Dead Seed (11 page)

The piece on Morgenstern was written by a writer not given to the usual Hollywood puffery. He was one of the film industry’s most acerbic critics. But in the entire column-and-a-half piece there was not a single deprecating word about his subject. Morgenstern’s charities had been extensive, his loyalty to no-longer-marketable entertainers had been unique in his profession.

“I’m surprised that he survived in Hollywood,” Jan said.

If he had stayed there he would still be alive. Loyalty had cost him his life.

The home of Mrs. Adelaide Baylor was not far from our place, about a block beyond the city limits. It was a small redwood house, stained gray, what the local realtors call a Cape Cod cottage.

She was out in front of her house, pruning the juniper shrubs that bordered her driveway. She was a thin and angular woman, wearing faded jeans and a man’s shirt.

I identified myself as a neighbor and the friend of a man who had a daughter at The New Awareness. I said, “I understand that you work with Mr. Kelly.”

She shook her head. “Not since a week ago last Friday. I worked out my bill to him.”

She must have read the puzzlement on my face. “My nephew was up there,” she explained. “My brother couldn’t afford to pay Mr. Kelly’s fee, so we arranged that I do some work for him as payment.”

“Would you recommend that my friend go to him for help?”

She frowned, started to say something—then shrugged.

“I’ve done some checking on his background,” I told her. “Did you know that he was fired from the San Valdesto Police Department?”

She nodded. “I learned that only two weeks ago.”

I was silent for a moment, hesitating to ask. But I did. “Would it be a violation of your relationship with those young people to tell me something about the approach you used in deprogramming them?”

“Not as long as I don’t reveal their names. Actually, it was more sociological with them than psychological. I also have a degree in sociology. Very few of them were involved in drugs stronger than marijuana. Nicotine will kill you quicker than marijuana. It was the family relationships mainly. Upper-middle-class parents who smoke and drink and indulge in extramarital relationships are hardly admirable examples for their children.” She shook her head. “And some of the strictest parents were the worst offenders.”

“So you would have to work with the parents, too?”

She nodded. “And in many of the cases it was a successful approach. With those young people too far gone, too far beyond my skills, I convinced the parents to seek more qualified practitioners.” She paused, staring past me. “And there were those, of course, beyond
any
help.”

“Has Mr. Kelly replaced you with another psychologist?”

“I don’t know. I doubt it. He mentioned doing his own deprogramming when I left. Dear God—!”

“He’s not qualified, of course.”

“Not remotely. You know, when I was working with him, I kept telling myself that he was the lesser of two evils. I’m not so sure about it now.”

I told her, “I’ve heard some rumors in my investigation that makes me suspect that he could be working with Sarkissian, that they might be sharing the recovery fee.”

“I never heard that.” She frowned. “But looking back on it now, it could be true. I was often surprised at how easily he managed to get into the cult and out again.”

“And your nephew? How is he doing now?”

“Well enough. He’s going to school up at Berkeley and getting good grades. This is not a comfortable world, Mr. Callahan, for sensitive young people today.”

“Or sensible older people,” I said. “Thank you, Mrs. Baylor.”

I phoned Vogel when I got home and told him that I had learned nothing that would help us.

“Ketchum’s our best bet,” he said. “And maybe Mrs. Lacrosse.”

“That’s a hard rock to crack. What’s your wedge?”

“She came to us first, didn’t she? She came to us before she went to Kelly. She could be disenchanted with Kelly by now.”

“How about Kelly’s friend down there?” I asked. “Have you talked with him?”

“I had no reason to. I’d only alert him. I’m going to have another little chat with Mrs. Lacrosse.”

“Be sure to use your world-famous tact,” I told him. “Is there any place you want me to go?”

“Not right now, but keep in touch.”

“Yes, sir!” I said.

Rest in peace, Sydney Morgenstern; the lieutenant has other fish to fry. I tried to console myself with the hope that if we could get enough solid evidence to pressure Kelly, we could work out a deal with him to tell us more about Mrs. Lacrosse than we would ever learn from the pair next door. But Bernie would never make any deal that would get Kelly off the hook.

It all seemed to have started with Mrs. Lacrosse. If she hadn’t come to town, Morgenstern wouldn’t have come to town, nor would the lovers have left. Kelly had been brought into it only by chance, only because Joel had deserted his mother.

Kelly, I was sure, didn’t do charity work. I didn’t know how much that camera had sold for, but not nearly its true worth if it had been a distress sale. If Kelly had learned about the private message Morgenstern had brought to town, he might have declared himself in on the big loot Mrs. Lacrosse had gathered.

Dark clouds were drifting in from the ocean. I had planned an afternoon of leisure on the links, but the rain began to fall a few minutes before noon.

The weary, repetitive round of questioning had been depressing enough; sitting in the house and watching the rain fall was more so. We needed this rain, I told myself sternly. God doesn’t arrange the weather to suit
your
convenience.

We had picked up a few facts. I had some patterns in my mind. But how to test the patterns and solidify them into facts? We couldn’t take patterns into court.

Vogel phoned around three o’clock. “I did learn one thing from the Lacrosse woman,” he told me. “She said she was staying in town to get her son back. She has the money now, she said, to send him to college.”

“She admitted she blackmailed Miss Medford?”

“Hell, no. When I asked her where she got the money she told me to phone her lawyer.”

“Who is an expensive attorney,” I guessed, “and also one of Miss Medford’s attorneys.”

“He is.”

“Maybe,” I suggested, “you could get more out of her barefoot cousin.”

“Not unless I go to Arizona. He went home this morning. All we have is Gus Ketchum. Let’s hope he’s ready to turn honest.”

“We’ll hold our thumbs,” I said.

We didn’t have to hold them long. Gus phoned about an hour later. “I’m ready,” he said. “That purple foot bawled me out again this morning.”

“Why?”

“Some fink told him I was talking to you at the Alamo Cafe. You want me to tell your friend Vogel what I know?”

“Not yet. Let’s get you a job first. Give me your phone number.”

My second call was the lucky one, to a twenty-six-handicapper who was president of San Valdesto Electronics. His firm had two openings for experienced security guards, one on the eight-to-four day shift, one from four to midnight.

“He drinks a little,” I said, “and plays the ponies.”

“So do I. Tell him to ask for me.”

When I relayed the message to Gus, he said, “I got enough for your cop friend to take into court. Should I take it to him at the station tomorrow?”

“He doesn’t work tomorrow. Call him tonight after five o’clock.” I gave him Bernie’s home phone number. “He’ll want to consult with the district attorney before he decides if he has enough.”

Bernie must have talked with the DA after Gus phoned him. He called me at eight-thirty to tell me he had a strong enough case now. Gus had given him the name of another disgruntled former employee who would testify about the Sarkissian-Kelly profit-sharing plan. Bernie was happy.

But Sydney Morgenstern was dead. And so was Juan Garcia.

If Kelly had shared in the Morgenstern secret and the Carol Medford payoff, which was not unlikely, my approach would have been different. Kelly could act as informer and get immunity for his testimony. But there was no way I could ever sell that to Bernie.

He had the man he wanted. He could convince himself that Morgenstern probably had been killed by a mugger. All the possible suspects in the case had been questioned. As he had said, we had no place to go and no way to get there.

But the seed of this tangled growth had not been planted in San Valdesto. It had crept from Skeleton Gulch like a malignant vine and flowered here. If there were any answers left in this case, they would be in Skeleton Gulch. And so would Alvin Chitty. I had a place to go.

“Arizona?” Jan asked. “Why Arizona?”

“ Because Morgenstern is dead,” I said.

I
HAVE NEVER FULLY ACCEPTED
Bernoulli’s principle, on which air flight is based. The two-engine prop plane that took me and eleven other passengers from San Valdesto to Los Angeles reaffirmed my lifelong belief in the dominance of gravity. I won’t name the company; the local residents refer to it as Humpty-Dumpty Airlines. It was a rocky ride, tight seat belt all the way.

The jet plane from Los Angeles to Phoenix was less scary; they had booze on board. The day was sunny. The glimmering desert far below was dotted with small settlements, peopled by nature lovers, immigrants with respiratory problems, and loners.

A mist lay over Phoenix. The naturally dry desert air was now being clouded by the lawn, garden, and agricultural watering of its more than half a million inhabitants.

Cochise Airlines from Phoenix to Prescott was a big step up from the plane I had taken from San Valdesto. Jerry Holland was waiting for me at the Prescott airport.

Jerry had been my Sigma Nu roomie at Stanford. I had introduced him to the girl who would become his wife. She had been my first true love—until she met Jerry.

“Welcome to God’s country,” he said. “You should watch your weight, Brock.”

Jerry was a health nut, one reason he lived in Prescott. “My weight,” I told him stiffly, “was never a problem until you made me quit smoking. Where’s my former sweetheart?”

“At home, preparing a gourmet dinner for you. I reminded her that your idea of gourmet was an overdone cheeseburger, but she still harbors romantic illusions about her gridiron hero.”

“Take me to the motel first,” I said, “so I can check in.”

“Don’t be silly! You’re staying with us.”

“Jerry, I’m here on business. I’ll be in and out all the time, including nights and—”

“You told me that on the phone,” he interrupted. “That’s why we prettied up the guest house for you. Let’s get your luggage.”

The clean air of mile-high Prescott was tinted with the aromatic tang of the tall ponderosa pines bordering the narrow road that led out of town to the Holland horse ranch.

“It must get cold here in winter,” I said.

“Never too cold. I call it crisp. How are things in cuckoo land?”

“They were calm until those Arizona rednecks came to town. Do you know anything about the Chittys?”

“They’re all over the county, like lice. We pronounce the name differently. The woman who married Carl Lacrosse was a Chitty. Even you must know that name.”

“Of course,” I said. “I’m not as dumb as you think I am.”

He laughed. “Buddy! I have never considered you dumb. Illiterate, maybe, but never dumb!” A pause. “You finally got married. You finally got over my Lydia.”

“‘That was in another country,’” I said.

“‘And besides, the wench is dead,’” he finished for me. “When did you start reading above the
Sporting News
level?”

“When you started to court Lydia. I’ve met Mrs. Lacrosse. What did he see in her?”

“I heard she was one beautiful, buxom lass when she was young. She lost the beauty and got overbuxom. Lacrosse is a loner.”

“You know him?”

“I talked with him a couple of times, years ago, before he stopped going to parties. He is a lousy father.”

“Who gave his kid a three-thousand-dollar camera for his last birthday.”

“No. That was Morgenstern’s story when he gave Joel the camera. His father wasn’t even here this year. Is that why you’re here, because Morgenstern was killed?”

I stared at him. “Do you know Morgenstern?”

He shook his head. “But I know the man who bought the camera from Joel. He gave him eight hundred dollars for it.” He shook his head. “For a Hasselblad, yet!”

“I know. A 2000 FC. Nice little package.”

He laughed again. “You have certainly changed.”

“I matured. I want to meet this man.”

“Tomorrow,” he said. “Tonight we eat and drink and remember our youth.”

The Holland ranch house was built into a slope overlooking a valley. It was about three thousand square feet of concrete-block walls, stained light green, with a green tile roof that blended into the pines that surrounded it. My Lydia was waiting on a redwood front deck that extended the width of the house and cantilevered over the valley.

“My hero,” she said, as she hugged me, “my first love. Why didn’t you tell me then that you were going to get rich?”

She was still tall, still slim, still lovely. The sudden stirring in me died when the image of Jan appeared in my mind. Jan was frowning. I said, “You married the right man. You wouldn’t have been happy married to a dumb jock.”

“He’s not dumb any more,” Jerry said. “He was quoting Christopher Marlowe on the way up here. From
The Jew of Malta.
”

“From
Bartlett’s Quotations
,” I confessed to her. “I could always con Jerry. Don’t be blue. I found my own Lydia.”

It was nostalgia time in Prescott. On the deck overlooking the valley we drank bourbon and branch water and watched the sun go down and remembered our youth. But Mr. Wolfe was right; you can’t go home again. Not even 101-proof Wild Turkey can bring back yesterday.

Lydia had not forgotten my plebeian taste. No gourmet meal tonight. Her Irish stew ranked right up there with Mrs. Casey’s. And she was unpretentious enough to avoid destroying the lingering warmth of vintage American corn with sissy frog juice. No wine, foreign or domestic, was served with dinner.

After dinner, Jerry filled me in with what he knew about the residents of Skeleton Gulch. It was mostly hearsay. His only friend there was a man named Wendell Welch. Like Jerry, he bred, trained, sold, and traded quarter horses; it was their only bond of interest.