bus zone-legal parking in that area after five o’clock is next to impossible-and went into the building vestibule to look at the mailboxes.
Ozimas, I discovered, had the twenty-first and top floor all to himself-the penthouse, no less. The penthouse in a building like this had to go for at least three-quarters of a million. Some Alex Ozimas. Or Alejandro Ozimas, as he was listed on the brass nameplate above his mailbox.
But I was going to have to wait to get a look at him. I rang his bell three times, the last time for a good fifteen seconds, and nobody answered. Which figured. It had been that kind of day.
Chapter Nine
I made one business call when I got home. The maid or housekeeper at the Moss Beach house had told me Alicia Purcell would be back “after five”; it was after six when I hauled the phone out of the bedroom on its long cord, sat down with it on the living room couch, and rang up the Purcell number. A different woman answered this time: the servant apparently didn’t live in and was gone for the day. When I asked for Mrs. Purcell the voice said, “Yes? This is Alicia Purcell.”
I identified myself and my profession and said that I was investigating the death of her brother-in-law.
There was a pause. Then she said, “May I ask who is employing you?”
“Tom Washburn.”
“Oh, I see. Well, I don’t know how I can help you. I hadn’t seen Leonard for at least two months before he was… before he died. I told that to the police.”
“Yes, ma’am. But I’m following a particular line of inquiry, at Mr. Washburn’s request. I wonder if I could-”
“What line of inquiry is that?”
“That there is a connection between what happened to your husband and Leonard’s murder. That maybe your husband’s death wasn’t an accident after all.”
Silence for about five seconds. “That’s absurd,” she said finally.
“Maybe so. Mr. Washburn doesn’t think so.”
“There is no basis for such a supposition. None at all except for a ghastly coincidence-two brothers dying under tragic circumstances six months apart.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said patiently. “But Mr. Washburn wants the possibility checked out. I’d appreciate it if I could count on your cooperation.”
“I’ve already told you, the idea is preposterous. There is nothing I can do for you.”
“Well, that’s not quite true. I have some questions-a few details you might help me clear up. If you wouldn’t mind I’d like to stop by sometime tomorrow-”
“Can’t you ask your questions now?”
“I’d prefer to ask them in person, Mrs. Purcell.” I also wanted a look at the house and grounds, but I wasn’t about to tell her that over the phone. “What time would be convenient for you?”
More silence. It could go either way; if she told me to go diddle myself, there wasn’t much I could do about it. But she didn’t tell me to go diddle myself. After about ten seconds she said in a wintry voice, “Oh, all right. I’ll be here all morning. Come when you like.”
“Thank you. Could you tell me how to get to your house?”
“Are you familiar with Moss Beach?”
“A little.”
“I live on the hill next to the Marine Reserve.”
“The beach with the tidepools?”
“Yes. You have the address, I suppose?”
She gave me just enough time to say, “Yes,” before she hung up on me.
The Purcells were some family. I wondered if Kenneth’s widow was going to be as unpleasant in person as his daughter had been. Could be. If my luck was running good, though, she wouldn’t have her own version of Richie Dessault to make things even more unpleasant.
I took the phone back into the bedroom and myself into the kitchen. There were some packaged chicken parts in the refrigerator-I’ d taken them out of the freezer that morning-and a couple of zucchini that weren’t too fresh but not shriveled up so badly you wouldn’t want to eat them. I opened a can of Bud Light, then put the chicken on a broiler pan and sprinkled some spices on each piece. Then I cut the zucchini in half lengthwise, scooped out the innards of each half to form little green-and-white boats, and filled them up with grated parmesan cheese and a couple of dabs of margarine. Not exactly a gourmet feast, but Kerry wouldn’t mind; she didn’t care that I was not the culinary type. If she had wanted gourmet cooking she would have taken up with a male equivalent of Julia Child.
I put the chicken in the oven to broil, took my beer into the living room, and picked up the 1939 copy of Popular Detective that I had started reading last night. Popular had not been a top-of-the-line pulp, but occasionally you found an issue that contained a diamond in the rough-a “Diamondstone” in the rough, in this case, that being the name of a suave, wealthy magician sleuth created by one of the better pulpsters, G. T. Fleming-Roberts. The Diamondstone story in this issue, “Three Wise Apes,” was pretty good and I got absorbed in it-so absorbed that I almost forgot about the chicken. I remembered just in time to hurry in and turn the pieces over before they started to burn.
The kitchen clock said 7:20, which startled me somewhat; I hadn’t realized it was that late. I might have begun worrying about Kerry-she was supposed to have gotten there at 6:30-except that I had no sooner gone back into the living room when I heard her key in the lock. She came in looking windblown and wilted at the edges, and trailing wine fumes. She wasn’t drunk, but then again she wasn’t quite sober either. Which started me worrying in a different direction, because she seemed to be drinking a good deal lately: white wine, for the most part, not that that made me any less concerned. The pressures of her job, she said, but I wondered if maybe that was turning into a convenient excuse.
Ray Dunston had provided her with another good excuse for boozing it up tonight. The first thing she said was, “He came by the agency this morning. Ray. Right after he left your office.”
“You talk to him?”
“No. But Donna-the receptionist-said he seemed weird. He left his card and asked her to have me call him.”
“Did you?”
“God, no.”
She shrugged out of her trenchcoat and sank down on the couch next to me. A big curl of her copper-colored hair hung over one eye; the rest of it had been roughed up by the wind. Some other time I would have felt like putting my hands all over her. Not right now, though.
I said, “Cop friend of Eberhardt’s checked up on the Church of the Holy Mission and the Moral Crusade,” and went on to tell her what Eb had told me.
She didn’t interrupt or offer any comments; she just sat there looking pained. When I was done she laid her head back, exposing the slim white column of her throat, and closed her eyes and said, “Oh Lord, what am I going to do?”
“What are we going to do, you mean.”
“All right, we.”
“He showed up on my doorstep this morning, remember?”
“I said all right.”
“And getting looped isn’t going to help, you know.”
She opened one eye. “I’m not looped.”
“Close to it.”
“Nonsense. You’re not going to start in on me, are you?”
I didn’t say anything.
“I only had four glasses of wine,” she said.
