Deadfall(25)

“The night of the party,” I said, “what was Leonard’s mood?”

“Festive,” he said. “It was a festive occasion. At least it was supposed to be.”

“Lots of liquor?”

“Champagne, mostly.”

“Did anybody get drunk?”

“Only Kenneth. The rest of us are civilized people.”

“Meaning Kenneth wasn’t?”

“At times he could be. At other times … no.”

“When did you last see him?”

“Shortly before nine-thirty.”

“What was he doing?”

“Showing off his collection to Margaret Prine.”

“Mrs. Summerhayes? When did you last see him?”

“At the same time,” she said. “My husband and I were together.”

“The entire evening,” he added pointedly. “We weren’t out of each other’s sight.”

I felt like asking him if they’d gone potty together, too. Instead, still looking at her, I said, “Was there trouble of any kind before Kenneth disappeared?”

Summerhayes answered for her again. “Trouble? What do you mean by that?”

“Harsh words, arguments, shoving matches, fistfights. Trouble, Mr. Summerhayes.”

“No. I told you—”

“Yes, right, all the guests are civilized people. Were you one of the search party that found Kenneth’s body?”

“No. Neither of us was.”

“Was Leonard?”

“I don’t recall. Possibly. I do remember that he was beside himself afterward. Half hysterical.”

“That’s understandable, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so,” Summerhayes said. But there was a hint of distaste in his voice, as if he considered males becoming half hysterical under any circumstances an unmanly thing to do. “He and Kenneth were close.”

I nodded. “Did you or your wife have any contact with Leonard after that night?”

“No. We hardly move in the same circles.”

“Who do you think shot him?”

“I’m sure I have no idea. A burglar, I suppose. Or someone in the gay community. God knows, those people can be violent sometimes. Look what they did to City Hall after the Dan White trial.”

“Look what Dan White did to the mayor and Harvey Milk. Look what the jury did for Dan White.”

He didn’t say anything.

I said, “What can you tell me about Kenneth’s daughter?”

“Tell you about her? Why?”

“I’d like your opinion.”

“Very well. Melanie is irresponsible, not terribly bright, and a drug freak. She’ll waste away her entire inheritance in a few years.”

“The kid she’s living with, Richard Dessault—you know him?”

“No. And I wouldn’t want to.”

“Alicia Purcell?”

The scowl again. “What about her?”

“What’s your opinion of her?”

“She’s a fine woman. Elisabeth and I have always thought so, haven’t we, Elisabeth?”

“Yes,” she said.

Summerhayes made an impatient gesture and a show of looking at his watch. “We’ve answered enough of your questions, I think —let you take up enough of our time. We have business to attend to.”

“I’m sure you do,” I said. “Lots of customers lined up out there, clamoring for attention.”

He curled his lip to let me know what he thought of my sarcasm. “Please leave,” he said.

I didn’t argue with him. I nodded and said that I appreciated his help, even though I didn’t, and put my back to him and went out. I made a point of looking at Mrs. Summerhayes as I passed her, but she still wasn’t having any. Even with her eyes averted, though, I saw enough of her face to read its expression: she was worried about something. I wondered what it was.

I wondered, too, why her husband had cut me off short when I asked him about Alicia Purcell. And why Elisabeth’s voice had been so cold and flat when she agreed that the widow was a fine woman.





Chapter Eight





Outside the gallery I took another look at the guest list. George Collins lived in Atherton, an affluent community down near Palo Alto, so seeing him would have to wait for another day. Margaret Prine, however, lived on top of Nob Hill—not far away at all. I walked back to Powell and down to the St. Francis Hotel, and went in there to consult one of their public telephone directories. No listing for Margaret Prine. I decided to go ahead and make the short trip anyway, take a chance on her being home. Maybe she could tell me some enlightening things about Eldon and Elisabeth Summerhayes, if nothing else.

I caught a cable car out front, the first time I’d been on one in a couple of years. It was overflowing with tourists, as usual—the main reason why San Franciscans don’t ride the cable cars much any more—and I had to hang on outside with what Kerry calls my “ample duff” exposed to pedestrians and passing traffic. I got off at California Street and panted my way uphill past the Stanford Court and the Mark Hopkins and the Fairmont, three of the city’s posher hotels, and then over past the Pacific union   Club and Huntington Park to a fancy old apartment building on Sacramento.