Silent Witness (3 page)

“Santa Barbara has one decent Chinese restaurant. San Francisco has a hundred. More than a hundred, probably.”

“It’s a wonderful city, really,” Paula said. “I like Los Angeles. Malibu will always be home. But San Francisco’s something special.”

“You didn’t talk like that when you first came here.”

Paula shrugged. She was a small woman, slim and full-breasted, almost perfectly proportioned, still—at age thirty-four. But Paula was a woman who chose not to put her body on public display. Even as a teenager, when the world revolved around the appreciative appraisal of the male, Paula had dressed as she was dressed now: in clothing calculated to suggest the body beneath, but not to flaunt it. Some women dressed for men. Some dressed first for themselves, then for men.

“It was hard, when I first came here,” Paula was saying. “I guess I felt pretty sorry for myself.”

“Most people do, after a divorce.”

The other woman nodded, but made no reply. In her eyes Janice could see the shadow of a sadness that, during the last years of Paula’s marriage, had revealed a wound to the spirit that her family and friends had feared might never heal. Her husband had been a screenwriter: talented, successful—and utterly amoral. Would Alan Bernhardt, the playwright, fit the same description? Had one mistake compounded into two? Such things happened, Janice knew.

The waitress arrived, and served their soup. The waitress’s smile was delicate as the porcelain she handled with such gentle deftness. They sampled the soup, and judiciously approved. Then they exchanged a smile, signifying that the time had come to discuss the matters at hand.

Janice spoke first: “So tell me about Alan Bernhardt.” She pitched the question casually, lightly matter-of-fact. The other woman’s reaction was a small, subtly playful smile.

“Bernhardt the detective?” The smile widened. “Or Bernhardt the love object?”

“Do I have to choose?”

Appreciatively sipping the soup Paula shrugged, a burlesque of maidenly coyness. “Actually,” she said, “he’s got an interesting history. His parents were Jewish, both of them from New York, that hard-core Jewish middle-class intellectual stock. His father was a bombardier in the war. He got killed before Alan was born.”

“So Alan’s—what—forty-five?”

“Forty-three, I think. Maybe forty-four. Anyhow, his mother raised him. His mother and his mother’s parents. It was one of those real—” Even though it was Paula’s nature to keep her enthusiasms private, treasures unto herself, she nevertheless allowed her enthusiasm to show through as she said, “It was one of those real vintage New York Jewish families, apparently. His mother was an only child—a much-loved only child, the way only the Jews can love their children. Alan was the only grandson. His grandfather was a small clothing manufacturer. He wasn’t very successful. He was always more interested in playing chamber music and fly tying than in making a fortune, I gather. There was always enough money, though. The grandparents took care of Alan’s education. A good education, private schools in New York and Ohio.”

“The grandfather sounds wonderful.”

“I know …”

“What about Alan’s mother. What’d she do?”

“She was a modern dancer and an activist. You know—women’s lib, ban the bomb, human rights. Marching and meetings and dance recitals, that’s what Alan remembers most about his childhood.”

“His mother never remarried.”

Paula shook her head. “No. She danced and she marched and that was it, apparently. They lived in a loft, in the Village. Alan could fly model airplanes in it.”

“A happy childhood, then.” Approvingly, Janice nodded. “Like us.”

“Yes …” As if the thought was new to her, Paula spoke thoughtfully, reflectively. Then she nodded. “Yes. Like us.”

“So why’d he come to San Francisco?”

“The truth is, he was running away. That’s why a lot of people come to San Francisco, I’ve decided. San Francisco—California—it’s the promised land. Or so people think.”

Ruefully, Janice smiled. “Sometimes I think about running away to Manhattan. Or Taos. Or San Miguel.”

“I know …” Paula finished her soup, and nodded appreciatively. “Excellent. I’ve never had shark fin soup before. Now I know what the shouting is all about.”

“Are you going to tell me what Alan is running away from?”

“When he was in college,” Paula answered, her voice measured, her manner grave, “he got hooked on acting—on the theater. He married a girl who also wanted to act. After they graduated, they went to New York and started making the rounds—trying out. They lived in the Village, not far from Alan’s mother. It was an idyllic life, really perfect. After a year or two, both Alan and his wife started to connect, to get small parts. Then Alan had a play produced off Broadway.”

“A play he’d written?”

Paula nodded. “He wrote it while he was in college. He wrote three, actually.”

“I’m impressed.” She nodded to the waitress, who cleared away the soup dishes. “Very impressed.”

“He directed, too, off Broadway. He was a comer, no question. A rising star. And his wife was starting to do well, too.”

“So what happened? Divorce?”

“No,” Paula answered, her dark eyes solemn, her voice subdued. “No, not divorce.” She drew a long, deep breath. “In the space of a year and a half, his wife and his mother and his grandparents all died.”

“Jesus Christ. How?”

“His grandfather had a heart attack, they think, while he was driving. His wife was with him. In any case, their car crossed over the center divider of an expressway, and hit a tanker truck head-on. Alan’s mother already knew she had cancer, when her parents died. She died less than a year later. And then—” As if she could still hardly believe the story she was telling, the other woman incredulously shook her head. “And then, Jesus, his wife was killed. She was mugged. She hit the back of her head on a curb.” As she told the story, Paula’s voice had dropped to a low, leaden monotone, as if she sought to distance herself from her own words.

“My God, no wonder he had to leave New York. There wasn’t anything left for him.” As she spoke, their entrees arrived. After they’d been served, Janice asked, “So how does his being a private detective fit into all this? He sure doesn’t sound very hard-boiled.”

Paula’s smile was indulgent. “That’s mostly a myth, you know. Two of Alan’s good friends are private detectives. One of them was a tenured professor at Berkeley. The other, a lady, used to do film reviews for the
Los Angeles Herald.”

“You’re kidding.”

Instead of replying, Paula smiled, using ivory chopsticks to sample a vegetable dish. “This is excellent. Really excellent.”

“So what about the theater—Alan’s plays, his acting?”

“He still acts, and still writes. He’s with the Howell Theater, which is probably the best little theater in San Francisco—and that’s saying a lot. But it isn’t a living. He’s one of the owners of the theater, but it still isn’t a living. For years, he worked part time for Dancer and Associates. They’re the biggest firm of private investigators in town. They specialize in high-ticket divorces, plus a little child-stealing. About the time I met Alan, he had a big argument with Herbert Dancer, and Alan quit. He’s been freelancing ever since.”

“How do I get in touch with him?”

“I thought you’d never ask.” Paula took a business card from her purse, and slid it across the table.

Janice looked at the card, slipped it into her own purse. “I’ll call him when I get back to the hotel.”

“Good.” Another smile: Paula’s pixy smile. “You can use my name. You can also come to dinner. Name the day.”

“Thanks. I will. Let me talk to Alan, though, first.”

As they appreciatively ate, they allowed a companionable silence to fall. Then Paula asked, “What’s it all about, Janice? You said something on the phone about the way Connie died. What’d you mean?”

Having expected the question, she was ready with a response: “You’ve been in San Francisco—what—six months?”

“More. Eight or nine months, now.”

“How many times did you see Connie, in that time?”

“Four times, I think. Three times for lunch, in the city. And once for a day at the winery—swimming, and a barbecue.”

“Have you spent much time with Dennis?”

“No. Except for their wedding, I only saw him once. That was at the barbecue. It was a big party, though. I hardly talked to him.”

“What’d you think of him?”

“The truth?”

Decisively, Janice nodded. “Definitely, the truth.”

“I thought he was a—” A short, animated pause, searching for the phrase. “I thought he was a phony. A stuffed shirt at best, a gigolo at worst. Handsome, but that’s all. I was always afraid Connie would marry someone like him.”

“Really? How come?”

“The truth?”

“The truth.”

“Well,” Paula answered, her voice heavy with regret, “we all pick our own ways to make ourselves suffer. And, let’s face it, Connie always picked the wrong men, even when she was a teenager. She was—what—six years younger than me, so I didn’t really know her all that well. But—” Paula shrugged. “But let’s just say I wasn’t surprised, when she married someone like Dennis.”

“When you saw her here—those lunches, you had—did she say anything about him, about her marriage?”

“No, nothing,” came the prompt response. “But I wouldn’t’ve expected her to say anything, not really. We just weren’t that close.” A pause. Then, earnestly: “Why, Janice? What’s it all about?”

Her lunch forgotten, she instinctively lowered her voice, leaned closer to the other woman. “You know what happened—how she died.”

“I know there was a prowler, a burglar.”

“Dennis
said
there was a burglar.”

“Janice …” Awed, Paula’s voice, too, was lowered. “Christ, what’re you saying?”

“I’m saying that I think Dennis knows more than he’s telling.” Her voice was firm, her eyes steady. “A lot more, maybe.”

“My God …” As if she suddenly needed a stimulant, Paula drained her teacup. “Are you serious?”

“I’m very serious.”

“You mean that—that—” She was unable to say it.

Speaking slowly, in a calm, measured voice that suggested she had thought so often of the events she described that the facts were rote, she recited: “On June ninth, a Friday, Connie and John drove down to Santa Barbara. They’d been here, in San Francisco, at the townhouse, so they left from here. They stayed with me through the weekend. On Monday—that was the twelfth—they drove down to Los Angeles. They did Disneyland and the Spruce Goose and the Q.E. II, and came back to Santa Barbara on Thursday. They stayed overnight, and left Friday morning. Connie told me they were going to San Francisco, but she apparently decided to go to the winery instead. Except for what Dennis has told me, that’s all I know. The next day—Saturday—Dennis called to say Connie was dead. She’d surprised a burglar, he said, and she’d been killed. It had happened in the master bedroom, at the winery. There’s a big fireplace in the room. Apparently there was a struggle. Furniture was overturned, things were broken. She was hit with a poker. Or, rather, fireplace tongs. It—” She broke off, bit her lip. Then: “It crushed her skull on one side, at the temple. It happened about midnight, Dennis said.”

“Where was Dennis when it happened?”

“He said he was asleep in the spare room.” Bitterly, she grimaced. “He said he couldn’t sleep in the master bedroom, in their bed, without her.”

Paula frowned. “Dennis didn’t strike me as that sentimental. Or that lovey-dovey with Connie, either.”

“Well, that’s what he said.” She drank the last of her tea and nodded to the waitress, who cleared away the lunch dishes, leaving only the teapot and cups. “I’m sure that’s what he told the police.”

“But you don’t believe him.”

“At first I believed him. It’s a perfectly plausible story, if you accept his statement that he was sleeping in a spare room. But then I asked him about John.”

“I was wondering. Where was John, that night?”

“He was downstairs in the living room. ‘On the couch,’ Dennis says. ‘Asleep.’”

“Don’t you believe that?”

“I
do
believe that. They got a late start leaving Santa Barbara, and the winery is at least fifty miles north of San Francisco. Connie would’ve stopped for dinner, so I’m sure they didn’t get to the winery until late at night. And John, I’m sure, would’ve gone to sleep in the car. Connie might’ve been able to carry him inside. She’s—she was—an athlete, as you know. A tennis player, and a swimmer. I used to tease her about her muscles. But she wouldn’t’ve carried him upstairs, I don’t think. She would’ve gotten Dennis to do that.”

“What does John say happened?”

“I don’t know, Paula. Dennis won’t let me talk to him.”

Paula frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“He says he doesn’t want John questioned. He says it’s doctor’s orders—that a child psychiatrist doesn’t want John reliving the trauma.”

Still frowning, the other woman considered. Finally, tentatively, she said, “That makes sense, of course. It’s only been two months since Connie was killed. I can see that John needs time to heal. But you have to wonder why Dennis took John to the funeral, if he was so concerned about trauma.”

“He says he hadn’t consulted this child psychiatrist at that point.”

Judiciously, Paula shrugged, then spread her hands. “I have to say, it all seems to add up, Janice. What is it, exactly, that’s bothering you?”

“What’s bothering me,” she answered, speaking quickly, decisively, “is that, ever since Connie died, Dennis hasn’t let me spend a single minute alone with John. Literally, from the time they arrived in Santa Barbara for the funeral until the next day, when they got on the plane to go home, Dennis didn’t let John and I exchange a single word out of his earshot.”

“Well—” Still judiciously, Paula considered, then shook her head. “I don’t know, Janice. It doesn’t seem to me that he’s being—”

“He’s hiding something, Paula. I
know
he’s hiding something. I’m
sure
of it.”

“Are you saying—” Involuntarily, the other woman dropped her voice, moved closer across the table. “Are you saying that you think Dennis killed her? Is that what you’re saying?”