“I’m sure I don’t know. Why do you ask about her?”
“Curiosity again. Did you know your husband got quite a few pieces in the collection from Alex Ozimas?”
The abrupt shift from Summerhayes to Margaret Prine hadn’t phased her; neither did the one from Prine to Ozimas. She said, “Yes, I knew that.”
“The Hainelin box was one of them,” I said.
“Was it? He didn’t mention where he’d got it, just that it had been a bargain. Kenneth could be close- mouthed at times.”
“Also about his business dealings?”
“Yes.”
“What sort of business did your husband and Ozimas transact together? Other than antique art, I mean.”
“Something to do with real estate. I was never particularly interested in the details of Kenneth’s business.”
Nothing changed in her expression as she spoke, but I sensed she was lying. She knew exactly the sort of quasi-legal dealings her husband had been involved in-and hadn’t given a damn as long as the money kept rolling in.
I asked her, “How well do you know Ozimas?”
“Not well at all.”
“I spoke to him earlier today. He indicated otherwise.”
“Did he?”
“He said you propositioned him once. At his penthouse.”
Her smile, this time, was sardonic. “I’m not surprised,” she said.
“Not surprised at what?”
“That he would tell you a thing like that.”
“Then it isn’t true?”
“Of course it isn’t true. A man like Alex? Good God, I hope I never have to stoop that low!”
“Why would he lie, Mrs. Purcell?”
“Vanity. Ego. He considers himself irresistible to men and women both, no matter what he might say to the contrary. He’s really a disgusting little shit.”
“Unlike Eldon Summerhayes?” I said.
The eyebrow formed another arch. “What does that mean? Are you asking if I’ve had an affair with Eldon?”
“Have you?”
“If I have it’s none of your concern. My sex life and partners are my business, no one else’s.”
“Ozimas says differently. So does your stepdaughter.”
“Oh, I see, you’ve talked to her, too.” The coldness of last night was back in her voice; I had pushed her just a little too far. “Well, my stepdaughter is a selfish, nasty-minded little drug freak, and if you talk to her again you can tell her I said so.” She got to her feet and smoothed her skirt down over her thighs. “End of interview,” she said. “I have nothing more to say to you and I’ve things to do. Please show yourself out.”
I stood too. “If you don’t mind, Mrs. Purcell, I’d like to take a look at where the accident happened.”
“Go right ahead,” she said icily. “Stay there as long as you like. Once you leave you won’t be allowed back on my property again. Good morning.”
I watched her walk out of the room. Funny thing about sexy women like her: their hips hardly sway at all when they’re angry. When she was gone I went to the sliding glass doors and let myself out that way. A short distance beyond the side porch, I could see the path angling away through the woods. I pointed myself in that direction.
Some Alicia Purcell, I was thinking. I just didn’t know what to make of her. On the surface she had been open and frank with me about everything including her sexual freedom and her greed-a product of the permissive eighties, straightforward and up-front all the way. And yet there was something secretive and calculating about her, a kind of feral cunning that belied her candor and her casual seductiveness. Maybe she was both types of woman at once: one of those complex personalities made up of conflicting elements. I couldn’t shake the feeling that there were things she had concealed from me, but it could be that those things had nothing to do with her husband’s death or the murder of his brother.
I simply could not get a proper handle on her. And it bothered me, made me uneasy, that I couldn’t.
Chapter Twelve
The path leading out to the cliffs was fairly wide, full of jogs, and littered with twigs and pine needles. The fir and cypress trees that hemmed it in grew close together, their branches interlacing high overhead to shut out all but random shafts of sunlight. It was gloomy enough now, during the day; at night it would be a vault of blackness. You’d have to know the path pretty well to want to come out here after dark. And even then-and especially if you’d been drinking heavily-you would have to be a damned fool to do it.
After eighty or ninety yards the path curved and the trees thinned out, letting me see a patch of barren, sunlit ground and the ocean stretching away beyond. Another dozen yards and I was out of the trees, onto the barren patch. But I didn’t stay on it for long; it was no more than ten yards wide and the edge of the cliff was right there, no guard rail or any other protective barrier, just a more or less sheer drop-off. My stomach did a little flip-flop-I’ve never dealt well with heights-and I scooted sideways to where a gnarled old cypress grew from the cliff wall, bent backward by the force of high winds so that some of its branches extended well inland from the edge. I caught hold of one of the larger branches and hung on.
The view from up here was impressive, if you liked that sort of high-lonesome perspective. To the south a slender, white-sand beach curved into a jutting peninsula a quarter of a mile away; a couple of houses had been built on high ground along the beach and a third was perched on the tip of the peninsula. To the north there was another, much longer stretch of beach and the Marine Reserve’s tidepools; I could see half a dozen people wandering among the low rocks, peering at the sea creatures that lived among their ribs and hollows. And down below, a hundred feet from where I stood, there was maybe twenty yards of sand and at the base of the cliff, a jumble of big jagged rocks. The tide was out now; when it was in, as it apparently had been on the night Kenneth took his dive into eternity, the beach would be covered and the surf would boil up over those rocks with considerable force. Even if he’d survived the fall itself, he’d have had nowhere to go. And the sea would have battered him to death within minutes.
Looking down at the rocks made me shiver involuntarily and take a tighter grip on the cypress branch. I transferred my attention to the cliff wall. It was eroded sandstone and not completely sheer; there were little outcroppings out there, a ledge farther down with one live stunted cypress growing on it and the bony sun-bleached skeletons of a couple of others: a deadfall. If Kenneth had fallen over that way, he might have survived. But he must have fallen instead from the middle of the open patch of ground, straight down onto the rocks.
You’d have to have a death wish, I thought, to stand out on this cliff on a dark, windy night. Or be so liquored up your judgment was impaired and you were oblivious to the danger. Kenneth’s death could easily enough have been an accident; you couldn’t fault the local authorities for calling it that way.
There were kelp beds lying offshore and the smell of them was strong on the cool air. Ordinarily I don’t mind the odor of kelp; but now it only added to my feeling of discomfort. I decided I had had enough of the cliffs, thank you. I let go of the branch and backed away to the inner edge of the clearing. Briefly I thought of prowling around a little, checking the ground under the trees. But if there had been anything unusual to find, the San Mateo County cops would already have found it. Or else it had been removed before they were able to search the area. I turned onto the path and made my way back through the trees.
When I got to the house there was no sign of Alicia Purcell, but over under the side portico the housekeeper was wrestling with the lid on a big metal garbage can. I walked over and put on one of my best smiles for the lady.
“Help you with that?”
