Double

21: McCone

I found a phone booth in a shopping arcade not far from Karyn Sugarman’s office and tried to call June Paxton. Her line was busy. Next I looked up Henry Nyland in the directory; he lived on Coronado. A woman whose voice held the professional tones of a housekeeper informed me he had gone to campaign headquarters and then would be meeting with party officials all afternoon. I got the address of his headquarters downtown and drove there.

The headquarters were in a storefront that looked as if it might once have been an auto dealership. Red, white, and blue banners draped the large plate-glass windows — excessively patriotic, I thought, for a campaign for city council. I tried the door and found it locked, then peered inside. There were desks covered with envelopes and literature, numerous phones, and the obligatory coffee urn for weary volunteers, but no people. Nyland must already be on the way to his meeting. That eliminated the possibility of seeing him, at least until evening.

I found another phone booth and tried to call June Paxton again. Her line was still busy. Lloyd Beddoes and Victor Ibarcena were both absent from the Casa del Rey — Ibarcena’s day off and Beddoes temporarily unavailable, the switchboard said. I wondered who minded the store while they were gone.

Beddoes’s home number was in Elaine’s book. I called it, and listened while it rang ten times. Ibarcena, I found, was listed in the directory at an Ocean Beach address. No answer there either. I tried Paxton again: still busy.

I was running out of people to call and starting to get frustrated. It was steaming hot in the booth, and I propped the door open, trying to decide what to do next. This was a rotten way to spend a Sunday, a rotten way to spend a vacation. I wished I was home in San Francisco, with Don.

Don. Good Lord. I had called him the night I’d arrived, promised to call again in a couple of days. And then I’d totally forgotten to do so.

I fished out my phone company credit card, stuck my well-used dime in the slot, and placed a call to his home number. A woman answered and said to hold on, Don was in the shower.

The temperature in the phone booth must have risen thirty degrees while I waited. When Don’s cheerful voice came on the line, I snarled, “Who was that?”

“It’s not what you think.”

“What am I supposed to think? There’s a woman in your apartment, answering your phone while you’re in the shower.”

“Right. It’s, uh, my cousin Laura from Tacoma. We used to play doctor together, so I hardly think my taking a shower in the same apartment with her is anything new or shocking.”

That gave me pause. Don did have a cousin in Tacoma.

“Laura’s in town for the week,” he went on. “She wants to meet you. When are you coming back?”

“I don’t know.” Briefly I outlined what was happening down here.

“Busman’s holiday, huh?” he said when I was finished.

“Sort of. I wish I were home.”

“So do I. I was worried when you didn’t call.”

“I meant to, but...”

“I know.”

We went on for a little while, exchanging the small, mundane facts that close relationships thrive on. There had been a power failure and Don’s freezer had defrosted. Did I think he should refreeze the squid he’d had in there? (No.) The mailman had got drunk again and dumped all the mail at the bottom of the steps instead of putting it in the boxes. Should he complain? (Yes.) A celebrity had got mad at him on the talk show and used the F word before they could bleep him. Don had a tape of it for me to hear. (Good.) When we hung up, I felt the warm glow that talking to him always gave me.

Until I remembered that the name of his cousin in Tacoma was Patricia, not Laura.

The day went on in the same frustrating fashion. I kept getting a busy signal at June Paxton’s number — along with her address, I now had it memorized — and decided to drive down to Chula Vista to see her. When I arrived at her neat frame house on a street not far from Elaine’s, she had gone out. I called Beddoes a couple of times, both at home and at the hotel, but with no luck. Ibarcena continued to elude me. I checked with Henry Nyland’s housekeeper; he was still in his meeting, as far as she knew. I tried to drop in on Rich Woodall, but he wasn’t home, and the animals were locked up tight.

About four o’clock, I remembered I’d forgotten to eat and stopped at a burrito stand. I ordered one with chorizo and hot sauce, took it to my car, and the damned thing fell apart in my lap.

When I went home to change my grease-and-sauce-splattered jeans, Charlene’s kids were tearing the playroom apart, Charlene was lying down and totally ignoring them, my mother was slamming pots and pans around the kitchen and casting her dark looks at all who entered, and my father was singing up a bawdy storm in the garage. I didn’t even ask where John and Joey were — I didn’t want to know.

I changed, took three aspirin, and headed back to the Casa del Rey, hoping to buy Wolf a drink and see if he’d found out anything from Jim Lauterbach. But Wolf wasn’t at the hotel, and the convivial conventioneers who were warming up for the banquet only depressed me. I had a solitary drink on the terrace outside the Cantina Sin Nombre, brooding about Don, then called Ibarcena’s home number and received a busy signal. With a sense of relief at having something concrete to do, I set out for Ocean Beach.

Ibarcena lived in a large redwood-shingled apartment complex not far from the beach. To get to his unit, I had to go through a central courtyard where there was a swimming pool and a putting green, then along a side walkway screened from the adjoining building by tall junipers. There was no one at the pool, in spite of the late-afternoon heat.

I pushed Ibarcena’s bell and heard his voice call, “I will answer that.” He opened the door, wearing a light bathrobe open almost to the waist. His eyes widened when he saw me, and he started to shut the door.

I stepped forward, wedging my foot between the door and the frame. “Hello, Mr. Ibarcena,” I said. “You remember me — Sharon McCone, Elaine Picard’s friend?”

“Yes, what is it you want?”

“I need to talk to you about Elaine—”

Behind him the phone rang. He made an annoyed sound and stepped back. I moved inside the apartment. Ibarcena gave me an irritated look and went to the phone. When he said “Yes?” his voice crackled with impatience.

I looked around the room. It was small, with charcoal-gray walls that made it seem even smaller. The furnishings were spare, modern pieces, and the colors were all red and gold and gray — very trendy high-tech. When I looked back at Ibarcena, he was placing the receiver none too gently in its cradle.

“Who was that?” The voice came from a door in the far wall. I glanced over and saw a young man who couldn’t have been more than sixteen. He was dressed in a skimpy, tight bathing suit, and held a tray containing two iced drinks and a bowl of peanuts.

Ibarcena made the annoyed sound again. “Lloyd, of course.”

“Is he still threatening to come over?”

“Yes. He is all upset—” Ibarcena paused, glancing at me.

“Lloyd Beddoes?” I said. “What’s he upset about?”

The boy seemed to notice me for the first time. He set the tray on a chrome-and-glass coffee table and retreated toward the door.

“Don’t leave, Roger,” Ibarcena said. “This will not take long.”

The boy remained by the door, poised for flight. I was beginning to see what was going on here; Ibarcena was gay — a fact that didn’t really surprise me, given his appearance and mannerisms — and obviously had a penchant for young men. I’d interrupted a romantic interlude.

“Why is Beddoes upset?” I asked again.

Ibarcena sat down on the red couch, drawing his robe closer around him. “He has been under a very great strain since Elaine Picard’s unfortunate death.”

“Haven’t we all.” I sat down uninvited on the chair across from him. Behind me, Roger moved restively.

“Just what is it you want, Ms. McCone?” Ibarcena asked.

“I need to talk to you about Elaine. It seems she had discovered some illegal goings-on at the Casa del Rey shortly before her death. She’d written a letter to her lawyer.”

Ibarcena’s eyes narrowed and he leaned forward. “What was in that letter?”

“She detailed the things that were going on,” I lied.

“And what were they?”

“Things about Nancy and Timmy Clark, for instance.”

Ibarcena paled under his tan and drew back. His eyes darted from me to Roger, and he ran his tongue over his lips.

When he didn’t speak, I added, “It was very convenient for you and Lloyd Beddoes that Elaine was killed when she was, wasn’t it?”

Roger gave a sort of a squeak. Ibarcena glanced anxiously at him. In a moment, he cleared his throat and said, “Is what you are saying that Mr. Beddoes or I had something to do with Ms. Picard’s accident?” His accent had become thicker and he stumbled over the question.

“For an accident, it was very good timing.”

Ibarcena stiffened and stood up. “I do not like what you are hinting at, Ms. McCone. And I do not feel that I owe you any answer whatsoever. But to clear your mind of these suspicions, I think I should tell you that Mr. Beddoes and I were together in his office at the time of Ms. Picard’s accident.”

I remained sitting. “Again, it’s convenient.”

“Our secretary has confirmed this to the sheriffs men.”

“Then you’re in the clear.”

“There is nothing to be ‘in the clear’ about. Ms. Picard either threw herself off that tower or fell by accident.”

“Tell me about Nancy and Timmy Clark, Mr. Ibarcena.”

His face went red and he made a move as if to pull me to my feet, but at that moment footsteps sounded outside on the walkway. Lloyd Beddoes’s voice called Ibarcena’s name, and then Beddoes began pounding on the door.

Ibarcena flung out his arms in a gesture of despair. Behind me, Roger said, “It’s the old switch-hitter himself.”

“Be quiet.” Ibarcena went to the door and opened it. Beddoes stood there, looking disheveled and hot. His thick blond hair was rumpled, as if he’d been clawing at it with his fingers.

“Come in, Lloyd,” Ibarcena said calmly. “Do not try to break the door.”

Beddoes half stumbled into the room. First he caught sight of me and he gaped. Then he spotted Roger. He turned to Ibarcena, shaking his head from side to side. “How could you, Victor? After everything? After all we’ve been?”

“Get Mr. Beddoes a drink, Roger,” Ibarcena said. “It will calm him.”

Roger started toward the tray he’d brought in earlier, but a furious look from Beddoes stopped him. The young man glanced around, as if looking for a place to hide, and then he stood still.

“Lloyd,” Ibarcena said, “you must sit down and try to relax. Scenes like this are not good for your heart.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my heart.”

“At your age...” Ibarcena shrugged.

I was amazed that Beddoes — the “fine figure” of a man, as June Paxton had said — was gay. Or was he? Roger had called him a “switch-hitter.” But what really surprised me was the change in Victor Ibarcena. A moment ago, he’d practically been cringing under my none too subtle accusations. Now he was cool, totally in control. A nasty light glinted in his eyes as he looked at Beddoes — something almost sadistic. He’d been Beddoes’s lover, and now he was relishing the idea of casting him off for a mere boy.

Beddoes remained standing. “After all we’ve been to one another, I can’t believe you’d take on this...”

“After all we’ve been, Lloyd?” Ibarcena’s voice was cutting, and he smiled. “You make yourself sound the model of fidelity. Must I remind you of your jaunts to that house of ill repute? At least I didn’t go with a woman.”

Beddoes backed up, blinking. “That wasn’t—”

“Wasn’t what?” Now Ibarcena advanced on him.

“It’s only... It doesn’t mean...”

“Do not tell me what it means. You have been having it both ways too long, Lloyd. And I am sick of it.” Ibarcena glanced back at Roger, who still stood frozen. “Now I will not have to put up with you any longer.”

Beddoes’s face crumpled, and for a moment I thought he might cry. He made a strangled sound, then turned and fled from the room.

Ibarcena looked at me. “I suggest you follow him, Ms. McCone.”

“So you and Beddoes were lovers. How’s this going to affect your job?”

He came at me suddenly, grabbing my arm with bruising fingers. “I said, get out!”

He dragged me toward the door and shoved me through it, his face contorted with fury. I stumbled over the sill and almost fell into the juniper hedge. Ibarcena slammed the door, and the dead bolt turned. Inside, his voice was raised in wordless ranting.

I stood rubbing my arm. The man was certainly subject to sudden mood shifts. I was willing to bet poor Roger was still standing there as if he were playing Statues. And Lloyd Beddoes was nowhere to be seen.