Banshee

Chapter Seven

Chizzy was cooking again.

While cleaning out the freezer she’d come across five pounds of hamburger which had to be used because it had passed the expiration date on the label. She cooked the whole batch in a Dutch oven, added onions and tomatoes and various spices, and divided the meat into four casseroles. To one she added rice and to another pinto beans. Noodles went into the third and bulgur into the last.

Then, faced with the four casseroles, she sat down and had a good cry because there was no one to eat them. Kay had gone to dinner with Ben York, Mr. Hyatt said he wasn’t hungry, and Howard had shut himself up in the guest cottage, leaving a note on the kitchen table that he was not to be disturbed. She knew Michael was there too because she’d heard his car on the driveway. His car was as noisy as Ben’s but not in the same way. Ben’s gave the impression of speed and power; Michael’s coughed and gasped and wheezed like an old gasoholic having one final binge.

Chizzy cried as quickly and efficiently as she did her housework, and pretty soon it was over and she rubbed her face briskly with a wet towel. Then she decided on a sensible apportionment of the casseroles. One she would deliver to Howard and Michael personally since she did not include herself in any Do Not Disturb notes. She would store one in the refrigerator and take another over to Ernestina, the maid next door, who would probably add chili powder and jala-peños and ruin the whole thing. Mrs. Cunningham down the street was considered briefly as a recipient of the fourth, but her reaction to the meat loaf had been so peculiar that Chizzy decided to eat the casserole herself. She left it in the oven to keep warm while she carried Howard’s over to the guest cottage, wearing the padded mitts she used for barbecues.

It was seven o’clock. Fog had rolled in from the sea before sunset and the gray night was somehow more sinister than any plain black one. Though she never would have admitted it, Chizzy was afraid of the night anyway. She turned on all the little lights that lined the garden paths and took the two dogs with her for protection.

The vertical Venetian blinds of the guest cottage were angled shut but light squeezed out from the sides. Though the windows were closed she could hear voices inside, Howard’s and Michael’s and a third voice, louder than the others and higher-pitched. Holding the casserole close to her chest for warmth and comfort, she knocked on the door with the toe of her shoe.

There was immediate silence, then Howard’s voice:

“Who is it?”

“Me. I brought you a—”

“Didn’t you get the note not to disturb me?”

“Yes. But I didn’t think you meant me.”

“It was addressed to you.”

“I thought you might mean, oh, sort of the public in general.”

“The public in general doesn’t have access to my kitchen.”

Someone in the room laughed, certainly not Howard and probably not Michael. That left the stranger. She didn’t know what he could be laughing at. Nothing funny had been said and there was certainly nothing funny about standing out in a cold gray night being rebuked like an ordinary servant. She felt her face redden.

“You open this door immediately, Mr. Howard,” she said in the firm tone she used on the dogs. “I brought you and the Reverend some supper and I don’t intend to stay out here all night holding it.”

The door opened about a foot. “All right, Chizzy. Thank you.”

“Put it in the oven at three hundred degrees until you’re ready to eat.”

“I’m ready now,” the stranger said and laughed again.

He was sitting in a lounge chair beside a floor lamp. The lamp was turned on full and she had a good view of him but she could hardly make out his features. His eyes were almost concealed by a pair of dark bushy brows that met on the bridge of his nose, and his mouth was merely a line of separation between his straggly moustache and his long full beard. His hair reached his shoulders and only the fact that it was iron-gray gave any indication that he was middle-aged or more. She was sure of one thing, however. He had been drinking. The place smelled like a winery.

Chizzy crossed the room to the kitchenette alcove and put the casserole in the oven, uneasily aware that the stranger was watching her.

“That’s her,” he said. “The little fat lady that chased me with a broom, screaming like a banshee.”

“I did no such thing,” Chizzy protested. “I never saw you before in my life.”

“I was wearing my professional costume for the benefit of the summer tourists. A white robe makes me look more like a prophet.”

“How could I sound like one of those things when I’ve never seen one even in a zoo?”

“The banshee is a spirit, madam. It wails and screams outside a house to warn the occupants of an approaching death.”

Chizzy stood in the middle of the room, her hands raised. She was still wearing the oven mitts, but now they looked like specially designed boxing gloves.

“That’s wrongful talk in front of people still in mourning, mister.”

“I was only passing along some information, nothing personal intended.”

“You keep your nasty information to yourself. No one here wants it.”

She had more to say on the subject and was preparing to say it when Howard took her by the arm and guided her to the door. Almost before she realized it she was back in the cold gray night, angry and humiliated. She had been insulted by a stranger, rebuked by Howard, and the minister hadn’t even opened his mouth to defend her, let alone thank her for the food.

In addition to all this, the dogs had abandoned her, gone off on some business of their own. Starting back along the path to the house she heard Shep give a couple of loud sharp barks and then, uncharacteristically, lapse into silence.

The silence worried her. Once Shep started barking he kept it up until it was out of his system, having run its course like a head cold. She had a dreadful image of someone grabbing him and holding his mouth closed or choking the breath out of him. She almost fainted with relief when he suddenly reappeared on the path in front of her, good as new, wagging his tail.

Mr. Hyatt stepped out from behind an escallonia shrub looking like a piece of the night in his old gray tweed suit.

“Chizzy?”

“You gave me a fright,” she said crossly. “You’re supposed to be in the house watching the seven o’clock news.”

“I watched the six o’clock news,” he said. “And the five o’clock news.”

“Well, you shouldn’t be out here slurking around in the bushes.”

“Shirking?”

She knew from his tone that there was something wrong with the word but she couldn’t tell what, so she repeated it decisively to make it sound more authentic. “Slurking’s what they called it in my family. Anyway, Mr. Howard wouldn’t like such behavior.”

“I saw the garden-path lights go on and I wanted to find out what was happening.”

“Nothing is happening.”

“You went into the cottage.”

“I took some food.”

“What are they up to in there?”

“I don’t know.” She put her hand on his arm, intending to guide him back to the house. Instead, she found herself clinging to him. “Mr. Hyatt. I don’t know. They have an awful-looking man with them. He called me names like fat and said I chased him with a broom and screamed like a banshee.”

“You are a bit on the stocky side,” the old man said gently. “And you have quite a formidable voice. Did you ever take lessons?”

“No, but I sang in the Pentecostal choir for six years.”

“That explains it then.”

“It was a very good choir, if you’ll excuse the bragging. One Christmas we made a record and sent it to the President. He sent us a thank-you letter in return. I forget who was President back then but it was a very nice letter. The choirmaster had it framed and hung on the wall.”

She was suddenly feeling much better, not a fat vindictive screamer, but a member of a choir singled out by the President of the United States for special commendation.

“Now you better skedaddle on into the house,” she said, brushing off the sleeve of his jacket as if to remove any traces of her clutching him. “You can catch the rest of the seven o’clock news.”

“I watched the five o’clock news,” he said again, “and the six o’clock news.” And very likely he would watch the ten o’clock, and if he was still awake, the eleven o’clock. It would all be the same news, in different voices.

The visitor settled back in the lounge chair, feeling comfortable and relaxed. The room was pleasant, his host polite and soft-voiced, and the food the old biddy had brought over smelled enticing. Since no one had offered him any he decided a hint or two was in order.

“I haven’t had a square meal in a while,” he told Howard. “November’s a bad month for tourists, and they’re my main source of income.”

“You can eat later,” Howard said. He glanced at the sheet of paper Michael handed him. “Cassius Cassandra. Is that your real name?”

“It’s the name I’m known by. You come down to my end of town and ask for Cassius or Mr. Cassandra, everybody knows who you mean. Ask for Desmond Walsh and they never heard of him. That’s the name on my birth certificate, Desmond Thomas Walsh.”

“Do you know why you’re here, Mr. Walsh?”

“Sure do. I was paid. Some in advance from him” — he indicated Michael sitting at the table — “and the rest to come from you.”

“What are you being paid to do?”

“Tell the truth. Which is a funny thing when you come to think about it. The Cassandra in Greek legend always told the truth, only nobody ever believed it.”

“Cassandra predicted the future,” Howard said. “All I want from you is the past.”

“What if I don’t say what you want to hear? Do I get paid anyway?”

“Yes.”

“Fair enough. Let’s get started.”

“Mr. Dunlop and I have obtained a copy of the statement you gave to the police in August. I’d like to see how it compares with what you remember now.”

The prospect of being caught in a lie didn’t seem to bother Walsh. “There’ll be differences here and there. Truth is relative. And when the cops questioned me I was scared as hell of a possible child-molesting charge. That can be rough. Even in the holding tank before you get a chance to enter a plea, if the word goes out that you may be a child molester, you’re in for a bad time from the other prisoners. Short eyes, that’s what molesters are called. Among other things.”

“Has such a charge ever been brought against you, Mr. Walsh?”

“No, sir. I don’t deny I’ve seen the inside of a few holding tanks over the years, what with one thing and another. Booze mainly, nothing heavy.”

“Do you know who I am and where you are?”

“Mr. Dunlop told me on the way over from my hotel.”

“Have you been on this property before?”

“Once. That was when the little fat lady chased me with a broom.”

“What brought you here?”

“I was going to help myself to a couple of avocados. Not pick any, you understand, just gather up some windfalls. Also I like to get out in the country once in a while and this is as close to country as you can get without a car or bike. So I came here.”

“And after gathering up a few windfalls you left the property?”

“I intended to. Then through the trees I saw that cute little house and I thought maybe a midget lived there. I used to know a midget when I was traveling with a carnival. He called himself Paul Bunyan, Junior. Cranky little bastard, always bitching that the world was too big for him. I used to cool him down with doses of philosophy. Listen man, I’d tell him, the world is too big for any of us. He liked that kind of talk. He was a deep thinker.”

“Did you enter the small house?”

“No. The fat lady showed up with two ferocious-looking dogs. I wasn’t scared of the dogs because they were both wagging their tails. But the old girl meant business. Women have a violent streak in them.”

“Are you married, Mr. Walsh?”

Walsh thought about it. “What did I tell the police?”

“Let’s hear what you have to say now.”

“Not much of anything, actually. I’m not sure if I’m married or not. My last wife took off for Mexico with some guy she met at a bingo game. Maybe she got a divorce, maybe not.”

“After you were chased off this property, did you return?”

“I think I told the police I never came to the premises again. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t come near the premises again.”

“Did you?”

“Sure. I must have walked along the creek half a dozen times, cooling my feet and thinking. All kinds of people go there. Flowing water has a fascination for nearly everyone. Maybe it’s because, as Heraclitus wrote, all things are in a state of flux.”

“Are you still in the habit of walking along the creek?”

“No. Sitting here in this room, this is the closest I’ve come in a long time.”

“Why?”

“The little girl disappeared. After that everything changed. It wasn’t good clean country anymore. The water looked dirty and I felt like there was a cop behind every tree.”

“Did you ever talk to my daughter, Annamay?”

“I talked to a little blond girl. I didn’t know her name until I saw her picture in the paper after she disappeared. She was a nice friendly little girl, full of questions. All kids are curious about my tambourine. I told her I bang on it to attract attention. It’s part of my professional equipment. You can’t make prophecies without an audience and that’s my way of gathering an audience. Prophesying is my business, though the cops may call it panhandling or even extortion. It’s certainly not extortion. If I’m standing in front of a shop making prophecies and the shop owner pays me to move along, that’s not extortion. It’s common sense on his part and a way of staying off the welfare rolls on mine. Or maybe I follow a couple of tourists down the street announcing the world will self-destruct tomorrow or something else they don’t want to hear because they still have a week’s vacation left. They may slip me a little change to go away. Now I don’t claim this is a high-class way of making a living but it’s just as honest as some, not excluding yours, Mr. Hyatt. Financial predictions often have no more basis than my prophecies. As for you, sir” — he pointed a finger at Michael. The tip of it was missing, as though it had been chopped off by some unhappy recipient of his prophecies — “you and your kind carry on about heaven and hell and then take up a collection. You know why people put money on a collection plate? Fear. The same reason why the shop owner and the tourist pay me. But nobody calls your racket extortion.”

“You might be surprised,” Michael said wryly.

“Some do, eh?”

“Some do.”

“So we are all three of us, relatively speaking, in the same boat. Mr. Hyatt occupies the best seat. But if the boat springs a leak he’s going to get just as wet as the rest of us.”

“Is that one of your prophecies, Mr. Walsh?”

“No, sir. It’s the simple truth.”

“As you pointed out a few minutes ago, truth is relative.”

“There are a few basic facts we must all confront.”

“All right, let’s see you confront one,” Howard said. “In the early afternoon on the day my daughter disappeared, you were observed by one of the homeowners in the area as you walked along the north side of the creek. Mr. Cunningham was on the edge of his property looking for his cat.”

“Maybe he was looking for his cat, maybe he was looking for one of his chickens who’d flown the coop. And I don’t mean the kind with feathers. Anyway, he was shouting the name Randy. Not loud, kind of coaxing-like. As soon as he spotted me he went back up the hill toward his house.”

“And what did you do, Mr. Walsh?”

“I sat on the bank and watched the water flowing past me. It’s better than watching the waves break on shore because there you get the impression it’s always the same water, over and over, day after day. But water flowing down a river or a creek is always different. Every drop that passes you is different. I bet Heraclitus sat on a lot of riverbanks.”

“How long were you there?”

“I can’t recall exactly but it wasn’t long because suddenly it got very still and quiet. Then it started up, the desert wind like a blast from some hell on the other side of the mountain. You never can tell about those devil winds. Sometimes they stop pretty quick, sometimes they keep blowing for hours. I waited around for a while, then I could feel my throat drying up and my sinuses clogging, so I wet my handkerchief and wrapped it around my face and got out of there. I went back to my hotel room and closed the windows and blinds and watched the soaps. You can’t fight a devil wind. It’ll blow the skin right off you if you give it a chance.”

“Were you wearing your so-called professional costume at the time?”

“Yes. That’s how the cops found me so easy after Cunningham told them about seeing me. Not many men in town wear a white robe and carry a tambourine. In the long run though, it proved to my advantage. If I was planning any mischief would I have worn something that could identify me like that? The newspapers made out that it was real detective work on the part of the cops to find me so fast. I don’t mind giving credit where credit is due, but the fact is, a one-eyed drunken imbecile could have found me. And maybe one did.” Walsh’s moustache moved up and down at the corners in what appeared to be a smile.

“You don’t get along with the police, Mr. Walsh?”

“Sure I do. I get along with everybody. It’s just that I resent them treating me like a lunatic when I’m actually a legitimate businessman like yourself. My way of making a living may be somewhat eccentric but then look at you, playing around with paper money. And him” — Walsh pointed his mutilated finger at Michael again — “Look at you rattling the cages of people’s souls. If one among us must be considered a lunatic, then I would be the obvious choice. But would I be the real one? Think about it.”

There was a silence while everybody presumably thought about it. But Walsh didn’t like silences, especially his own. He said, “That stuff the little fat lady brought over is beginning to smell better and better. Would it be presumptuous of me to ask for a small helping?”

“I’m going to call a taxi to take you home,” Howard said. “You’ll have time to eat while you’re waiting for it.”

“I can’t be seen arriving back at my hotel in a taxi. Most people there think I own my own car. I let them think so. It gives me a little more clout.”

“You can tell the driver to let you off a block away.”

“All right.”

Howard opened a bottle of wine and Michael took the casserole out of the oven, using a couple of towels as pot-holders. Then the table was cleared of papers and the three men sat down to eat.

It was more truth than prophecy.

By nine o’clock he was gone and another name was crossed off the list — Cassius Cassandra, Seabreeze Hotel, occupation, prophet. Several names had already been crossed off, including the one immediately above it: Miss Firenze. Two more were added: Peter Cunningham and Randy.

“Why Randy?” Michael asked.

“It’s the name of the young man or boy Cunningham was calling. Walsh says he didn’t mention it to the police which makes it the kind of thing we’re looking for, an omission, a line of investigation missed or not followed through.”

“We don’t even have his last name.”

“Perhaps Mr. Cunningham will be kind enough to provide it. Or if he’s not kind enough,” Howard added grimly, “perhaps we can see to it that he’s scared enough.”

“I’m opposed to any kind of force or intimidation, Howard.”

“Are you?”

“I like to think so.”

“But not as opposed as you were, say, six months ago.”

“No.”

“You’ve changed, Mike. You’ve changed more than I have.”

“It’s a longer fall from a pedestal than from a seat on the stock exchange. I didn’t ask for the pedestal, it simply came with the territory. I’m glad to be getting free of it.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’ll go into it another time. Let’s get back to work.”

They resumed the task they’d started in the late afternoon. Somewhere in the files that Miss Garrison had copied and delivered to Michael at the church there had to be a list of the clothes found in the closet of the palace, but so far it had not been located. Under clothing there was only a description of what Annamay had been wearing when she left the house with Dru after lunch. There was nothing under apparel, garments, closet, wardrobe, so the clothes in the palace closet were evidently not considered important enough for a separate listing of their own.

A reference was finally located in the report of the sergeant who had first examined the palace after Annamay was reported missing.

There was no mention of the high-heeled sandals with the rhinestone straps.