Undercurrent

'In a way.'

'That's ironic, isn't it?'

'I guess you could say that.'

'How is she taking his death?'

'Badly.'

'She'll get over it. Women are adaptable creatures.'

'Yeah,' I said. 'Look, Mr. Tarrant, do you know a dark, balding man, about forty, wedge-shaped and heavy- featured? He may be a friend of Brad Winestock's.'

Tarrant frowned thoughtfully. 'No, I don't think so. I haven't seen Winestock in some time-we don't move in the same circles any longer-and I wouldn't know any of his current friends. Why do you ask?'

'Paige met this man shortly before he was killed,' I said. 'The police would like to know who he is and why he had his meeting with Paige.'

'I see.'

I said, 'Well, I won't bother you any longer, Mr. Tarrant. I appreciate your talking to me.'

'Glad to do it,' he said. He got a wallet from the rear pocket of his chinos. 'Let me give you a couple of my business cards, in the event you or your friends are ever in the market for real estate in this area.'

I wanted to tell him it was not likely that I or any present or future friends of mine would ever be in the market for property in Cypress Bay and environs, but I said nothing. I let him give me three small white embossed cards and tucked them away in my own wallet. We shook hands, and he raised his glass to me in a congenial parting and turned away to look down into the canyon as I crossed the terrace to the side railing.

When I reached the top of the cut-out steps, I paused to light a cigarette; then I shook the match out and put it under the cellophane wrapping on the Pall Mall package and started over to my car. Just as I got there, the front door of the house opened and an auburn-haired woman wearing a yellow sundress came outside. She stood for a moment, looking at me uncertainly, and then she came forward and around the car to where I was standing.

She was a few years younger than Tarrant, tall and golden and little-not beautiful, but possessed of a certain intangible beauty nonetheless. A dusting of tiny sepia-colored freckles adorned the bridge of her nose, and she had a wide, mobile mouth and eyes that were very pale except for a violet-blue rim about the irises. The auburn hair was cut semi-long; she wore it waved, with long bangs to partially conceal a high forehead. Her body was strong and nice, and the yellow sundress, low at the bodice and high at the hem, let you see a good deal of it.

She said, 'I'm Bianca Tarrant, Keith's wife,' and smiled in a vague way. Her eyes had the same kind of shine that Tarrant's had had, and you could tell that he had not been drinking alone on this afternoon.

'How are you, Mrs. Tarrant?'

'I was down in the lounge,' she said, 'and I heard part of what you and my husband were talking about- enough to know who you are and why you're here.'

I had nothing to say to that, so I smiled at her and waited politely.

She said, 'Have you any idea who killed Walter Paige?'

'Not at the moment. The police are working on several possibilities.'

'He was a good man,' she said softly. 'He didn't deserve to die the way he did.'

'Did you know him well, Mrs. Tarrant?'

'We were good friends six years ago.'

'Had you seen him since he returned to Cypress Bay?'

'No. No, I hadn't seen him. I didn't know he'd come back.'

'And if you had?' I asked gently.

'What?'

'Would you have liked to see him again?'

'Yes,' she answered, 'yes, I would have liked to see him again.' The pale eyes seemed depthless now. 'I hope you find his killer. I hope you make him pay dearly for his crime.'

She turned before I could say anything else, and walked quickly and somewhat unsteadily back to the house. The door clicked shut after her. I stood there by the car, looking at the closed door and listening to the soft voice of a late-afternoon breeze calling across the rim of the canyon-and thinking again about those deep and black and far- reaching undercurrents.

Eleven

I wedged my car into a parking space on Balboa Street and went over to look at the newsstand Walter Paige had attempted to rent.

It was still unoccupied and there was not much to see. It had a narrow adobe front with a padlock on the door, and an oblong facing window that was partially obscured by soaping and imprinted with the words Martin’s News Agency; there was a sidewalk awning, but it had been rolled back above the door and window. The shop's immediate neighbor to the north was a combination candy store and soda fountain; to the south, a dark and cobblestoned little alley led eastward through the center of the block to Pine Street, and its opposite wall belonged to a curio shop. I was able to look inside the newsstand past the soaped glass, but there was nothing except shadowed emptiness. Apparently the new tenant had not as yet taken possession; or if he had, intended to renovate before moving in fresh stock and opening for business.

I went down the alley a little way, and the newsstand had a side door that showed signs of having been forcibly entered at one time-the vandals Tarrant had mentioned-and which now was also padlocked from the outside. I thought that it would open on a storeroom, since the building was considerably longer than it was wide and the interior I had glimpsed through the window was less than three-quarters of the overall length. The rear wall of the structure was set flush with the rear wall of another building facing on Pine Street; just for the hell of it I went through to Pine and looked at the storefront there, and it was a mod boutique that specialized in hand-tooled leather garments for men and women 'of discerning taste.'

There was nothing in any of this that I could see. Maybe Paige had had the honest intention of opening a small newsstand in Cypress Bay, although that seemed pretty much out of character; or maybe he had had some ulterior motive that I could not even begin to interpret; or maybe Tarrant had been lying about Paige's call for some reason of his own.

More things to wonder about, I thought-too many things. The Lomaxes and the Winestocks and the balding guy and what Russ Dancer had not told me about his relationship with Walter Paige and just what Bianca Tarrant’s relationship had been with Walter Paige and whether or not Keith Tarrant had been completely honest and why Paige had tried to rent a vacant store in downtown Cypress Bay. And Dancer's damned book, The Dead and the Dying, and why Paige had had it and just what it meant, if it meant anything at all…

I returned to Balboa Street and got into my car and started for the City Hall again. But I had to pass near the Bay Head Inn to get there, and I decided it was about time I looked in again on Judith Paige. I felt vaguely guilty about neglecting to check on her since the morning; it was not healthy for her to sit up in that dark room alone, grieving, perhaps brooding, and I wanted to make sure everything was all right.

I parked in front of the place and went inside and up the curving staircase to the second floor. She opened the door herself this time, in response to my knock, and she looked considerably better than she had earlier. She had put a touch of coral lipstick on her mouth and brushed her hair a little, and the wistfulness and the sorrow were tempered with a certain resolve. I felt myself relax, looking at her. She was going to be okay now; you could tell it by her eyes and by the way she carried herself.

I said, 'Hello, Mrs. Paige. I just thought I'd stop by to see how you were feeling.'

'Much better, thank you,' she said, and gave me a small, brave smile.

'Have you been alone here all day?'

'Well, Chief Quartermain came by twice-once this morning, after you left, and once a little while ago.'

'That's good. How about food? Have you eaten?'

'We went for a walk, and he bought me some soup and a sandwich. I didn't think I wanted to go out, or to eat anything, but now I'm glad I did.'