Double

“Borrego Springs. Casa del Zorro, six weeks ago.” I gave her a blank look and she said, “Borrego Springs is a town out in the desert. Casa del Zorro’s their fanciest spa. Lady friend and I went out there for the weekend, ran into Elaine and Rich having dinner.”

“Did you talk to them?”

“You bet. I went right up and said hello. Elaine was embarrassed — she didn’t say ten words to me. Him neither. Just sat there looking like a fox in the henhouse.”

“You said you didn’t like him. Why?”

“His eyes. Kind that made you feel crawly.”

“Did Elaine ever tell you anything about him?”

“No. I asked her later, but she wouldn’t talk. As much as told me to mind my own business.”

“Is there anybody else she might have confided in?”

“Well, Karyn — Karyn Sugarman. But if she did, Karyn wouldn’t say. So it had to be professionally.”

“Professionally?”

“Karyn’s a shrink. Elaine did the couch trip a few times. Don’t know why. Nobody tells me anything anymore.”

“So you don’t have any idea what this Rich does for a living?”

“Probably a damned gigolo. God, that’s the kind if I ever saw one — kind makes a woman do crazy things. He’d be the one she’d kill herself over. Not somebody like Henry.”

“Who would Henry be?”

“Henry Nyland. Been after her to marry him for months.”

Henry Nyland. That was the name of the guy Charley Valdene and I had had the brief run-in with in the parking lot Friday night. I said, “Is he the politician, the one running in the special election for city councilman?”

She nodded. “Retired admiral with plenty of money, inherited it from his wife when she died five years ago. Good-looking too. Not a bad catch, but Elaine didn’t see it that way.”

“How come?”

“Who knows? Didn’t love him, I guess.”

“Was Nyland upset by her rejection?”

She said “Who knows?” again, and then belted down some more of her pineapple drink. She squinted at me over the straw, using it like a gunsight. “I guess you’re married, huh?” she asked.

“Uh, no. No, I’m not.”

“Got a lady friend, though?”

“Yes.”

“Sure. Figures. I’m too fat anyway. Too fat and too old and too drunk.”

Uh-oh, I thought, she’s going to get sloppy and maudlin. But she wasn’t that kind at all. She pushed the drink away, saying, “No more for me. Any more and I’ll fall on my face. Or wrap my car around a pole somewhere. One death today’s enough.” She squinted at me again. “Thanks for talking to me. I wish it’d been an accident.”

“So do I, June.”

She put the cigarettes into her purse and hoisted herself out of her chair. She was a little unsteady, but it didn’t look as though she were in any danger of falling over. I said, “You want me to walk you out?” and she said, “No, I’m okay. Just need to be alone for a while. Walk on the beach’ll sober me up.” She patted my hand, gave me a melancholy smile, and went away across the terrace to a gate in the side wall, moving carefully and with dignity.

I stayed where I was, watching her waddle through the white sand toward the water. The angle of her passage made it look as if she were walking off into that elegant sunset — walking straight into the dying fire of the sun.

15: McCone

The first person in Elaine’s address book I tried to call was her lawyer, Alan Thorburn. I reached an answering service, and the operator told me Mr. Thorburn was out of town until Monday morning. Was there any way I could reach him? I asked. Well, he was out on his boat, but due to call in sometime this evening, or perhaps tomorrow... I left my name and my parents’ number, hoping Counselor Thorburn would indeed check with his service.

Then I examined the addresses for Rich Woodall, Rich James, and the man listed only as Rick. Rich James’s was the closest to the shopping area near Elaine’s house where my phone booth was located, but his telephone had been disconnected. I decided to drive over and see if he was home.

The address turned out to be a decaying apartment house right on Imperial Beach, south of the Silver Strand. Built in the garish architecture of the fifties, it had a gigantic pink-and-turquoise mosaic peacock on the end wall by the parking area. A number of the tiles had fallen away, including those that formed the bird’s left eye, so he appeared to be a molting old peacock with a cataract.

I left my car in the lot and went around to the beach side of the building. Although it was late — close to seven o’clock — the heat had not let up and the sand was still crowded. The sun was low, and flame-like color spread across the water, reducing the people who strolled in the surf to purple-gray silhouettes. Here and there a barbecue fire sent smoke skyward, and a few diehard athletes tossed Frisbees and volleyballs around.