Cons, Scams, and Grifts

Twenty-nine

Like a damned spy novel,” muttered Larry Ballard through clenched teeth as he climbed his third tree of the day. He had spent several fruitless hours in the remote wooded and brushy reaches of the Presidio where, Ramon had said, were the secret places he and Yana had set up drops when she became marime. In this tree it was a rotted knothole twenty feet from the ground. No message.

Ramon Ristik, he decided, must have just a hell of a lot of time on his hands if he could wander around the Presidio finding places to leave secret messages for his sister. Of course Yana being marime meant he couldn’t make contact with her openly.

The last drop was below the farthest corner of the cracked and weed-grown blacktop parking lot for the long-abandoned Presidio Language Institute. Spent and panting, Larry had to thrash downhill through dead, broken-limbed eucalyptus trees to hit a jogging trail. Then he had to find a wooden post that held one end of a cable with a NO TRESPASSING sign hanging off it. If you had enough faith to blindly force your fingers into a tiny opening under one corner of the post’s concrete base...

Larry touched something furry, jerked out his hand with a yelp. Nothing had bitten the ends off any of his fingers, but if Yana had left a message in there, it was safe from him.

Well, all of that had been just a whole lot of fun. And so productive. Still, he had Ramon’s final lead: a certain Meryl Blanchett with an address on Walnut Street.

Bart Heslip took California 37 up over the bridge past closed-down Mare Island Naval Shipyard and out across the flat delta marshes toward the Marin County town of Novato. It was a lovely May day, with a couple of small planes circling overhead and puddle ducks upending themselves in shallow ponds along the road. A raucous V of Canadian geese came up off the wetlands like a living arrow shot from some marsh god’s bow.

According to Bruckner at Marine World, Alzheimer-sufferer Eduardo Moneo lived on Yukon Court, a cul-de-sac in a neighborhood of small post — World War Two houses with attached garages, tidy triangles of yard, a fruit tree or two.

Bart parked in the driveway to go up the walk to a white bungalow with green trim. He carried his clipboard. The door was opened by a small round owl-like woman in her seventies who looked at him dubiously from behind big round glasses.

“My name is Heslip. I’m looking for a Mr. Eduardo Moneo.”

She didn’t quite cross herself. “Mr. Moneo passed away in April. He was such a nice gentleman.”

Well, Bruckner had said the guy was old and frail.

“Are you a relative?”

“No. I’m Helen Lee. My daughter and I are renting from Nadja — she’s Mr. Moneo’s daughter — until the paperwork gets straightened out.” Belated caution showed on Helen’s face. “Exactly what is your interest, Mr. Heslip?”

“We understood the house was for sale.”

“It was. But my daughter and I are buying it, we’ve already put money down. There’s been some difficulty with the title papers, but we hope to close escrow this week.”

“Well, I’m glad of that,” said Heslip with relief. “I’m from the escrow company and we’re concerned about the delay.”

Her face wreathed itself in smiles. She stepped back so Bart could enter. “Please, come in.”

In the small, neat living room, Helen sat in a wingback chair that faced the big-screen TV beside the fireplace. Bart faced her from the sofa with its back to the picture window. On every flat surface were tiny owl figurines of glass, metal, ceramic, carved wood.

“The Realtor hasn’t been very helpful, and frankly, Mrs. Lee, we can’t guarantee title without more information.”

“This house is the only asset Mr. Moneo left Nadja. She had his power of attorney, and the house is in her name. She didn’t want to sell, but she and her husband need the money. Then there was that delay in getting the title papers—”

File that one. “Uh — how did Mr. Moneo die?”

“Nadja said he just sort of wasted away. Her husband’s name is Punka Mihai.” She leaned forward and dropped her voice. “They sound foreign but they’re just as American as you or me.”

Heslip made a meaningless note on his clipboard. “Have you known Nadja long?”

“I met her at the ‘B’ word in March.” She gave a hearty laugh. “ ‘B’ as in bingo — at Our Lady of Loretto’s on Virginia Avenue. I’m a gambler at heart.”

Bart stood. “I’m very grateful for your time, Mrs. Lee. We probably can guarantee title within a few days.” He showed her his photo of Ephrem Poteet as he had to Bruckner at Marine World. “Just for my report, is this Mr. Mihai?”

“Yes.” Helen’s eyes twinkled. “A handsome man, isn’t he?”

Bart put the picture away. “Do you have the Mihais’ current address? We’ve had mail returned...”

Helen picked up a black-backed address book from the table at her elbow. He guessed she spent a lot of time in that chair.

“Punka looked after Mr. Moneo every day while Nadja was working in the city. They moved down to San Francisco after Mr. Moneo died... Here it is.”

Good old Punka. Bart copied down a Warren Street address on his clipboard. He wouldn’t let Ballard forget that he found Yana’s bolt-hole in a single day of digging, while Larry was still paddling around out in the Richmond District bullrushes.

In fact he’d call Larry right now to rub it in a little.

The call caught Larry in his truck across the street from a graceful ornate Italian Neoclassical apartment house on the corner of Walnut and Washington. Meryl Blanchett, whose name Ramon had given him, had an unlisted phone and wasn’t home. No response at the other two flats.

The only person in or out of the building was a handsome mid-30s guy with distinguished-looking touches of grey at his temples. He led a pair of leashed dogs up Walnut from the Presidio Wall and into the apartment house. The hulking black schnauzer with the magnificent walrus mustache pretended not to be with the white miniature poodle barking and circling him.

Ten minutes later, the front window curtains were opened in Meryl Blanchett’s second-floor flat. She must have come in the rear entrance. Ballard climbed the stairs to ring the bell. The door was opened by the handsome dude with the dogs.

He would have made a hell of a con man, Larry thought. Broad forehead, wide limpid brown eyes with long lashes, full lips, high cheekbones. As tall as Ballard, and as wide, but obviously a lover, not a fighter. Cashmere cardigan over a T-shirt with IN DOG YEARS I’D BE DEAD BY NOW on it. The black schnauzer leaned against his left thigh, the white poodle against his right ankle.

“Good afternoon,” he said in a sonorous voice.

Larry made a slightly confused gesture. “Mr. Blanchett?”

“I’m Meryl’s fiancé,” he beamed. “Theodore Mumford. And these are our children, Wim and Milli. How can I help you?”

The living room overlooked Walnut Street through rounded turret windows. Photos covered the mantel over a fireplace of whitewashed fire brick. Theodore adjusted one of a pleasant-faced woman of a certain age, with affection bordering on awe. On a polished antique oak sideboard was a bowl of what Larry thought was the most perfect wax fruit he had ever seen, until he realized it was real fruit, without blemish. Larry crouched to scratch ears and tickle chins.

“I’m Larry Ballard. I hoped Mrs. Blanchett might put me in touch with a mutual friend.”

Mumford looked disappointed. “Meryl’s getting her hair done. And we’re going out this evening...”

“Maybe I could catch her at the hairdresser’s.”

“Excellent!” beamed Theodore, and gave him the address.

JeanneMarie Broussard et cie hairdressing salon was in a converted Victorian on Spruce just below Sacramento. The salon’s blue door was up a flight of six red-stone stairs; pots of glowing yellow chrysanthemums graced the corners of the landing.

Unlike other salons Larry had been in, this one was devoid of sharp chemical odors. The five chairs were occupied by women with hair in various stages of disarray. None was young, and none looked like a siren capable of luring a much-younger hunk like Theodore onto the shoals of matrimony. Only one hair dryer in the corner of the room. Blow-dryers were the rule of the day.

Two of the beauticians were young, pretty, slim, chic, and ignored him. The pleasant-faced somewhat overweight girl sweeping gold-highlighted hair from around her chair gave him an almost shy smile. A petite woman in a white smock and a boy-cut left her client to approach Ballard with quick steps. She had level Gallic eyes and a French accent.

“I am JeanneMarie. May I help monsieur?”

“Mrs. Blanchett’s fiancé said I might find her here.”

JeanneMarie beckoned to the heavyset girl, who went over to the woman under the hair dryer, checked the dial on the hood of the machine, and spoke near the woman’s ear. The three clients with their hair in different stages of completion looked at Ballard in their mirrors. He couldn’t catch a glimpse of the woman under the hair dryer. The girl returned.

“Mrs. Blanchett will be ready in fifteen minutes, sir. Then she is agreeable to taking coffee with you at Beyond Wild Dreams around the corner.”

Sir? thought Larry Ballard. Suddenly he felt old.