isn’t it? “Evidently your husband has a buyer or two lined up for some of the pieces,” I said. “I suppose it depends on whether or not he’s been paid.”
“What does?”
“Whether or not he’s paid Mrs. Purcell.”
“Yes,” she said, “yes, I suppose so.”
“I’d be interested to know who those buyers are. And which pieces they’re buying.”
Silence again.
I said, still pushing her, “I understand from Mrs. Purcell that she and your husband are close friends. Have they known each other long?”
More silence.
“Mrs. Summerhayes?”
“Go away,” she said abruptly.
“Ma’am?”
“You heard me. I have nothing more to say to you.”
“All right, we won’t discuss your husband. Suppose we talk about Danny Martinez instead.”
Blank stare. “Who?”
“Mexican fellow who delivers for one of the markets in Moss Beach. He was at the Purcell house the night Kenneth died.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” she said. “Go away. Will you please go away?”
“Just a few more questions-”
“Go away!”
She half yelled it this time-and then, contrarily, she went away herself, without waiting to see what I would do. I watched her come out from behind the counter in a stiff, angry stride, cross to the office door, open it, and disappear inside. She didn’t slam it behind her; she was not the door-slamming type. But I had the feeling that if I went over there and tried the knob I would find she had locked herself in.
I went out to the street instead, not liking myself too much at the moment. Hurting people is a thing you have to do sometimes, to get at the truth of something, to ease a greater hurt or right a serious wrong. But it’s never easy and never pleasant, no matter who the person happens to be. And I had nothing against Elisabeth Summerhayes; as far as I could tell, her only major flaw was that she allowed herself to remain married to an asshole.
So I had hurt her for a purpose, and maybe it would help me get at the truth. Heating and stirring things up usually made something happen. If I was lucky, it wouldn’t all blow up in my face.
Chapter Fifteen
The telephone was ringing when I let myself into my flat. I thought it might be Kerry, even though she had a dinner date tonight with one of her lady friends, so I made a run for the bedroom and hauled up the receiver in the middle of another ring.
But it wasn’t Kerry; surprisingly enough, the caller was Alicia Purcell. “I hope you don’t mind my calling you at home,” she said. “But I tried your office and I don’t particularly like talking to answering machines.”
“Quite all right. What can I do for you?”
“Well, I’ve been thinking about this morning… the way our interview ended. I’ve decided I behaved rather badly.”
“Maybe we both did,” I said.
“Yes, maybe. But I don’t want you to have the wrong impression of me. If there’s any chance at all of a connection between Leonard’s murder and Kenneth’s death I really would like to help.”
“I appreciate that, Mrs. Purcell.”
“Won’t you call me Alicia? I don’t care for formality.”
“If you like.”
“I thought… well, I plan to be home this evening and I thought that if you have any more questions, and if you’re not busy, you might like to come by for another talk. I promise to be much more cooperative this time.”
Uh-huh, I thought cynically, I’ll just bet. She might be sincere, of course, but more likely she was after something-and my flabby middle-aged body wasn’t it. Probably looking to find out what I’d found out so far, for whatever reason, and going about it in the way she knew best. What was it her stepdaughter had called her? A collector of men? Not this man, lady. Even if I was the type to play games, which I wasn’t, I was too old and too jungle-wise to become another hide in a female hunter’s trophy case. I also didn’t happen to believe in sex on the barter system-the old you-pump-me-for-information-and-then-I-pump-you tradeoff. And if all of that wasn’t enough, the woman did nothing whatsoever for me physically. The thought of spending an intimate evening with her, of her maybe biting my neck with that bloody red mouth of hers, gave me a case of the shudders.
I said, “Thanks for the offer, Mrs. Purcell, but I’ve made other plans for the evening.”
“Alicia,” she said. “You’re sure you couldn’t break them?”
“Positive. My fiancee wouldn’t like it.”
“Oh, I see. Perhaps another time, then.”
“If it becomes necessary. I do have a few questions I could ask you now, though, since you’re eager to help.”
There was a pause. I imagined her gritting her teeth, holding herself in check-a nice little fantasy image, true or not. But she had left herself wide open for this and there wasn’t any way for her to refuse me without making herself look bad.
When she came to the same conclusion she said, “Go right ahead.”
“Do you know a man named Danny Martinez?”
“Who?”
“Danny Martinez. A former deliveryman for Cabrillo Market.”
“Hardly. Lina takes care of deliveries. Why are you asking me about a deliveryman?”
“He was at your house the night of the party. He made a delivery at about the time your husband disappeared.”
“Yes?”
“He’s the man who contacted Leonard two weeks ago. The man who claimed your husband was murdered.”
“I see. Have you talked to him, then?”
“Not yet. He disappeared a couple of weeks ago.”
“Disappeared?”
“Packed up his belongings and left the area-probably for Mexico. The authorities are looking for him now.”
“You’ve told the police about him?”
“Any reason I shouldn’t have?”
“No, of course not. Have you uncovered any other proof Kenneth was murdered?”
“I’m working on it,” I said.
“I still find the idea incredible. If it’s true, I can’t imagine who could have done it.”
“I’m working on that, too.”
“Do you suspect someone?”
“No one specifically. Not just yet.”
“Do you think the same person murdered Leonard?”
“That’s the way it looks.”
“Will you let me know if you find out anything else? I’m very concerned about this, naturally.”
“Naturally. You’ll be one of the first to know.”
“Thank you,” she said. “Good night.”
“Good night, Mrs. Purcell.”
