Dead Seed (19 page)

“I’m helping with it. Come in.”

He sat on a couch in the living room. I sat in a nearby chair. He said, “I read about Mr. Morgenstern’s death when I was in Tacoma. I phoned the funeral home here, but the man told me there would be no funeral.”

“There wasn’t. He was cremated here and his ashes sent back to Brooklyn, where he grew up. Was he a close friend?”

“He was. He was almost family. That house next door, is that where Grange is living?”

I nodded. “Shall I call him over?”

“I don’t want any part of that son of a bitch,” he said.

“Even if he is your father?”

His face showed no surprise. “She told you, didn’t she? My wife told you.”

I shook my head.

“I didn’t even know it until I was twenty,” he said. “I never told her. How in hell did she find out?”

I shrugged. “Maybe Morgenstern told her. Maybe he wanted to make sure Joel got a college education.”

“Maybe. She killed Morgenstern, didn’t she? My wife killed him.”

“Probably. She or Alvin Chitty. I’d rate it a toss-up. Alvin had Morgenstern’s wallet. She could have given it to him. She had no need for a wallet.”

“It wasn’t Alvin. I’d bet on that.”

“Your son told me the same thing yesterday.”

His voice was low, almost a whisper. “I don’t have a son, Mr. Callahan. Joel isn’t my son.”

I stared at him. “How can you be sure?”

“Because I am sterile. I found that out when Joel was eleven years old. And the tests I underwent in Phoenix confirmed that I had always been sterile. The day I found that out, I came home drunk and had it out with my wife. She went storming out to do some drinking with her creepy relatives. I was asleep when she came home. That was the night she tried to kill me.”

“And when did you find out that Carol Medford was your mother?”

“When I talked with Mr. Morgenstern in Los Angeles. My wife must have found that out recently, too. Because she sure as hell couldn’t blackmail Grange. He’s broke, isn’t he?”

“I guess. And that was the time you told Mr. Morgenstern that Joel wasn’t your son?”

He nodded. “And he probably told my wife he knew that when he was here in town. And there went her chance to show the line of succession to Miss Medford, to wheedle some money out of her. It wasn’t just college money for Joel. She’s a greedy woman. She must have figured that revealing Miss Medford’s early indiscretion would be worth some blackmail money. They aren’t exactly living in the twentieth century down there in Skeleton Gulch.”

“Neither is Carol Medford,” I said. “I don’t suppose you’d want to run next door and say hello?”

“Try not to be funny, Mr. Callahan.”

“Sorry. It seemed to be the time for a little comic relief.”

“Maybe I’m a humorless man,” he said quietly. “Let me tell you, when you spend as much time as I did in a town full of Chittys, you can turn into a real cranky loner.”

I asked, “And what about those eleven years when you thought of Joel as your son?”

“I have no excuse for that and no explanation,” he admitted. “I was not exactly in my right mind when I left Skeleton Gulch. All I could think of at the time was all those rotten years I had spent there with my wife and her tribe.”

“I’m sure,” I said, “that Sydney Morgenstern informed your mother that he knew Joel was not your son. Do you think she’s capable of murder?”

He stared at me. “You’re asking
me
that? I know she is.”

“And would you be willing,” I asked, “to go down with me to the police station and tell them what you have just told me?”

“I would.”

Chief Harris sat in with us in the conference in Bernie’s office. So did a young assistant DA. Lacrosse repeated everything he had told me. And before he left the room he promised he would stay in town as long as we needed him and would keep us informed of his whereabouts if we needed him later.

The Chief looked at Bernie and Bernie looked at the young attorney.

“It’s a stronger case now,” the young man admitted. “We have a motive now. I don’t know—”

“It gives me some leverage to use on Alvin,” Bernie pointed out. “It gives us a motive for the jury. Mrs. Lacrosse couldn’t have blackmailed Grange if Grange knew Joel was not his grandson. She had to kill Morgenstern to get the payoff. Let me work on Alvin.”

The young assistant nodded. “If he’ll testify against her, it should be a piece of cake.”

He left, and Bernie looked at me. “A piece of cake?” He shook his head. “Wait until he gets up against those major leaguers who will represent Carol Medford. And then throw in Joe Farini. He’ll represent Chitty and probably will include Mrs. Lacrosse.”

“Farini? That shyster. Did Alvin use him?”

“He did.”

“He may be a shyster,” Chief Harris said, “but he’s plenty sharp. Well, if Chitty will cooperate—” He stood up. “Let me know how it goes with him, Bernie.”

Bernie nodded. The Chief left.

“Do you have a feeling,” Bernie asked, “that we are a Little League team about to take on the New York Yankees?”

“More or less. Most of what we have is circumstantial. Do you think I ought to tell Joel his father is in town?”

“Did his so-called father ask about him?”

“No.”

“There’s your answer. I just realized something. Farini can’t represent both Alvin and Mrs. Lacrosse. That would be a conflict of interest if Alvin decides to testify against her. I’d better get to him before we pick up Mrs. Lacrosse.”

“Right. Let us think positively. Let us have faith.”

“Faith is wonderful,” he said, “but it’s doubt that gets you an education.”

“Who said that?” I asked him.

“I did. Just now. You’re right, though. I’m just sour. I had a man check the birth records at the courthouse. Nothing there. But we don’t need it anymore do we?”

“I guess not. We’ve probably got all we’re going to get. Unless Chitty comes through.”

Unless Chitty came through and Carl Lacrosse stayed in town and Farini didn’t get the jury to crying about this poor overweight woman from little Skeleton Gulch who was only trying to get enough money from this big movie star and his millionaire girlfriend so she could send her only child to college.

Sarkissian still had his racket. Dwight Kelly was still at large. Mrs. Lacrosse had her money and Alvin had his new truck. All Bernie had was the doubtful hope that Chitty would come through. All I had was my ulcer acting up again.

I went home and changed into my running clothes and went out for a run at Eucalyptus Road. I took a hot shower and had lunch with Mrs. Casey, along with a cup of Irish coffee, and went out to the backyard to sulk.

About twenty minutes later, Carol came out from her house and over to the hedge. “Could I talk with you, Brock?”

“Why not? We’re neighbors.”

“And friends?” she asked.

“Let’s find out.” I said. “Come and sit down.”

She looked at me doubtfully before taking a seat on the end of a nearby redwood bench. “You had a fight with Fort Friday afternoon, didn’t you?” she asked.

“We had words.”

“I knew it! He came home so owly! And now he’s started to drink again. What did you two fight about?”

“Carol, please don’t play the village virgin with me. You’re not qualified. What stymied me was this adolescent belief I still had that Fortney Grange would not run from anything or anybody.”

“Run—? Visiting friends in Solvang is running?”

“Only you would know. After you left your friends’ home, you moved to that motel. And told Charles to tell everybody you were vacationing in Carmel. I call that running.”

There was a long silence before she said, “None of it was Fort’s idea. I was the one who begged him to come with me.”

“And you were the one who lied.”

“I had reason enough,” she said hoarsely.

“What reason?”

“I suppose it’s hard to explain to a man,” she said quietly, “but I had my reputation to consider.”

“Dear God!” I said.
“Your
reputation? You were gossip-column fodder for years.”

“I know that! But my friends could overlook the—the flirtations of my younger years. And they could understand, perhaps, my romantic involvement with a man as handsome as Fortney Grange. But they would
never
accept a mother who deserted her child. Can’t you understand that?”

I shook my head. “I haven’t been influenced by peer pressure since I left high school.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “Damn you!” she said.

“If you had gone to the police or confided in me,” I pointed out, “Sydney Morgenstern would still be alive and so would Juan Garcia.”

She said icily, “That is both cruel and absurd. Fort and I had
nothing
to do with what happened to them!”

“I’m sure you need to believe that.”

“How can you possibly blame Fort and me for the actions of others?”

If she didn’t know, how could I tell her? I didn’t answer.

“Can I blame you, then,” she asked, “because Fort went back to drinking heavily after the argument you two had?”

“No. Blame his conscience. Maybe it came back to life.”

“My friends were right about you,” she said. “You do have a nasty tongue.”

“They were right,” I admitted.

She stood up and glared down at me. She started to say something, apparently changed her mind, and went hurrying back across the lawn to her sanctuary.

Would I never learn to be tactful? If I did, I would not waste it on butterflies. I would save it for the deserving.

Jan had a better report when she came home. Her romantic, color-blind senior citizen was being as tractable as she had a right to expect from any client.

I gave her my report from the entrance of Carl Lacrosse to the angry exit of Carol Medford. I expected some criticism of my performance in the last scene.

“They are neighbors,” I pointed out, “and I do like to get along with my neighbors. Perhaps I was too rude.”

My loyal partner shook her head. “I’m glad you told that bitch off!”

W
E HAD A CASE
, Bernie phoned to tell me next morning. The DA had convinced Alvin to testify against his cousin. Alvin had admitted he had gone with her to the Biltmore that night after Morgenstern had talked with Mrs. Lacrosse on the phone when she was still at Kelly’s house.

They had seen Morgenstern come out of the hotel. Mrs. Lacrosse had told Alvin to wait in the parking lot. She had followed Morgenstern to the beach.

“If he had gone to the hotel with her,” I asked, “doesn’t that make him an accomplice?”

“Not the way he tells it. She supposedly told him she only wanted to reason with Morgenstern, to convince him that Carol Medford would not want the publicity and certainly could afford to pay for Joel’s education.”

“That doesn’t hold water. Why would they set up the phony alibi at the cult gate if they planned only to talk to Morgenstern?”

“Chitty claims he didn’t even know it was an alibi. He said she told him they might be able to talk with Joel at the gate and get him to come home. He didn’t know anything about the time change on the police report.”

“He’s a liar, Bernie.”

“Maybe. But he’s a liar on our side.”

“How does he explain the wallet?”

“He claims she gave it to him when she came back from the beach. She told him she would keep the money in it, the money she came for, and he could have the wallet. The credit cards were still in it.”

“He’s going to feed that story to a jury? The DA is going to feed a fantasy like that to them? That wallet bit stinks.”

“I guess the DA figures the jury will realize Alvin is lying about that. But the rest of his story can be substantiated by what we have, can’t it?”

“I don’t know. I’m not a lawyer. But if I were a juror, I’d find it hard to believe
any
testimony from a man who was obviously lying.”

“So would I. But we’re not lawyers and we’re not on the jury. We’re going with what we have.”

“Okay. Save me a seat at the trial. They’re going to be hard to get.”

“That’s for sure. The media boys are coming to town already. This is a biggie to them.”

That it would be. A Medford and an ancient movie idol, a runaway kid and a cult, a famous photographer, and the wild Chittys; that was a blockbuster. It should outdraw “Dallas” and “The Gong Show.” It would keep the gossip and scandal magazines in the black for months.

There would be delays, of course, before they were brought to trial, what the legal beagles euphemistically call continuances. They needed the delays to stock their arsenals. The taxpayers would pay for the cost of the continuances, the media would get its loot from their advertisers. Only the citizens who lost time at work would lose money on this show. Two of the major characters in the cast would not make an appearance; they were dead.

I didn’t occupy my reserved seat to watch the slow and tedious choosing of the jury. I learned from the paper that Joe Farini would be representing Mrs. Lacrosse. I shuddered to think of what a fox like Farini would do to the testimony of slow-witted Alvin Chitty.

I was there for his opening statement. He had stocked his arsenal. He related a detailed history of the muggings on our local beaches over the last four years. He went on from there to the stories of other muggings on other California beaches, working his way south. A few miles this side of San Diego, the prosecution objected. The judge agreed with the prosecution.

Big Joe, two hundred and forty pounds and six feet, four inches of ham actor, stood there silently, dismay evident on his face. Then: “I was only trying to show, your honor, that there should be more than a reasonable doubt about the guilt of my client. After all, no witness has come forward who actually saw what happened on the beach that tragic night. Everything the prosecution will have to offer is circumstantial.”

That was, the DA objected, a prejudicial opening statement. The judge agreed, glaring at Joe. Nobody asked the jury for their opinion on the point; they weren’t lawyers.

The sound of the word “circumstantial” had obviously nettled the district attorney. He gave the jury the Webster definition of circumstantial evidence: “Evidence which tends to prove a fact by proving other events which afford a basis for a reasonable inference of the fact in issue.”