Double

31: McCone

Sun was streaming into the room when I woke on Tuesday morning. I sat up and looked at the clock. A few minutes after ten. I’d overslept.

Then, because the damage had been done and a few more minutes wouldn’t hurt, I lay back down again.

The room was the one I’d occupied my whole life before I moved north to go to school at Berkeley. It was a pleasant place, with pale yellow walls and flowered curtains, but it bore no traces of my former occupancy. The McCone family was too big and the grandchildren were too numerous to preserve shrines to departed members, and soon after I’d left home, my remaining possessions had been relegated to the attic. It was just as well: I really didn’t want to have to look at high-school pennants, pictures of old boyfriends, and snapshots of me in my cheer-leading costume and prom dresses. About the only thing I missed was the red plush kangaroo with a baby in its pouch that had been my constant companion until a disgracefully advanced age. Roo-Roo had taken the place of dolls; I had hated to play with dolls.

My thoughts quickly turned from the kangaroo to more troubling things. Don, for one. I ought to call him again but, frankly, I was afraid the woman named Laura would answer the phone. Laura, who in no way was his cousin from Tacoma. Don had lied to me — something he had never done before...

Think about something else, I told myself. Think about what you plan to do today, about Borrego Springs and Les Club.

That club connected several people — maybe more than I’d thought of last night. I ought to drive out to Borrego Springs, see what it was. But before I did that, I’d better make a few phone calls.

I got up, showered, and dressed in a hurry, then took out Elaine’s address book. Since I could hear Ma rattling around in the kitchen, I used the phone in the living room. First I called Sugarman, only to be told by her secretary that she was out of town. On an impulse, I asked, “Is she in Borrego Springs?”

“Possibly. She didn’t say where she was going.”

“But she does go to Borrego Springs frequently? She does know people there?”

There was a pause. “I’m afraid you’ll have to ask Ms. Sugarman about that.” Which probably meant the answer was yes to both questions.

I took Arthur Darrow’s business card from my pocket. He was an investment counselor — although I wondered how much business he did in a desert community like Borrego Springs — and likely to be in his office at this hour. But when I dialed the business number on the card, the answering-service operator said he was out of town.

Next I called the home number, hoping to speak to Mrs. Darrow — if there was one — or some other member of the family. The phone rang several times, and then a woman’s voice said, “Darrow residence.”

“Is Arthur Darrow in?”

“I’m sorry, he’s unavailable.”

“Is this Mrs. Darrow?”

“This is their housekeeper.”

“When will Mr. Darrow be available?”

“Not for several days.”

“Is he on vacation?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t give out that information. I’ll be glad to take a message, if you like.”

“Is Mr. Darrow at Les Club?”

There was a pause. “Where?”

“Les Club.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about. If you’ll leave a message—”

“Thank you. I’ll call back.”

I hung up and began looking through the address book for June Paxton’s number, then remembered it wasn’t there. Even though I’d dialed it many times since Karyn Sugarman had given it to me, the intervening period had wiped it from my mind. I’d have to find the piece of paper Sugarman had written it on, which should be somewhere in my purse, but first a cup of coffee would help.

I went down the hall to the kitchen, where I found Ma kneading bread. She is an expert baker — one of the few talents I’ve inherited from her. She frowned when she saw me.

“Are you on your way out again?”

“Yes, Ma.” I went and got a cup of coffee from the percolator.

“You’ve been mighty busy this visit.”

“Well, the convention takes a lot of time.”

“I thought that was over Sunday.”

I hesitated. Ma worried about me; I’d never been able to fool her into thinking my job wasn’t dangerous. If she knew I was conducting an investigation, it would only upset her at a time when — given John’s problems — she didn’t need any more aggravation. Finally I said, “I have to admit it. I’ve met a man.”

Her eyebrows rose. “A man? At the convention?”

“Yes.”

“He’s not another detective, is he? The one with the Italian name who called?” Ma had not approved of my relationship with the homicide cop Greg Marcus, because she’d been afraid he’d involve me in more of what she called “those terrible things you poke your nose into.” She hadn’t met Don, but I sensed she thought his work as a disc jockey too frivolous to qualify him as a proper suitor. And I was afraid that she would heartily disapprove of another investigator.

“No,” I said, remembering Wally and the date we were supposed to make, “he’s a lie-detector salesman.”

She looked relieved. “A lie-detector salesman. Do they make good money?”

“Probably. I think they work on commission.”

“Hmm.” She gave the bread a final punch and popped it into a bowl to rise. “Are you seeing him today?”

“We’re supposed to have dinner.”

“That doesn’t explain why you’re going out now.”

I set my coffee cup in the sink. “Well, if I go to dinner, I have to have something nice to wear.”

“You’re going shopping?”

“Yes.” Eventually, in the course of the next few months, I supposed I would go shopping. But since picking out a dress couldn’t possibly take all day, and the trip to Borrego Springs would, I added, “And then I thought I might take a drive out into the desert.”

She looked skeptical about that idea, but merely said, “Have you made any headway with your brother?” She has a way of switching subjects that only those who understand how her mind works can follow.

“Not much. He’s as stubborn as the rest of us.”

“Try again, will you please?”

“Yes, Ma.” I kissed her lightly on the cheek and started out.

“Sharon,” she said.

I turned.

“Be careful, while you’re... uh, shopping.”

I have never been able to fool my mother. Never.

The first thing I did was drive downtown to the phone company to check their directory for Borrego Springs. Since no one was home at Arthur Darrow’s house, I needed more to go on than just his address. There was no listing for Les Club, or anything other than the town’s two country clubs. Somehow I doubted either of them was it.

Then I went over to the recorder’s office in the county courthouse and asked a few questions of the white-haired old man behind the desk. He was friendly, with bright blue eyes that twinkled like a man’s half his age, and he flirted a little as he showed me how to search for property listings. Soon I was ensconced at a long table with a big registry for the Anza-Borrego desert area.

And about an hour later I had the location of a piece of property listed in the name of Les Club, Inc.

So it was incorporated. That meant the state would have a listing of the corporation’s officers, and, given enough time, I could find out who was behind it. The trouble was, I had no time to spare.

I went back to the desk and asked the man if he could help me figure out the property’s exact location. He came over and explained about tracts and lot numbers, then sketched a rough map on a piece of scratch paper.

I thanked him and hurried off to find out about Les Club.