Jack and the Beanstalk (Matthew Hope) (21 page)

“Your mother thinks Jack knew whoever killed him,” I said.

“She does?” Sunny looked suddenly nervous again. She reached into her bag for another cigarette. “How does she...I mean, how does she figure
that
?” She held the purple lighter to the cigarette. Her hand was shaking again.

“The door has a peephole in it,” I said. “He wouldn’t have let in anyone he didn’t know.”

“Maybe the guy had a key,” Sunny said.

“The police are considering that possibility.”

“They are?” she said, and puffed on the cigarette. “Well, sure, it’s a good possibility. Jack used to all the time tell the resident
manager it was okay to let me in. Whenever I was supposed to meet him there, he told the lady in the office to let me in. With her passkey, you know? Maybe whoever killed him knew somebody in the office. Who gave him a key to get in.”

“Maybe,” I said.

“Sure, that’s a possibility,” she said, and nodded.

“Did you go there often?” I asked. “To visit your brother?”

“Oh, every now and then.” Her eyes widened. “You don’t think
I’m
the one who was there that night, do you?”

“No, I simply—”

“I mean, is that what
Bloom
thinks? That
I’m
the one Jack let into his apartment?”

“I’m sure he doesn’t think that. And neither do I.”

“Then why’d you ask me if I went there a lot?”

“I was only wondering how close you and your brother were.”

“Close as most brothers and sisters,” she said. “If
that’s
what Bloom thinks, that I killed him, he ought to be put away, I mean it. In a hospital for the mentally deranged, I mean it. Jesus, would I even
be
here if I had anything to do with—”

“I still don’t know why you’re here,” I said.

“I
told
you why. I’m worried. I’m
scared
, all right?”

“Why?”

“Because whoever killed my brother might decide to kill me next.”

“What makes you think so?”

“I heard them talking on the
phone
, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but they didn’t know you were listening, did they?”

“How do
you
know that?”

“Well, I
don’t
actually know it for a—”

“Neither do I. Suppose they heard a click or something? Suppose they heard me breathing?”

“They still wouldn’t have known who it was.”

“Who else
could
it have been? There’re only two people living in that house, my mother and me. It had to’ve been either one of us, am I right?”

“Assuming they
did
know someone was listening in—”

“It’s a possibility,” Sunny said.

“Then your mother would be in danger as well.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not worried about my mother, she’s old enough to take care of herself. I’m worried about
me
, Mr. Hope. About somebody coming at me with a knife or a gun, the same way—”

“What makes you mention a gun?”

“What?” she said.

“Your brother was stabbed.”

“I’m just saying.
Any
weapon. A club, a hatchet,
whatever
.”

“But you specifically mentioned a gun.”

“It was the first thing that popped into my mind. What
is
this?” she said sharply, her pale eyes flaring.

“I’m only trying to—”

“Trap me,” she said. “I shouldn’t have come here. I thought if I told you—” She stopped abruptly. She shook her head.

“Told me what?”

“How worried I am, how
scared
I am...”

“Your brother was killed on the eighth of August,” I said. “Today’s the twenty-third, that was more than two weeks ago. When did you start getting scared?”

“I was scared when I came to your house Friday night.”

“You didn’t seem scared.”

“I told you what Jack was
into
, didn’t I? I told you he was stealing my mother’s cows.”

“But you didn’t seem scared.”

“I was
scared
, believe it. I wouldn’t have come on with you the way I did if I wasn’t scared.”

“But you’re even more scared now. Why?”

She stubbed out her cigarette. “Forget it,” she said. “This was a mistake.”

“Does your fear have anything to do with Avery Burrill’s murder?”

“I don’t know anybody named Avery Burrill,” she said.

“He’s the man who was selling your brother a bean farm.”

“I don’t know him. I never heard his name before this minute.”

“He was shot to death,” I said.

“I didn’t know that.”

“Yesterday,” I said.

“This is the first I’m hearing of it.”

“It’s in the newspaper this morning.”

“I never look at the Mickey Mouse papers down here.”

“It was on the radio too. And on television.”

“I don’t
know
the goddamn man!”

“He was shot with a .38 Smith & Wesson.”

“All right, I believe you.”

“Your brother owned a .38 Smith & Wesson, didn’t he?”

“I don’t know what kind of gun it was.”

“But you know he owned a gun?”

“Yes. He used to keep it in his dresser drawer.”

“You
saw
the gun?”

“I saw it.”

“Where?”

“In his dresser drawer, I just
told
you. Out at the ranch. Before he moved.”

“What were you doing in his dresser drawer?”

“I was looking for something.”

“Looking for what?”

“Nail clippers.”

“And you found your brother’s gun.”

“Yeah. He was mad as hell. He really smacked me around good that day. For fiddling with the gun. I think he was afraid I could’ve hurt myself with it.”

“Sounds like that was a regular thing with him,” I said. “Smacking you around.”

“He had big hands, my brother.”

“When was the last time you saw that gun?”

“That day when I was looking in his dresser. Four, five months ago.”

“Do you know if he took it with him when he moved into the condo?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Did you ever
see
it in his apartment? At the condo?”

“I just told you the last time I saw it was four, five months ago. In his dresser drawer.”

“And not after that?”

“No.”

“Then you don’t know whether it was in his apartment on the night he was killed.”

“No, I don’t. You’re really terrific, Mr. Hope, you know that? I come here because I’m scared out of my wits, and you turn it all around—”

“I haven’t turned anything around, Sunny.”

“Yes, you have,” she said. “You think just what Bloom thinks, don’t you? You think
I
had something to do with—”

“I didn’t say—”

“—my brother’s death. Well, I
didn’t
! So long, Mr. Hope,” she said and rose suddenly. “Thanks a lot for nothing.” She went immediately to the door, opened it, said, “See you around,” and then walked out, slamming the door behind her.

I had the distinct impression that I’d blown it.

She had come there to tell me something, but I’d bludgeoned her with questions before she could get it out. A frightened young girl had run from my office because I’d been too damn impatient to listen. A good lawyer, like a good actor, is supposed to listen. I had behaved like a bad lawyer and an inexperienced cop, sticking my nose into business that was rightfully Bloom’s, and causing Sunny McKinney to panic and run. My partner Frank kept telling me that I was entirely too guilty for a WASP. He said only Jews and Italians were supposed to feel as much guilt as I did. Maybe I had Jewish or Italian ancestors. All I know is that I was
still
feeling guilty when I left the office at a quarter to five for my scheduled meeting with Bloom. In fact, I was wishing he’d beat my brains out and leave me bleeding and unconscious on the gymnasium floor.

Considering the size of the Calusa PD, the police gym was spacious and well equipped. Cops—I assumed they were cops—swarmed all over the place, lifting weights, working out on the ropes and the parallel bars, shadowboxing, generally getting themselves in shape for their day-to-day combat with the bad guys. Bloom and I came out onto the polished wood floor, hauled a pair of mats to a relatively clear area, and squared off facing each other.

“You ready?” he asked. He was wearing a gray sweat suit that looked a bit baggy on him, the result of his recent bout with hepatitis and his subsequent weight loss.

“Ready,” I said, and Bloom jackknifed a flat-footed kick at my groin, aborting the attack an instant before what would have been an excruciatingly painful collision.

In the next hour or so, I learned a great deal from Detective Morris Bloom.

6

M
Y PHONE
was ringing when I let myself into the kitchen. The clock on the wall read ten minutes to seven. I hadn’t heard from Joanna before I’d left the office, and I was hoping it might be her now. It was Veronica.

“Hi,” she said, “I’ve got a problem.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Sunny took the car this morning, and she isn’t back yet. I’ve been trying you at the office—”

“I was with Bloom.”

“Oh?” she said. “Anyway, the Jeep’s gone too, Rafe took it to Ananburg with him. And the hand is out somewhere in the pickup truck. I just don’t have any transportation.”

“I’ll come there,” I said.

“Are you sure you want to? It’s a long way, Matthew.”

“I’m sure I want to.”

“I’ll get some steaks ready,” she said. “Hurry.”

I showered and changed my clothes and was on the road by a quarter to eight. The Ghia ran like a Rolls-Royce, through flat pastureland flecked with grazing cows. Behind the car, the sun was beginning to drop slowly below the rim of the horizon, tinting the sky a fiery orange-red that spilled over into the countryside as a lush purple. In the palmettos and cabbage plants, the birds chirped their incessant sunset songs. As I drove eastward through the lingering dusk, I thought of Veronica waiting for me, and I remembered her brief excursionary flight on the verbs
to see
and
to watch
. I wanted to
see
her. I also wanted to
watch
her. I thought with pleasure of my new battery and my new fan belt, and of how reassuring it was to be driving along on such a glorious night, secure in the knowledge that my battery wasn’t dead and my fan belt wasn’t shot. My mind soared imaginatively, the way Veronica’s had last night.

To a mechanic, a “shot” fan belt was a worn one. To a bartender, a “shot” was a one-ounce glass of whiskey. To a decathlon champion, a “shot” was an iron ball to be thrown as far as he could throw it. To a tennis player, a “shot” was what he stroked over a net. To a junkie or a physician, a “shot” was an injection by hypodermic syringe. To a motion-picture director, a “shot” was any given camera setup. And to Morris Bloom, who discussed sibling spanking with all the aplomb of Krafft-Ebbing, a “shot” was something fired from a gun you could buy off a shelf like a ripe banana. I was very happy I wasn’t learning English as a foreign language; I was far too old to be taking a shot at such a formidable task.

Grinning, I drove through the open gate of the M.K. Ranch and onto the dirt road that led to the big white house. The sky had gradually shaded from purple to deep blue and then to the blackest of blacks, with only a few faint stars timidly glowing. Out on the pasture, I heard the lowing of a solitary cow, and then there
was silence except for the chatter of the insects in the grass on either side of the road. The compound was empty and still, not a vehicle in sight anywhere. The mobile trailer home and the manager’s house were both dark, but the main house was aglow with light. I parked the car near the rusting gas tanks and went up the steps to the front entrance. I opened the screen door and knocked on the closed inner door.

“I’m out back!” Veronica called.

Following her voice, I went around the side of the house to a small patio that began where the greenhouse ended. Veronica was standing over a barbecue grill, looking at the glowing red coals under the grate. Amber light from inside the house spilled onto the patio. She was wearing white again—white shorts and sandals, a white T-shirt. A white plastic apron covered her to her thighs. The red lettering on it read,
DON’T KISS ME, I’M COOKING
.

I kissed her.

I kissed her hungrily.

She said, “Wow.”

I kissed her again.

“I missed you,” she said.

“Me too.”

“I’ll put the steaks on,” she said. “We’ll eat here, if that’s all right, and then we can go to your place later. Will that be all right?”

“Sure,” I said.

She was still in my arms. She looked up into my face.

“It’s just...Sunny may be home later, I don’t like to—”

“I understand.”

“Are you sure? I hate to sound so damn Puritan.”

“You don’t sound Puritan.”

“Especially when the wandering child in question...well, never mind. I’d just feel more comfortable at your place.”

“So would I.”

I kissed her again.

“You have to stop doing that,” she said. “Until later. Otherwise, I’ll lose all my maternal resolve.”

“Okay,” I said, and kissed her again.

“Oh, wowwwww,” she said, and fell limply against me. “Is this how Jesus felt in the wilderness?” She kissed me on the chin. “Let me get the steaks,” she said. “What would you like to drink? I made a pitcherful of martinis, but I can mix anything you—”

“A martini would be lovely.”

“I’ll bring the pitcher out,” she said.

As she started around the house, a phone began ringing inside. She looked up, listened, nodded, and then said, “That’s Sunny’s, upstairs. I never answer it.” She blew me a kiss and disappeared into the night. I sat near the grill and looked up at the sky. There were more stars now. I could even make out some of the constellations. It would be a beautiful day tomorrow—in the morning, anyhow. The telephone upstairs stopped ringing. I thought suddenly of Sunny’s visit to my office. I did not relish the thought of telling Veronica about it, but I knew I would have to. I sat there thinking it was sad when a man of thirty-eight could remember most clearly only the mistakes he’d made in his life. I wondered if Veronica was a mistake. Fifty-seven years old, I thought. And then she came into view around the corner of the house again, juggling a martini pitcher and a platter of meat and three ears of corn wrapped in foil and a pair of short glasses, and she looked so utterly, adolescently helpless in that moment that all I wanted to do was hold her close again and reassure her that fifty-seven didn’t mean a damn and this definitely wasn’t a mistake. I rushed to unburden her.