Illusions

9

Pam and Cliff Hoyt lived in Ross, one of the more affluent Marin County communities. Their house was a neo-Victorian with a half-wraparound front porch, shaded by conifers and spiky yew trees and one enormous magnolia in the middle of the lawn. A basketball hoop and net above the double garage doors pointed up the fact that they had a son. He was nine now and his name was Jason; he was Bobbie Jean’s only grandchild.

All three Hoyts came out to greet Kerry and me when we arrived at two on Sunday afternoon. I was of two minds about being there; I wanted to talk to Bobbie Jean but I didn’t really want to see again what Eberhardt had done to her. The visit had been Kerry’s idea, the first stop of a two-part Sunday outing. Bobbie Jean and the Hoyts first, then a short drive south and some socializing and an early dinner with Kerry’s mother, Cybil, at her seniors’ complex in Larkspur. I’d let her talk me into it without much protest, as a payback for her accompanying me to Elizabeth Street yesterday. An hour or so with Bobbie Jean and her family was something to get through, but I liked Cybil now that she was independent and writing fiction again after a forty-year hiatus. She’d finished one novel and was into another, and it looked as though the first would be bought by one of the better New York publishers. The Eberhardts of the world make life seem bleak and futile; the Cybils are beacons of light, symbols of hope.

Cliff shook my hand and said again, as he had to Kerry on the phone, that he was glad we’d decided to stop by and that Bobbie Jean was eager to see us. His cheerfulness had a hollow ring. And Pam’s smile was wan and thin, like one of those happy faces crookedly pasted on. Even Jason seemed subdued. All of which pretty much told me what to expect as we trooped in to where Bobbie Jean was waiting in what Pam called the sun room.

She was sitting in a lounge chair, an afghan tucked around her legs and a sweater over her shoulders despite the sun streaming in through tall rear windows. She didn’t look any worse than she had at the funeral, but she didn’t look any better, either. Drawn and tired-eyed, pain lines puckering the corners of her mouth, the flesh loose and wrinkled on her neck and under her chin. She’d put on rouge and lipstick, but it only called attention to the sickly pallor of her skin. The lingering impression I had was of an elderly hospital patient, propped and primped for the coming of callers.

But Kerry and I had our own masks on; we pretended she looked fine, made meaningless small talk designed to lift her spirits. I handed her the nonjunk mail I’d collected from the house yesterday; she barely glanced at it. I told her we’d pretty much finished going through both house and office, had separated out a few things we thought she might want. They were in the car, Kerry said — would she like us to bring them in? No, not now. When we do give them to her, I thought, she won’t want a single item. Wouldn’t weaken as I had with the fishing gear. The part of her life that had included Eberhardt was as dead to her as he was, and understandably so. He’d hurt her far worse than any of us.

So then everyone except Jason sat around and drank coffee and didn’t eat the carrot cake Pam had set out and made more small talk for forty interminable minutes. Eberhardt was such a presence in the room, though none of us mentioned his name, that his shade might have been sitting on one of the empty chairs, leaking ghost blood from the gaping wounds in his chest and back. I stood it as long as I could, finally got up and made excuses that were met with token protests from the Hoyts, silence from Bobbie Jean.

We were all on our feet except her when I said, “Bobbie Jean, I’d like to ask you a few questions before we leave.”

“Questions?”

“Some things that turned up that puzzle me.”

Faint smile. “Always the detective. Go ahead.”

“Last Tuesday Eb deposited five hundred dollars in cash in his checking account. Do you have any idea where he got the money?”

“...No. Five hundred dollars? Are you sure?”

“Deposit slip in his checkbook. He also wrote a check to somebody that same day for the same amount. No payee’s name in the register. It wasn’t to you?”

“No. I wrote him checks, not the other way around.”

“That makes it even odder. Five hundred in cash is a lot of money, and for him to be writing a check for that much the day before he... Well, you see why it’s bothersome.”

She nodded. “I suppose it could have something to do with that liquor warehouse business.”

“It’s possible. Did he talk to you about the job he was doing for the O’Hanlon brothers?”

“No. He never said much about his work.” She sighed, shifted position in the slow, careful way of people whose joints ache from arthritis. “If you want me to, I’ll call the bank in the morning, find out if the check’s been cashed.”

“I’d appreciate it, Bobbie Jean. Just one more thing. Did you know Eb was seeing a psychologist, a man named Disney?”

Surprise flickered in her eyes, vanished and left them dull again. She said in a matching tone, “No, I didn’t know that.”

“There was a notation on his appointment calendar — two P.M. last Tuesday.”

“He was a busy bee Tuesday, wasn’t he.” Still the dull voice, but bitterness was implicit in the words. “Have you spoken to the psychologist yet?”

“No, but I will.”

“What can he tell you that you don’t already know? He didn’t do Eb any good, did he? Nobody could do him any good, least of all me. When a man wants to die as badly as he did, there’s no way to change his mind. He’s better off dead.”

Pam said, “Mother...”

“It’s the truth, dear. He’s better off, I’m better off, you all are better off. He wanted to die and he’s dead and that’s the end of it.”

Not as simple as that, Bobbie Jean, I thought. If it was, you’d be in far better shape right now. We’d all be in better shape, skipping right along with our lives. And none of us is.

But I kept all of that to myself. Yielded to Kerry’s warning glance and tendered my good-byes. Each of us kissed Bobbie Jean’s cheek, and out we went with Cliff for company. Pam stayed with her mother.

Outside Cliff said, “I wish you hadn’t asked all those questions. It still doesn’t take much to upset her.”

“I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

“I know you didn’t, but good Lord, what importance can Eberhardt’s actions his last few days possibly have?”

“None to anyone but me, I guess.”

“That sounds as though you intend to keep investigating.”

“For a while.”

“Well, then, talk to Richard Disney or anyone but Bobbie Jean.”

I said I wouldn’t bother her anymore. I didn’t add that I meant after she called the bank about that five-hundred-dollar check.

Richard Disney, Ph.D., practiced psychology out of a brown stucco-fronted Edwardian on Church a block off 24th Street. It was a Noe Valley address, not all that far from Eberhardt’s house on Elizabeth — a private home that likely belonged to Disney and so allowed him the best of all possible commutes.

I rang the bell on the downstairs office door at a few minutes after nine Monday morning, on the theory that psychologists, like medical doctors and private detectives, were usually on the premises and not necessarily averse to seeing people earlier than their posted office hours. I was right in this case; the door buzzer went off almost immediately, giving me access into a carpeted foyer. At the end of a short hallway, a waiting room opened up. It was small, comfortable, like somebody’s sparsely furnished living room. At the far end a desk was set between two closed doors; behind it sat a youngish woman with seal-brown hair and the kind of wide brown eyes that look enormous behind the lenses of glasses. Her glasses were rimmed in gold wire. A nameplate on her desk said she was Ms. Scott.

“Good morning,” she said. “May I help you?”

“I’d like to see Dr. Disney, if he’s in.”

“He is, but he doesn’t see clients until nine-thirty. And I’m afraid he has a full schedule today.”

“I’m not a client, I’m here about one. A couple of minutes of his time is all I’m asking.”

She didn’t quite frown. “About one of our clients?”

“A man named Eberhardt.”

“Eberhardt? The name isn’t familiar.”

“He had an appointment for two o’clock last Tuesday.”

Ms. Scott opened an appointment book, flipped back a few pages. “Oh yes, now I remember. A Mr. Eberhardt did have an appointment but he called to cancel.”

Which explained the cell phone call at 1:07 that afternoon. “What reason did he give?”

“I really can’t say. May I ask why you’re inquiring about him?”

“He was a friend.” I gave her one of my business cards.

“Was?”

“He committed suicide last Wednesday morning. I’m trying to find out why.”

She said automatically, “Oh, I’m sorry,” and glanced at the card. “But I’m sure we can’t help you.”

“I understand about doctor-client confidentiality, but under the circumstances—”

“No, I’m afraid you don’t understand. Mr. Eberhardt was not a client of Dr. Disney’s.”

“He wasn’t? You mean the Tuesday appointment was his first?”

“That’s correct. We never saw him.”

“When did he make the appointment?”

“The day before. Monday.”

“How? By phone?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“Did he say how he came to pick Dr. Disney?”

“He was referred to us. Most of our clients come to us as referrals.”

“Who referred him?”

“I can’t give you that information.”

“Can you at least tell me why he wanted to see the doctor?”

“No, I can’t.”

“Look, Ms. Scott, I knew the man for thirty-five years and it’s important to me to find out why he killed himself. If you could just give me some idea—”

“That is out of the question.”

Those words weren’t hers; they came from a tall, spare party standing in the right-hand doorway. I hadn’t heard him open the door, so he must have moved as quietly as a sneak thief. I wondered if he’d been standing behind it, maybe with it cracked open, eavesdropping on my conversation with Ms. Scott.

“Dr. Disney?”

“Yes.” He was about forty and he might’ve been craggily good-looking in a Lincolnesque way if it hadn’t been for the fact that he was missing most of his chin. The lower quarter of his face had an incomplete look, as if his chin and jawline had been made of some substance like wax that had melted and run before it had time to solidify. “I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

“If you heard what I said to Ms. Scott...”

He nodded stiffly. “Your reasons for coming here may be valid to you, but not to me. We do not give out information about my clients or my practice. Not for any reason or under any circumstances. Ms. Scott knows that, don’t you, Ms. Scott?”

The rebuke had an arrogant edge, as if he were speaking to a naughty child. She took it without expression, and her “Yes, Doctor” was neutral, but her body language said she didn’t like it much.

I was not going to get anywhere with Disney, so there was no point in arguing. I ignored him and said to the woman, “Thank you for your time, Ms. Scott,” and smiled at her before I turned away. As I went along the hallway, the door back there shut behind the brain-picker with a lot less stealth than it had been opened.

I had the front door open and was starting out when I heard the rustle of clothing behind me, the quick muffled slide of shoes on the carpet. Ms. Scott, wearing a tight, defiant little smile. When she reached me, she said in an undertone, “Dr. Disney can be a pain in the ass,” surprising me a little. “I’m thinking of quitting.”

“Good jobs are hard to come by.”

“Not if you’re skilled at what you do. If I remember correctly, Mr. Eberhardt didn’t give a specific reason for wanting to consult with the doctor. He seemed reluctant, as many new clients are. Last-minute cancelations are common in a psychologist’s practice.”

“Who referred him to Dr. Disney?”

“I believe it was Dr. Caslon at San Francisco General.”

“Caslon. Attached to the staff there?”

“Yes.”

“In what capacity?”

“He is an ER night resident.”

“ER? You’re sure?”

“Certainly.”

“How did he know Eberhardt? How did he come to refer him?”

“I can’t answer those questions.”

“But Dr. Caslon can. Thanks again, Ms. Scott. And good luck, whatever you decide to do.”

“I’ve already decided,” she said, and showed me the tight smile again before she shut the door between us.

First thing at the office I called S.F. General and talked to a nurse in ER. She told me Dr. Caslon had Mondays and Tuesdays off; he would not be on shift again until Wednesday evening at seven. I asked for his home telephone number, saying it was important I get in touch with him. Wasted effort, as I’d known it would be. “We don’t give out that information, sir,” the nurse said in wintry tones. My thanks-and-good-bye went out into dead-line limbo.

I looked up Caslon in the white pages. No residential listing for anyone with that surname. Which meant either that Dr. Caslon had an unlisted home number or that he lived somewhere outside the city. I could have had Tamara run a computer check of the phone listings for all the nearby areas, except that she was busy on another skip-trace and this wasn’t urgent enough to justify diverting her. Besides, for all I knew Dr. Caslon was unlisted wherever he lived and/or was away somewhere enjoying his days off; and in any case I’d have a better chance of getting information out of him if I spoke to him in person. He could wait until Wednesday night.

But that didn’t stop me, once the noon hour rolled around and Tamara went out to lunch and left me by myself, from brooding over the connection between Eberhardt and a night resident physician in the emergency room at S.F. General. It wasn’t likely to be personal; no Caslon listing in his address book, no mention of the name in any of his home or office papers that I recalled. Got drunk enough to hurt himself in some way that had landed him in ER one night? That seemed the most probable explanation, but then why hadn’t somebody mentioned it? At least Bobbie Jean would’ve known...

I hadn’t heard from her, so I called the Hoyts’ number in Ross. Answering machine, but Bobbie Jean was there; when I identified myself after the tone, she cut off the machine and came on the line. Three-minute conversation, none of it enlightening and all of it difficult. Eberhardt’s bank had no record of the five hundred dollar check being cashed, she said. And no, she didn’t know anyone named Dr. Caslon; no, of course Eberhardt hadn’t been injured in any way serious enough to send him to a hospital emergency room or she’d have known about it. I asked her if she would mind calling the bank again in two or three days; she said all right. But her tone, weary and resigned, said she wished I would please just drop the whole thing and leave her be.

I can’t, Bobbie Jean, I thought as I hung up. I wish I could, for both our sakes, but I can’t.

Tamara came back from lunch with the sandwich I’d asked her to get for me. I was chewing on half of it when the phone bell went off. And the conversation that ensued put an end to my appetite, knocked Eberhardt and Dr. Caslon and that mysterious five hundred dollars right out of my head.

A raspy male voice asked to speak to me, and I said he already was, and he said, “My name is Battle, Lieutenant Mike Battle, Sonoma County Sheriff’s Department.”

I didn’t know anybody named Mike Battle. I said, “What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”

“Few questions about one Ira Erskine. Name familiar to you?”

“Yes. A recent client.”

“How recent?”

“Last week.”

“What sort of work did you do for him?”

“Well, that’s confidential...”

“Under the circumstances you won’t be violating client confidentiality by telling me. We’d appreciate your cooperation.”

“Are you investigating some sort of felony involving Mr. Erskine?”

“Accident, the way it looks right now. But we don’t have enough information yet to close the books on it.”

“Serious accident?”

“As serious as they come. Fatal shooting. Early this morning at the Pinecrest Motel outside Healdsburg.”

Uh-oh. “Who was shot?”

Battle said, “Ira Erskine. Apparently got careless cleaning a .38 Police Special in his room and blew off the back of his head.”