I wondered if funeral home employees took a loyalty oath, vowing never to divulge a single fact about the dead. I thought I’d prime the pump a bit. Men are worse gossips than women once you get ’em going. “Mrs. Crispin’s sister was in my office a little while ago and she seems to think there was something . . . uh, irregular about the woman’s death.”
I could see Mr. Sharonson formulate his response. “I wouldn’t say there was anything ‘irregular’ about the woman’s death, but there was certainly something sordid about the circumstances.”
“Oh?” said I.
He lowered his voice, glancing around to make certain we couldn’t be overheard. “The two were estranged. Hadn’t spoken for months as I understand it. The woman died alone in a seedy hotel on lower State Street. She drank.”
“Nooo,” I said, conveying disapproval and disbelief.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “The police picked up the body, but she wasn’t identified for weeks. If it hadn’t been for the article in the paper, her daughter might not have ever known.”
“What article?”
“Oh, you know the one. There’s that columnist for the local paper who does all those articles about the homeless. He did a write-up about the poor woman. ‘Alone in Death’ I think it was called. He talked about how pathetic this woman was. Apparently, when Ms. Crispin read the article, she began to suspect it might be her mother. That’s when she went out there to take a look.”
“Must have been a shock,” I said. “The woman did die of natural causes?”
“Oh, yes.”
“No evidence of trauma, foul play, anything like that?”
“No, no, no. I tended her myself and I know they ran toxicology tests. I guess at first they thought it might be acute alcohol poisoning, but it turned out to be her heart.”
I quizzed him on a number of possibilities, but I couldn’t come up with anything out of the ordinary. I thanked him for his time, got back in my car, and drove over to the trailer park where Justine Crispin lived.
The trailer itself had seen better days. It was moored in a dirt patch with a wooden crate for an outside step. I knocked on the door, which opened about an inch to show a short strip of round face peering out at me. “Yes?”
“Are you Justine Crispin?”
“Yes.”
“I hope I’m not bothering you. My name is Kinsey Millhone. I’m an old friend of your mother’s and I just heard she passed away.”
The silence was cautious. “Who’d you hear that from?”
I showed her the clipping. “Someone sent me this. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I didn’t even know she was sick.”
Justine’s eyes darkened with suspicion. “When did you see her last?”
I did my best to imitate Sis Dunaway’s folksy tone. “Oh, gee. Must have been last summer. I moved away in June and it was probably sometime around then because I remember giving her my address. It was awfully sudden, wasn’t it?”
“Her heart give out.”
“Well, the poor thing, and she was such a love.” I wondered if I’d laid it on too thick. Justine was staring at me like I’d come to the wrong place. “Would you happen to know if she got my last note?” I asked.
“I wouldn’t know anything about that.”
“Because I wasn’t sure what to do about the money.”
“She owed you money?”
“No, no. I owed her—which is why I wrote.”
Justine hesitated. “Are you sure?”
“Your mother is Marge Crispin, isn’t she?”
Justine blinked. “How much money did you owe her?”
“Well, it wasn’t much,” I said, with embarrassment. “Six hundred dollars, but she was such a doll to lend it to me and then I felt so bad when I couldn’t pay her back right away. I asked her if I could wait and pay her this month, but then I never heard. Now I don’t know what to do.”
I could sense the shift in her attitude. Greed seems to do that in record time. “You could pay it to me and I could see it went into her estate,” she said helpfully.
“Oh, I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”
“I don’t mind,” she said. “You want to come in?”
“I shouldn’t. You’re probably busy and you’ve already been so nice. . . .”
“I can take a few minutes.”
Justine held the door open and I stepped into the trailer, where I got my first clear look at her. This girl was probably thirty pounds overweight with listless brown hair pulled into an oily ponytail. Like Sis, she was decked out in a pair of jeans, with an oversize T-shirt hanging almost to her knees. It was clear big butts ran in the family. She shoved some junk aside so I could sit down on the banquette, a fancy word for the ripped plastic seat that extended along one wall in the kitchenette.
“Did she suffer much?” I asked.
“Doctor said not. He said it was quick, as far as he could tell. Her heart probably seized up and she fell down dead before she could draw a breath.”
“It must have been terrible for you.”
Her cheeks flushed with guilt. “You know, her and me had a falling-out.”
“Really? Well, I’m sorry to hear that. Of course, she always said you two had your differences. I hope it wasn’t anything serious.”
“She drank. I begged her and begged her to give it up, but she wouldn’t pay me no mind,” Justine said.
“Did she ‘go’ here at home?”
She shook her head. “In a welfare hotel. Down on her luck. Drink had done her in. If only I’d known . . . if only she’d reached out.”
I thought she was going to weep, but she couldn’t quite manage it. I clutched her hand. “She was too proud,” I said.
“I guess that’s what it was. I’ve been thinking to make some kind of contribution to AA, or something like that. You know, in her name.”
“A Marge Crispin Memorial Fund,” I suggested.
“Like that, yes. I was thinking this money you’re talking about might be a start.”
“That’s a beautiful thought. I’m going right out to the car for my checkbook so I can write you a check.”
It was a relief to get out into the fresh air again. I’d never heard so much horsepuckey in all my life. Still, it hardly constituted proof she was a murderess.
I hopped in my car and headed for a pay phone, spotting one in a gas station half a block away. I pulled change out of the bottom of my handbag and dialed Sis Dunaway’s motel room. She was not very happy to hear my report.
“You didn’t find anything?” she said. “Are you positive?”
“Well, of course I’m not positive. All I’m saying is that so far, there’s no evidence that anything’s amiss. If Justine contributed to her mother’s death, she was damned clever about it. The autopsy didn’t show a thing.”
“Maybe it was some kind of poison that leaves no trace.”
“Uh, Sis? I hate to tell you this, but there really isn’t such a poison that I ever heard of. I know it’s a common fantasy, but there’s just no such thing.”
Her tone turned stubborn. “But it’s possible. You have to admit that. There could be such a thing. It might be from South America . . . darkest Africa, someplace like that.”
Oh, boy. We were really tripping out on this one. I squinted at the receiver. “How would Justine acquire the stuff?”
“How do I know? I’m not going to set here and solve the whole case for you! You’re the one gets paid thirty dollars an hour, not me.”
“Do you want me to pursue it?”
“Not if you mean to charge me an arm and a leg!” she said. “Listen here, I’ll pay sixty dollars more, but you better come up with something or I want this sixty-dollar payment back.”
She hung up before I could protest. How could she get money back when she hadn’t paid it yet? I stood in the phone booth and thought about things. In spite of myself, I’ll admit that I was hooked. Sis Dunaway might harbor a lot of foolish ideas, but her conviction was unshak
able. Add to that the fact that Justine was lying about something and you have the kind of situation I can’t walk away from.
I drove back to the trailer park and eased my car into a shady spot just across the street. Within moments, Justine appeared in a banged-up white Pinto, trailing smoke out of the tailpipe. Following her wasn’t hard. I just hung my nose out the window and kept an eye on the haze. She drove over to Milagro Street to the branch office of a savings and loan. I pulled into a parking spot a few doors down and followed her in, keeping well out of sight. She was dealing with the branch manager, who eventually walked her over to a teller and authorized the cashing of a quite large check, judging from the number of bills the teller counted out.
Justine departed moments later, clutching her handbag protectively. I would have been willing to bet she’d been cashing that insurance check. She drove back to the trailer, where she made a brief stop, probably to drop the money off.
She got back in her car and drove out of the trailer park. I followed discreetly as she headed into town. She pulled into a public parking lot and I eased in after her, finding an empty slot far enough away to disguise my purposes. So far, she didn’t seem to have any idea she was being tailed. I kept my distance as she cut through to State Street and walked up a block to Santa Teresa Travel. I pretended to peruse the posters in the window while I watched her chat with the travel agent sitting at a desk just inside the front door. The two transacted business, the agent handing over what apparently were prearranged tickets. Justine wrote out a check. I busied myself at a newspaper rack, extracting a paper as she came out again. She walked down State Street half a block to a hobby shop, where she purchased one of life’s ugliest plastic floral wreaths. Busy little lady, this one, I thought.
She emerged from the hobby shop and headed down a side street, moving into the front entrance of a beauty salon. A surreptitious glance through the window showed her, moments later, in a green plastic cape, having a long conversation with the stylist about a cut. I checked my watch. It was almost twelve-thirty. I scooted back to the travel agency and waited until I saw Justine’s travel agent leave the premises for lunch. As soon as she was out of sight, I went in, glancing at the nameplate on the edge of her desk.
The blond agent across the aisle caught my eye and smiled.
“What happened to Kathleen?” I asked.
“She went out to lunch. You just missed her. Is there something I can help you with?”
“Gee, I hope so. I picked up some tickets a little while ago and now I can’t find the itinerary she tucked in the envelope. Is there any way you could run me a copy real quick? I’m in a hurry and I really can’t afford to wait until she gets back.”
“Sure, no problem. What’s the name?”
“Justine Crispin,” I said.
I FOUND THE NEAREST public phone and dialed Sis’s motel room again. “Catch this,” I said. “At four o’clock, Justine takes off for Los Angeles. From there, she flies to Mexico City.”
“Well, that little shit.”
“It gets worse. It’s one-way.”
“I knew it! I just knew she was up to no good. Where is she now?”
“Getting her hair done. She went to the bank first and cashed a big check—”
“I bet it was the insurance.”
“That’d be my guess.”
“She’s got all that money on her?”
“Well, no. She stopped by the trailer first and then went and picked up her plane ticket. I think she intends to stop by the cemetery and put a wreath on Marge’s grave—”
“I can’t stand this. I just can’t stand it. She’s going to take all that money and make a mockery of Marge’s death.”
“Hey, Sis, come on. If Justine’s listed as the beneficiary, there’s nothing you can do.”
“That’s what you think. I’ll make her pay for this, I swear to God I will!” Sis slammed the phone down.
I could feel my heart sink. Uh-oh. I tried to think whether I’d mentioned the name of the beauty salon. I had visions of Sis descending on Justine with a tommy gun. I loitered uneasily outside the shop, watching traffic in both directions. There was no sign of Sis. Maybe she was going to wait until Justine went out to the grave site before she mowed her down.
At two-fifteen, Justine came out of the beauty shop and passed me on the street. She was nearly unrecognizable. Her hair had been cut and permed and it fell in soft curls around her freshly made-up face. The beautician had found ways to bring out her eyes, subtly heightening her coloring with a touch of blusher on her cheeks. She looked like a million bucks—or a hundred thousand, at any rate. She was in a jaunty mood, paying more attention to her own reflection in the passing store windows than she was to me, hovering half a block behind.
She returned to the parking lot and retrieved her Pinto, easing into the flow of traffic as it moved up State. I tucked in a few cars back, all the while scanning for some sign of Sis. I couldn’t imagine what she’d try to do, but as mad as she was, I had to guess she had some scheme in the works.
Fifteen minutes later, we were turning into the trailer park, Justine leading while I lollygagged along behind. I had already used up the money Sis had authorized, but by this time I had my own stake in the outcome. For all I knew, I was going to end up protecting Justine from an assassination attempt. She stopped by the trailer just long enough to load her bags in the car and then she drove out to the Santa Teresa Memorial Park, which was out by the airport.
The cemetery was deserted, a sunny field of gravestones among flowering shrubs. When the road forked, I watched Justine wind up the lane to the right while I headed left, keeping an eye on her car, which I could see across a wide patch of grass. She parked and got out, carrying the wreath to an oblong depression in the ground where a temporary marker had been set, awaiting the permanent monument. She rested the wreath against the marker and stood there looking down. She seemed awfully exposed and I couldn’t help but wish she’d duck down some to grieve. Sis was probably crouched somewhere with a knife between her teeth, ready to leap out and stab Justine in the neck.
Respects paid, Justine got back into her car and drove to the airport, where she checked in for her flight. By now, I was feeling baffled. She had less than an hour before her plane was scheduled to depart and there was still no sign of Sis. If there was going to be a showdown, it was bound to happen soon. I ambled into the gift shop and inserted myself between the wall and a book rack, watching Justine through windows nearly obscured by a display of Santa Teresa T-shirts. She sat on a bench and calmly read a paperback.
What was going on here?
Sis Dunaway had seemed hell-bent on avenging Marge’s death, but where was she? Had she gone to the cops? I kept one eye on the clock and one eye on Justine. Whatever Sis was up to, she had better do it quick. Finally, mere minutes before the flight was due to be called, I left the newsstand, crossed the gate area, and took a seat beside Justine. “Hi,” I said. “Nice permanent. Looks good.”
She glanced at me and then did a classic double take.
“What are you doing here?”
“Keeping an eye on you.”
“What for?”
“I thought someone should see you off. I suspect your aunt Sis is en route, so I decided to keep you company until she gets here.”
“Aunt Sis?” she said, incredulously.
“I gotta warn you, she’s not convinced your mother had a heart attack.”
“What are you talking about? Aunt Sis is dead.”
I could feel myself smirk. “Yeah, sure. Since when?”
“Five years ago.”
“Bullshit.”
“It’s not bullshit. An aneurysm burst and she dropped in her tracks.”
“Come on,” I scoffed.
“It’s the truth,” she said emphatically. By that time, she’d recovered her composure and she went on the offensive. “Where’s my money? You said you’d write a check for six hundred bucks.”
“Complete
ly dead?” I asked.
The loudspeaker came on. “May I have your attention, please. United Flight 3440 for Los Angeles is now ready for boarding at Gate Five. Please have your boarding pass available and prepare for security check.”
Justine began to gather up her belongings. I’d been wondering how she was going to get all the cash through the security checkpoint, but one look at her lumpy waistline and it was obvious she’d strapped on a money belt. She picked up her carry-on, her shoulder bag, her jacket, and her paperback and clopped, in spike heels, over to the line of waiting passengers.
I followed, befuddled, reviewing the entire sequence of events. It had all happened today. Within hours. It wasn’t like I was suffering brain damage or memory loss. And I hadn’t seen a ghost. Sis had come to my office and laid out the whole tale about Marge and Justine. She’d told me all about their relationship, Justine’s history as a con, the way the two women tried to outdo each other, the insurance, Marge’s death. How could a murder have gotten past Dr. Yee? Unless the woman wasn’t murdered, I thought suddenly.
Oh.
Once I saw it in that light, it was obvious.
Justine got in line between a young man with a duffel bag and a woman toting a cranky baby. There was some delay up ahead while the ticket agent got set. The line started to move and Justine advanced a step with me right beside her.
“I understand you and your mother had quite a competitive relationship.”
“What’s it to you?” she said. She kept her eyes averted, facing dead ahead, willing the line to move so she could get away from me.
“I understand you were always trying to get the better of each other.”
“What’s your point?” she said, annoyed.
I shrugged. “I figure you read the article about the unidentified dead woman in the welfare hotel. You went out to the morgue and claimed the body as your mom’s. The two of you agreed to split the insurance money, but your mother got worried about a double cross, which is exactly what this is.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The line moved up again and I stayed right next to her. “She hired me to keep an eye on you, so when I realized you were leaving town, I called her and told her what was going on. She really hit the roof and I thought she’d charge right out, but so far there’s been no sign of her. . . .”