. Her face wasn't the right shape even. She looked like she was made of wax. He showed me how the inside of the casket is all quilted, the kind he was selling me. Would he have really had it burned up, or would he have saved it for the next person?”
”I think B.J. would have it burned up.”
The lower angle of the sun had stretched casuarina shadows across our two bright little cars. Before she unlocked the Datsun she turned to face me and said, ”About that money in there, I'll be able to...”
”It was your money.”
”What do you mean?”
”I owed it to Carrie.”
”Is that true? Is that really true?”
”Really true.”
”How much did you owe her?”
”It's a long story.”
”Well, I'd like to know.”
”She told you to trust me.”
”Yes...?”
”Trust me not to tell you now, and trust me to have good reasons not to tell you. Okay?”
She looked at me for a long moment and then slowly nodded. ”Okay, Mr. McGee.” Her hair was long, and a couple of shades darker than Carrie's cropped silvery mop. The face was as round as Carrie's, the cheekbones high and heavy, but her eyes had more of a Slavic tilt, and their color was a seagreen-gray.
I made her try calling me Trav, and after three times it came easier and she smiled.
”How long are you going to stay?”
”Well, I guess until the lawyer says it's okay to go back to New Jersey. I've got to sort out all her stuff in that apartment. It's in a terrible mess. Somebody broke in and tore up the furniture and rugs and emptied everything out on the floor.”
”When did this happen?”
”So much is happening, I'm getting confused on the dates. She was killed Wednesday night. Betty Joller was in bed and heard it on the eleven o'clock news. Betty, being her best friend, got dressed and drove to the apartment figuring my phone number would be in Carrie's phone index someplace, and I should be told. Betty has a key to the apartment that Carrie gave her. Betty got to the apartment about midnight and found it all in such a mess it took her a half hour to find my phone number. She was crying so hard I couldn't understand what she was trying to tell me. And when she did... wow, it was like the sky falling down. Carrie was seven years older, and I saw her just once in the last six years, when she came back to Nutley five years ago for our mother's funeral. I had no idea it would hit me so hard. I guess it's because she was the only close family I had left. There's some cousins I've never seen since I was a baby.”
”Did Betty Joller report it to the police?”
”I don't really know. I guess she would have. I mean it would be a normal thing to tell the police about it. I told the lawyer about it, and he asked me if there was any specific thing we could report as being taken in the robbery, and I said maybe Betty could figure out what was missing, that I wouldn't know.”
”Who's your lawyer?”
”He's a good friend of a girl that lives at 28 Mangrove Lane. I keep forgetting his name. But I've got his card here. Here. Frederick Van Harn. He just has to straighten out about the will and the car and all that. I guess it will be okay because he is the one who drew up the will for her. After she broke up with Ben she wanted to be sure he didn't get a dime that was hers if anything happened to her. Ben was at the funeral too, five years ago, but I can't remember him at all.” She looked at her watch. ”Hey I've got to get going. Betty is coming over to the inn, and we're going to work it all out about tomorrow. You're coming, aren't you?”
”Of course.”
She drove away and I drove back to Westway Harbor.
Six.
I PARKED my rental in one of the reserved slots. As I walked past the office toward the docks, Cindy Birdsong came to the door and said, ”Can I speak to you a moment, Mr. McGee?”
”Of course.”
She had changed to a white sunback dress, and she wore heels, which put her over the sixfoot line. A big brown lady with great shoulders and other solid and healthy accessories... And a mighty cool blue eye, and a lot of composure and pride.
”I want to apologize to you for the trouble my husband gave you this noon. I am very sorry it happened.”
”It's perfectly all right, Mrs. Birdsong.”
”It's not all right. It was a very ugly scene. If they release him on bail, I am sure he will want to apologize personally. I'm going to visit him this evening in the hospital, and I know he will be very ashamed of himself.”
”He had a few over the limit.”
”A few! He was pig drunk. He never used to get like... well, I shouldn't burden you with our personal history. Thank you for giving me the time. If there is anything you need we are... always anxious to serve our customers. Oh, and I meant to thank you for not signing a complaint.” Her smile was inverted and bitter. ”There are enough of those to go around as it is.”
”If there's any way I can help...”
She blinked rapidly. ”Thank you very much. Very much.”
Meyer was aboard the Busted Flush, dressing after having just gotten back from taking a sh.o.r.eside shower. I broke open a pair of cold beers and took him one and sat on the guest stateroom bed and watched him put on a fresh white guayabera.
”Fifteen Hundred Seaway's one of those bachelor boys and girls places,” Meyer said. ”Everybody seems to laugh a lot. It's very depressing. Eighty small apartments. There's a kind of... watchful anxiety about those people. It's as if they're all in spring training, trying out for the team, all trying to hit the long ball, trying to be a star. And in a sense, they're all in training. They're pretty trim and brown. Very mod in the clothes and hair departments. They're all delighted that there's a long waiting list for Fifteen Hundred. Pools and saunas and a gym... Four-channel sound systems. Health fads. Copper bracelets. The Joy of s.e.x on each and every coffee table, I would guess. Water beds, biofeedback machines. There doesn't seem to be any kind of murky kinky flavor about them. No group perversion scenes. Just a terrible urgency about finding and maintaining an o.r.g.a.s.m batting average acceptable to the peer group. Their environment is making terrible demands upon them. I bet their consumption of vitamins and health foods is extraordinary.”
We went up onto the sun deck and sat in the shade of the big canopy over the topside controls. ”It doesn't sound like the kind of place where Carrie would want to live.”
”No. It doesn't. It isn't. I didn't say why I was asking about her. I imagine they a.s.sumed I'm some kind of relative of hers. There was a coolness toward her. They thought she was standoffish, too much of a private person. She didn't get into the swing of things. I guess the pun is intentional.”
”An outcast in Swingleville, eh?”
”Not exactly. More like a special friend of the management. The management is Walter J. Demos. He owns it and manages it and is sort of a den mother to all. He lives there, in the biggest apartment. He personally approves or disapproves of every applicant. He won't accept tenants who are too young or too old. He settles quarrels and disputes. He collects the rents, repairs plumbing, plants flowers, and he laughs a lot.”
”How old a man?”
”I wouldn't want to guess. He looks like a broader, browner version of Kojak. He has a deep voice and a huge laugh. He is a very charming and likable man. He is very popular with his tenants. He is Uncle Walter. I think Uncle Walter is a smart businessman. The rents start at three hundred and seventy-five a month, and his occupancy rate is one hundred percent. By the way, he told me about Carrie's apartment being burglarized the same night she-”
”I heard about it. Was the door forced?”
”No. The layout is arranged for maximum privacy. If you go from your apartment to visit somebody, there's very little chance of your being seen. And it seems to be local custom to have a batch of keys made and hand them out to your friends.”
”How long had she lived there?”
”Four months only. I picked up the rumor that Uncle Walter had moved her to the top of the list. They all seemed miffed about it. Jealous, almost. They don't want Uncle Walter to have a special girl.”