The Suspense Is Killing Me Page 11

She actually waited for me to get it out. Then she looked at it. Then she looked up at me and squinted.

  “It is me,” I said.

  “Come on in,” she said, having decided that maybe I was who I said I was. She was wearing Guess? jeans that were way too loose on her. She was a bony little thing. She looked like a little girl who had by some caprice of fate found herself in her forties. At least she wasn’t poor. I’d checked the Los Angeles Times real estate classifieds at breakfast and the condos in the Marina City Club kicked in at $350,000 and then took off like Saturn rockets. “I’m just moving in, getting furniture delivered from the stores, everything is a mess. I found the coffee maker yesterday, thank God, you want a cup?” I nodded at her and as she picked her way through the boxes and wadded-up packing paper she looked over her shoulder and said, “We’ve met, you know. You and I. You danced with me once. About twenty years ago. Oh, God, maybe more. I hate realizing things like that—it all seems like yesterday. Twenty-three or twenty-four years ago. Yes, we danced. You and I.” She went on into the kitchen. “Your famous brother didn’t have time to dance with me.”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember very much from those days. Where did all this happen?”

  “The Grammies, I guess. Some big awards thing. JC won for best single and best album. Grace Slick got to dance with JC. I got the brother. You were nice, though. But, let’s face it, kind of a consolation prize. You’ve changed.” She poured two cups of coffee. “We’ve all changed. Sob, sob.”

  “Some of us have changed more than others. JC and Shadow have changed even more than we have.”

  “Black or light? Sugar? Sweet ’n Low?”

  “Black’s fine.”

  “Don’t lean there. Painters just finished some custom trim. It’s wet.”

  She handed me the cup and I followed her back into the two-story living room.

  “Pull up a box, Tripper.”

  There was a good-sized aquarium that she’d obviously set up and connected first thing. The bubbles were rising in a steady column. The fish were purple and blue and yellow and red and black and pampered. She sipped her coffee and said, “Why did you really come here?” The fog at the window was seeping into the room.

  “Do you have any idea why Shadow was killed?” It was hard to look away from the fish.

  “I’ve been told not to talk about it.”

  “That’s absurd. Your husband gets murdered, it’s in all the papers, he’s a prominent show-biz figure in LA, and you’re not supposed to talk about it? Was there ever such a controlled person? You know I’m not a reporter—”

  “And I also know you’ve dropped in out of nowhere. Shadow didn’t talk about you. You weren’t old pals or anything.” She shrugged. “Don’t try to convince me that you came here all grief-stricken over poor Shadow.”

  “So who told you not to talk about it?”

  “What do you care? Why are you here? Really?”

  “Did Shadow ever talk about my brother?”

  “I don’t remember—”

  “Did he ever say he thought my brother might still be alive? I’m not kidding, Donna. It’s not just Shadow who got murdered. There was another murder just a few days ago in New York. There’s a real possibility that JC was the link between the victims … A lot of people seem to think JC is alive and worth looking for—”

  “Oh,” she gasped, “that song came in the mail!” Before she could go on, her hand flew to her mouth. Her eyes were round with surprise at her own indiscretion.

  “So that’s where you got the T-shirt,” I said. I was developing detective instincts. It was fun. It was like playing chess and knowing you’ve outthought the other person.

  “Where?” she asked defensively.

  “Freddie Rosen. Relax, Donna … Was Freddie the one who told you not to talk about the murder?”

  She grinned and nodded. “All right, but will you promise not to tell him I blew it? Do you even know him?”

  “Of course. I’m Lee Tripper, Donna. I spent yesterday afternoon with him. And Freddie the Deuce, too. Just saw Sam for a minute, but a minute’s usually enough. Sure, Freddie and I go way back.” It wasn’t a lie; it was encouragement for Donna Kordova. “He didn’t come right out and say anything, but I got the feeling you two are … well, you know … close.” Well, that was a lie, okay?

  “Freddie told you where to find me,” she said.

  “Who else?”

  “Well, you should have said so. Freddie’s been very good to me since Shadow’s death. He and Shadow, they were real close. Shadow’s show was the place Freddie debuted MagnaDisc’s new stuff. Shadow’s the only jock in the world who’s played these guys.” She pointed to the logo on her shirt.

  “Freddie thinks JC’s alive,” I said. “He told you about the song coming in the mail—”

  “Isn’t that something? I was just floored. So was Freddie. He wasn’t as happy as I thought he’d be—I mean, think of the publicity a new Tripper song could generate. I thought he’d be in heaven … but he seemed stunned, almost unhappy—”

  “Or afraid? Worried?”

  “Maybe. Worried. He said he was going directly to the top with it. To MagnaGroup … that guy who runs the whole show. The one out in some apolis or other—”

  “Apolis?”

  “You know, Minneapolis or Indianapolis, like that.”

  “Which guy is this?”

  “The one with the hotsy-totsy name. Cotter Whitney the Third. The big chief.”

  “Freddie mentioned him …” She was up now, sprinkling food into the aquarium.

  “Donna, let me ask you again … and think about it—why might somebody have killed Shadow? Who could have had a reason? You and Freddie must have talked it over … there must have been something Freddie meant when he told you not to talk about it to anyone …”

  She was staring into the fish tank, watching the bits of bright color darting and flashing as if they hadn’t a care in the world. Little did they know. I’d once had some fish. The air-pump motor overheated one night. I flushed the tiny bloated corpses down the toilet. Very delicate, tropical fish, and they don’t do well in hot water.

  “Shadow was in very deep with MagnaDisc.” She had lowered her voice into a conspiratorial whisper. “It went back to the sixties. Sometimes he served as the middleman between the company and the artists … you know what I mean, Tripper. It was your world as much as your brother’s. Say something!”

  “You’re doing fine. Keep talking.”

  She put her hands on her bony hips. More body language. “Jesus,” she sighed. “He delivered things. He performed services. It was good for him to maintain a special relationship with MagnaDisc. So he delivered things … girls, boys, drugs … he wasn’t an angel. It’s not a business for angels.”

  “What it boils down to is this,” I said. “Shadow may have known too much and somebody got worried. Is that an old story or what? But if what he knew got him killed—well, it makes you wonder what was suddenly so important … or how did things suddenly change, what new element was introduced?”

  “I really don’t know. And now I’ve talked way too much. Freddie’s been so good to me.” She looked around the room as if it were the evidence of Freddie’s goodness. “Don’t let him know I went on and on, please?”

  “Freddie and you, you’re a thing, I take it.”

  “A very quiet thing. But he’s a sweet guy in his way and I love the way he is with his son and, heaven help us, you should get to know that wife of his sometime. Spend some time with her.” She made a face. “Freddie felt responsible for me … no, don’t ask, I don’t know why. But we’d been lovers for a long time—”

  “Did that bother Shadow?”

  She laughed, not particularly bitterly. “Not Shadow. Shadow led his own life. When he died, Freddie came in and did everything for me.” She shrugged helplessly. Her lower lip was trembling. “Nobody had done things for me in a long time.”

  I didn’t want to be there when t
he tears came. If they came. I got off my box and told her I appreciated the chance to talk with her. I assured her that my lips were sealed.

  Standing in the doorway she watched me watching the fog. “It’s usually burned off by now. I guess it’s just one of those days.”

  “One last thing,” I said. “Shadow. Did Freddie ever tell him about getting ‘Everything’s Hazy in Tangier’? Did Shadow ever mention it?”

  “He never mentioned it to me, but, look, they were always talking, always on the phone, having lunch—Freddie must have told him. He was always after Shadow’s opinions about anything to do with the business.”

  “Thanks, Donna.”

  “Tripper?”

  “Yes?”

  “Save the last dance for me, okay?”

  Nine

  THERE MUST HAVE BEEN FIFTY weeping willows lining the long drive that led to the imposing Italianate villa west of Minneapolis in what a gas station attendant called “the lake country.” The private road was straight as Pat Boone. Some of the willows’ drooping branches swished at the top of the car, which was now a rented Chrysler Fifth Avenue. Or was it a New Yorker? It was white with red leather upholstery and a little compass overhead that indicated I was heading due south. Great little gadget. Set out for Charleston and wind up in Albany.

  It was hot in Minneapolis, pushing past ninety, as I drove out Highway 12. The towns had names like Wayzata and Minnetonka and I expected a ravishing Indian maiden to appear around each bend in the road. So much for expectations. Once off the main road I found the lakes, wound my way among them, watching the sailboats in the bright sunshine. More sailboats than I’d ever imagined could be gathered in a single place. More little blond girls with deep tans and headbands holding their straight yellow hair in place. More Volvo and Mercedes station wagons and super Jeeps that ran over twenty grand. If this wasn’t the good life, deep in the kingdom of the robust preppies, then I didn’t know what the hell it was.

  But the road up toward the Whitney estate was somehow apart from all that. This was orderly and old-seeming, like a comparable road in certain parts of France, and when I’d passed beneath the arch made by the willows I got the full impact of the chateau or villa: architecture has never been my strong suit but I knew right away it wasn’t as big as Versailles. The forecourt was surrounded by large statues of VIPs from Bulfinch’s Mythology. The air was still and hot, and dust hung in the air marking my arrival. That little summer squeaking sound, crickets or locusts or something, filled the world. Thirty cars were parked at the edges of the fine gray gravel, each nosing into puddles of shade left by the oaks and evergreens and sycamores and maples. When I cut the engine and stepped out into the heat my knees buckled slightly. I didn’t think Minnesota was supposed to be so hot. Another miscalculation. Walking toward the front of the house I heard, in addition to the insects squeaking, faint music from somewhere. Someone who had the air of staff appeared at the front door, waited for me with a faint welcoming smile.

  “You would be Mr. Tripper, sir?”

  “I would indeed.”

  “I’m Dobson, sir. I took your call. The directions were accurate, I hope.”

  “I’m here, Dobson.”

  “Very gratifying, sir. Mrs. Whitney wonders if you might join her on the sun porch before you meet the others. This way, sir.”

  He was white-haired and fit, looked like a man who relaxed with a sprightly forty miles of cross-country skiing on subzero weekends. I followed him inside, where it was cool and dim and preposterously spacious. A knight in armor stood at the bottom of a ten-ton carved wood stairway and the only light came from the sun glowing behind a stained glass window one landing up. Unless I was missing something, the window seemed to depict a wooded glade bordering a lake where a very manly and solemn brave was paddling a canoe. Fish leapt in the water. There may have been more to it—settlers with muskets in ambush, maybe?—but I was too busy following Dobson to fill in the details. I’d spoken with Dobson the day before, after I’d left Donna Kordova, and then with Cotter Whitney’s private secretary, who’d informed me that Whitney would be pleased to have me drop by the house when I got to town. Then I’d called Dobson again a couple of hours before from the Twin Cities International Airport to get the directions. Most of what I knew about Minneapolis came via The Mary Tyler Moore Show, but I did remember a bit of trivia about the airport. It was where they’d made the original film Airport. You could win a lot of saloon bets with that one. The mind is a swamp of such irrelevant information, but I can’t help that.

  The sun porch was enclosed and effectively cooled but gave the impression of being part of the outdoors. The furniture was old wicker in dark brown, the colors were all pale, blue and beige and lime and lavender. There were lots of plants, big green leafy affairs, and there was a pretty woman in a wheelchair that was also wicker and very old. Dobson announced me and, like Jeeves, shimmered away. Beyond the expanse of windows there were what looked like hundreds of people scattered across a long sloping lawn that led down to a lake. It was a large lake by my humble standards. You could just barely see the rim of fir trees low on the horizon marking the opposite shore. There were some brightly colored sails on the blue water and a motorboat sent up a plume of white foam and a cabin cruiser sat at anchor. The lake must have been connected by a channel to other lakes and waterways. People were swatting a shuttlecock or playing croquet, others stretched in the sun, and some were standing around a couple of cooking fires munching huge sandwiches and drinking gin and sangria and having a hell of a good time. They all managed to look like the largest advertisement ever created for the good folks at Orvis.

  “I’m Eleanor Whitney.” She held out her hand. It was tan and the Piaget on her wrist was gold with diamonds and emeralds. “I don’t mean to keep you from my husband, but I wanted so much to meet you and I am a bit isolated in here.” She pushed herself away from the table where she’d been writing letters. There was also a black plate with some exquisitely arranged bits of food on it. Something that had been shaved into delicate curls. She had a wonderful wide smile. The tan was almost too good to be true. Her hair was streaked blond and worn in a soft page boy. She asked me to sit down. “My husband and I fell in love to the music of your brother, you see. Cotter was working in the family business here in the Twin Cities then, just a trainee, but”—she smiled again—“you might say his prospects were good. His father and grandfather wanted him to work his way up, even if it only took a year. The accident of birth—there’s nothing quite like it, is there? In any case, we loved your brother’s music and we saw him both times he played here … at the Guthrie and then at the old Met Stadium.” She looked out the window at the crowd of friends swarming across her lawn. I figured she wasn’t seeing them just then but rather something that had happened long ago. I wondered which one was her husband. “I used to love to dance … Cotter was never much for dancing. Now that my dancing days are behind me, he’s discovered he really doesn’t mind dancing so much after all. One of life’s little ironies. We loved your brother’s music … and the thought never crossed our minds that someday Cotter would be operating the company that brought JC Tripper to the world. Milling and lumber, that’s what our families had always done. But times change, diversification became the rule of the day, and we swallowed the Magna Group … quite a digestive trick.” She gave me that big smile. “No, we’d never thought such a thing would happen, nor Cotter’s father passing away and Cotter taking over—and we couldn’t have imagined JC Tripper dying. It was easier to imagine our own deaths in those days than to contemplate the deaths of people like Tripper and Joplin and Hendrix and Lennon. We were a remarkably silly generation for all our great causes. No sense of proportion about anything. But I mustn’t bore you with the fruits of my solitary reflections.”

  “You’re not boring me,” I said. “I never imagined my brother’s death either. Some people seem to be doomed to immortality—”

  “Doomed? That’s an odd word to use. Like doo
med to good health … doomed to have the use of your legs.”

  “Well, immortality wouldn’t be much of a bargain,” I said. “People get tired, they long for the big sleep.”

  “I suppose you’re right, Mr. Tripper. But still—when your brother died, there it was, front pages, all that mystery, the exotic setting … it must have been very difficult for you.”

  “I wish I could dramatize it for you, but I was such a mess—well, I didn’t distinguish myself. I hardly remember any of it. I was having a very bad year.”

  “I had rather a bad year myself,” she said. “I thought it was important to be young and pretty and rich and daring. I should have settled for young and pretty and rich. The young and pretty would go soon enough anyway—”

  “If you don’t mind my saying so, it looks like they’re all still pretty much intact.”

  “Mmm. Well, I’m a thirty-nine-year-old cripple with good bones and a nice tan.”

  “And you’re rich. Surely that’s a comfort.”

  “Of course. But I don’t really appreciate it. Rich people seldom do in my experience because the rich people I know—I really don’t know anyone else, actually—have always been rich. The thought of being poor is a kind of unimaginable abstraction to them. And to me. Our grandparents, they understood poor.”

  “Nothing’s ever perfect.”

  “You’re making fun of me for being rich.”

  “Just a little.”

  “But you can’t make fun of me for being a cripple.”

  “No, I can’t. But at least what cripples you is visible. You can see it, others can see it, you get credit for it. A lot of cripples I’ve known were crippled in other ways. Worse ways, I’m afraid.”

  “That may be easier for you to say since you’re walking around on two good legs.”

  “Let’s leave my legs out of this.”

  She laughed. “If you insist. But I was about to tell you about my bad year. You don’t mind my rattling on? It always seems so much easier to talk with a stranger. Probably because one’s old stories are new to them. Do you mind? I could send you off to find the lord of the Manor—really, would you rather?”