Rebecca Schwartz 05 - Other People's Skeletons (3 page)

It was an unusual room for the neighborhood. Here was a woman who was obviously educated, clearly a nonconformist of some description, and poor. Despite the lack of luxury, I guessed that Rosalie was quite comfortable and cozy here. A hand-thrown teapot with matching cup sat on the coffee table, along with the morning paper, one section open and folded back. The place was clean and got lots of light. It had a nice feel to it— good vibes, positive energy, something of that sort. (The jargon had leapt into my head, making me feel like a New Paradigm woman.)

“I like Chris so much,” said Rosalie, when I was sitting on one of her shabby chairs, having refused her offer of tea. “Is she … all right?” She had hesitated a moment, caught between curiosity and discretion.

“She’s fine, absolutely fine. But there’s been a mix-up, and I’m afraid it might develop into a court case. So I’m trying to determine what our chances would be.” I was trying hard to make it sound like a civil case, a simple lawsuit. “I was just wondering if I could get your version of what happened last night.”

“You mean what happened here? I think you’d better tell me what’s going on.” She looked a little under fire.

“Oh, no. Nothing to do with what happened here.” Damn! I was never going to find out what it was. “The main thing I need to know is when Chris arrived and when she left.”

“Well, our meeting was set for eight o’clock, but nobody’s ever on time, so I never even bother to look. Let’s see, Ivan got here first, and then Moonblood; and Tanesha, finally. It was Chris’s first time, and she got lost on the way over— oh, and she had trouble parking. By the time she got here, it might have been after eight-thirty. But I’m not really sure, it could have been a little bit before.”

“What kind of meeting was it?”

“Chris didn’t tell you?”

“She was kind of shell-shocked.”

Rosalie frowned. “I think I’d better talk to the cards.”

“I beg your pardon?”

She started to unwrap what looked like a silk scarf she’d scooped up from the top of a bookshelf. It was knotted and contained something fairly heavy. She didn’t answer me, just pulled out her Tarot deck and went to work. I sat in amazement as she put on a pair of glasses, shuffled, and laid out cards. When she had made a sort of cross with them she gathered them up without even seeming to pay much attention, certainly not taking time to contemplate, just took them up, nodding to herself.

“You seem okay,” she said. “But I think we should leave the content of the meeting out of this. If Chris wants you to know, she’ll tell you.”

“You read the Tarot?” I asked, rather redundantly.

“Yes.”

“I mean … um … professionally?”

She nodded. “Would you like a reading?”

I looked at my watch. “Thanks, but not right now. I’ve got to get back to work. When did Chris leave exactly?”

“Exactly isn’t my cup of tea, exactly. Ten-thirty, I guess. Something like that. I was too tranced out to notice. Sometimes I get like that— good thing I don’t have a car.”

“A car?” Why had she mentioned a car if she didn’t know what was going on?

“I’d probably be a menace in one.” Was she watching me, trying to see if she’d hit a nerve? I decided I was being paranoid.

“I wonder if you could give me the names and addresses of the other people who were here last night.”

“I think you should get them from Chris.”

“But she told me specifically to see them. Somehow, I got the idea she didn’t know their last names.” Rosalie closed her eyes for a minute, scowling almost. Finally she opened them and said, “I think it’s best. She’s in too much trouble to take this lightly. And we have to move fast.”

“How do you know that?”

“I really couldn’t tell you.” Just those few words and then a serious clam-up. But she hesitated once again, as if she’d have loved to tell me, actually, but didn’t see the point. Maybe she was in touch with some garrulous ETs. I didn’t think so, though— I’d never heard of them being invisible.

“Just a second,” she said, and disappeared. She came back with a piece of paper that had three names on it, along with addresses and phone numbers: Ivan Shensky; Moonblood Seacrystal; and Tanesha Johnson.

“Do you know where they work?” I said. “I’d like to go see them now.”

“Ivan’s a night worker. He’ll be home. Tanesha works for the Bank of America, in the B. of A. building downtown. Moonblood’s a carpenter— you never know where she’ll be from one day to the next. Or she might be between jobs. But her roommate’s an artist— she’s always home; she’d probably be able to point you in the right direction.” I tried to imagine what the roommate’s name might be. Spiderweb Riverbed Shalecliff Earthnurture? But nothing I thought of surpassed Moonblood Seacrystal— some things just can’t be satirized.

Moonblood lived in Noe Valley, and as I drove over, I found myself profoundly uncomfortable. So far I had Chris arriving “about” the time of the murder (if that was what it was). But Chris might have been late— I didn’t even know where McKendrick had been killed, how her arrival might fit the time frame.

Next I had a potential witness who couldn’t be bothered looking at clocks, who consorted with people named Moonblood, who got too “tranced out” to notice little things like arrivals and departures, and who closed her eyes and screwed up her face before answering certain questions— that is, if she didn’t whip out a Tarot deck. I had to hope at least one of the three others at the “meeting” would show up a little better in court. And if that person was Moonblood, I had to hope she had a nickname.

Moonblood lived in a cottage behind a larger house, a dollhouse almost, barely big enough for one, much less two and canvases. The yard was beautifully kept, boasting an elaborate herb border, flagstones, even a hammock. A lot of love and effort had gone into it, which boded well, I thought. A completely crazy person couldn’t have designed it. Folk music of some sort, guitars and women’s voices, blared from the cottage. I was about to knock on the newly painted dark green door when a voice behind me said, “Can I help you?” The woman who’d spoken was short and compact, wearing overalls over a T-shirt. She had biceps that looked as if they’d driven many a nail, and a buzz haircut with a minute semblance of a curl over one eye— something like James Bond’s comma of black hair except that it was light brown and too short to punctuate a sentence. She was somewhere in her thirties, I thought.

“Are you Moonblood Seacrystal?” I hoped I was keeping a straight face.

“You got a problem with that?”

“A problem? No, I just … I mean, I don’t even know you.”

“I meant my name.”

“Mine’s Rebecca Schwartz,” I said, and stuck out my hand, which she ignored. “I’m here about my law partner, Chris Nicholson.”

“Don’t know him.”

“It’s a woman. I think you were with her last night. On Larkin Street, at Rosalie’s.” Damn. I’d been so flustered I hadn’t even gotten Rosalie’s last name.

“Oh, Chris. The new kid. Has something happened to her?”

“Well, in a way. The police think she was involved in an accident on her way to Rosalie’s. I’m wondering if you can remember what time she got there.”

“I don’t know. She was already there when I arrived.”

“What time was that?”

She shrugged. “About eight-twenty, maybe. Who knows?”

I felt little drops of sweat pop out at my hairline. “It could be important.”

She held up her left arm, which was bare at the wrist. “Do you see a watch? I don’t know what I don’t know.”

“Rosalie said Chris got to her house last.”

“Oh, Rosalie. She’s brilliant, but crazy. Chris was there when I got there. I’d never seen her before. How was I not going to notice someone who looks like Big Bird?”

I was deeply offended. Chris is six feet tall and does have a long nose, but she also has long fingers and long legs— everything about her is long, and in fact, she’s quite elegant. Only a truly mean-spirited person could describe her as looking like Big Bird. Having had quite enough of Moonblood Seacrystal, I left in a huff.

It was a huff brought on not only by the Big Bird remark, but by frustration born of fear— so far Chris didn’t begin to have an alibi. If Martinez started interviewing these characters, he was going to think he’d ended up in Conviction Heaven.

But maybe he wouldn’t. No doubt the witnesses were wrong about the plate, and there wasn’t going to be any evidence on Chris’s car. Everything would be fine. I decided it had been noble of me to go knocking on doors first thing in the morning but probably precipitous. I’d just call the office and see how things were going.

“Alan; give me Chris.”

“She’s not coming in till after lunch. What’s going on with you two, anyway? I’ve been so busy canceling appointments I haven’t had time to do my nails, let alone watch the soaps.”

“Has anyone a wee bit unusual dropped by?”

“Funny you should ask. Those cop friends of yours— Martinez and Curry— were here asking for Chris. Just left, matter of fact.”

Quickly I called Chris. “Listen, you might want to make yourself scarce. Kruzick says Martinez and Curry are looking for you. You probably have about fifteen minutes to get out of there.”

“I’m out of here, but could we get together this afternoon? I’m fed up with this shit.”

“What shit?”

“My goddamn secret life.”

I tried to keep my voice level, as if she said that sort of thing all the time. “Actually, I have afternoon appointments— how about lunch?”

“Great.”

We agreed on one o’clock, and I went off to see Ivan Shensky.

I probably shouldn’t have, I guess— Rosalie had told me he was a night worker— but I had no mercy where Chris was concerned. Shensky lived on Twin Peaks, in a flavorless, colorless apartment building with a fabulous view no doubt, but I never got to see it. On about the nineteenth ring of his bell, he ambled down to see what manner of sadist had come calling.

His hair was rumpled; he’d pulled on a pair of Chi pants and a T-shirt.

“I’m really sorry,” I began, not wanting to give him a chance to yell at me, but he didn’t seem angry, merely puzzled. “I wouldn’t have come unless it was as important as it is. I’m Chris Nicholson’s attorney and—”

“Who?”

“Chris Nicholson. From the group at Rosalie’s.”

“Oh, yeah. Raiders of the Lost Art.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Sure. Tall woman. Looks like a model.”

“Thank you for that.”

“What? Are you her mother or something?”

“I meant for the confirmation. I just talked to another member of your group who made an unkind remark about her.”

“Oh, Moonblood. She’d be a lot happier if she’d just call herself Susie or Kathy or something. She’s so busy being defensive about her name she’s got a permanent chip on the shoulder.”

I liked Ivan. Not only wasn’t he mad at me for getting him out of bed, but he seemed a kind-hearted person. He was a shortish guy, and slight, with narrow shoulders and a narrow face, somewhat dark and slightly pensive; short hair, cute moustache. A thoroughly decent sort.

So imagine my surprise when he said, “God, I’d love to get my hands on you.” And turned immediately scarlet.

“What?”

“Oh God, I blurted again. I’m going to lose another job if I don’t stop that. I meant, I can see your back hurts from those high heels you’re wearing. I just thought… I thought I could help you.”

“Are you a body worker or something?”

“An RN, actually. But that wasn’t what I meant. I know a little about pressure points.” He shrugged. “It wasn’t a come-on or anything.”

Of course not. “Look, a legal problem has come up. I wonder if you can tell me what time Chris arrived and left last night.”

“I don’t think I should answer questions like that without talking to Chris. I mean, you might not be her lawyer— maybe you’re a jealous wife who thinks she’s dallying with your husband. You seem like a very nice person, but what if—”

I put up a hand. “I understand. Look, I’ll have her phone you if it becomes important.”

He breathed in, obviously relieved. “Thanks for understanding. Listen, if you want— I really could work on your back. You want to turn around a minute?”

I got out of there as fast as I could. But I kicked off those shoes the minute I was in my car. I’d found them on a half-price sale and bought them even though they didn’t fit right. My back did hurt, but I wouldn’t have thought it was so obvious. I wondered if I was developing bad posture.

And once again I wondered what sort of rat’s nest Chris had gotten herself into. Spiffed up in a suit, Shensky might at least look acceptable to a jury, but there was that habit he had of “blurting.” What was his problem? And more to the point, what was Chris doing with a group called Raiders of the Lost Art?

Tanesha Johnson wasn’t about to tell me. When I finally found her office— after a few fits, starts, and long conversations with the guard— I was delighted to see a well-groomed young black woman, decked out in full makeup, sporting a fresh manicure, with a nameplate on her desk saying she was my quarry. Now this one I could take to court. I handed her my card. “Ms. Johnson? I’m Rebecca Schwartz. I’m here about Chris Nicholson from Raiders of the Lost Art.…”

Her neck swiveled, and as there were two other people in the reception room over which she presided, her voice dropped to a hiss. “What the hell do you mean coming here like this?”

Taken aback, I said, “A legal problem has come up and I had a question— ”

“Lady, you’re jeopardizing my job, do you know that?”

So that was number four. I could hardly wait for lunch, and not because I was hungry. But I would have waited a week to eat if it meant not seeing the wreck of my confident, competent law partner. She was wearing jeans and a pair of shades, which she removed to show a face splotchy with crying; she was shaking. “Rebecca, I think they’re going to arrest me.”

We’d met at a dim sum place, her favorite, and to get her calmed down, I resorted to my mother’s tricks, the infamous behavior of the females of my tribe. I begged her to eat; I cajoled her with dainty morsels. She was so distracted, trying to get something down to get me off her back that she forgot to cry for a while.