“Oh yes,” the woman said. She sounded disapproving, as if she thought contacting a private detective, no matter what the reason, was a lapse of good judgment. “She told me about that.”
“Do you know why she called?”
“Well, about Leonard, of course. She was married to him once, after all.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“She heard you were investigating his murder. She wants to know if you’re making any progress.”
“How did she hear about me?”
“She called the police again. They told her.”
“Again? She’s been in touch with them before?”
“Yes. But I just don’t know why she should care.” The disapproval was sharper now. “The way he treated her, cheating on her with men … my God!”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“If I told her once after the divorce I told her a hundred times —good riddance. I warned her. Once bitten, twice shy, but she never listens to me.”
I could understand why. But I said, “When do you expect her back?”
“Not until tonight sometime. She had to go to Sacramento. They’re having a seminar today. A motivational seminar, whatever that is.”
“They?”
“Her company. She works for Avon Cosmetics, didn’t you know that?”
“No, ma’am, I didn’t. Will you please tell her I returned her call?”
“Yes, I’ll tell her. What else should I tell her?”
“Ma’am?”
“About your investigation. Are you making progress?”
“I’m doing my best.”
“That doesn’t tell me anything.”
“I’m afraid it’s all I can tell you, Mrs. Mitchell.”
“Miss Mitchell. I’m not married.”
I could understand that, too. I said, “Goodbye, Miss Mitchell,” and put the receiver down before she could say anything else.
The coffee water was boiling. I made a cup of instant and sat down again. The building was quiet—the real estate office and the Slim-Taper Shirt Company were both closed today—and that made this a good place to do some more thinking.
But it was another exercise in futility. Assume Kenneth Purcell was murdered; assume Danny Martinez had seen or heard enough to identify the person responsible; assume Martinez had sold that person’s name to Leonard and that Leonard had been murdered by that person. All right. But where did Richie Dessault fit in? It was possible, even though he hadn’t been at the party the night of Kenneth’s death, that he had snuck onto the grounds some time after it got under way. But why? Not with the intention of murdering Kenneth; he couldn’t have known Purcell would decide to go outside alone at any time during the evening. I couldn’t think of another reason he might have gone there on the sly that night, long after Melanie had left. And yet if he hadn’t had a hand in either Kenneth’s or Leonard’s demise, what was his connection with Danny Martinez? And if I had read Melanie right this morning, where had Dessault been since yesterday afternoon? Why hadn’t he come back to the houseboat?
More questions: What had upset Kenneth just before he stalked out of the house? Did it have a bearing on his death? Did the missing Hainelin snuff box fit in anywhere? Did Alex Ozimas and his carnal appetites? Alicia Purcell and her carnal appetites? Her evident affair with Eldon Summerhayes? Summerhayes’s secret purchase of Kenneth’s antique collection? Elisabeth Summerhayes? Margaret Prine?
All the questions, all the names, seemed to run around bumping into each other inside my skull; they were giving me a headache. I remembered the photograph of Danny Martinez and his family that I’d confiscated, and took it out and looked at it—I wasn’t quite sure why. It made me feel a little sad again, the way it had in the farmhouse. But that wasn’t all. Something about it bothered me vaguely, something that seemed lodged in my memory—
The telephone bell went off. It made me jump and I came close to upsetting my cup of coffee; I wasn’t expecting it to ring on a Saturday morning. I picked up and said, “Detective agency,” and Eberhardt’s voice said, “I figured I’d find you there. Don’t you know it’s Saturday?”
“Too damn well. What’s up, Eb?”
“Nothing much. Ben Klein tried calling you at home; when he didn’t get an answer he called me. He’s another one working on his day off.”
“What did he have to say?”
“He ran the check on Danny Martinez. Nada—not even a traffic violation. He’s got somebody looking into Martinez’s background, to get a line on where in Mexico the common-law wife came from. But it’ll probably take some time.”