Schemers

6

Brenda Koehler didn’t have much to tell me. If she knew or suspected anything, she was keeping it to herself out of loyalty or fear of losing her job. Probably the latter; the whole time we talked in her office she kept glancing at the closed door, as if she thought her employer might be lurking and listening outside. Mostly she answered my questions with monosyllables.

The only real animation she showed was when I said, “Mr. Pollexfen seems to think his brother-in-law is responsible for the thefts.” She sat up straighter in her chair and a little color came into her pale cheeks. Her tongue flicked over her thin upper lip before she responded.

“That’s not possible,” she said.

“What makes you so sure?”

“Jeremy… Mr. Cullrane is not that kind of man, not a thief.”

“Your employer believes he is.”

“They don’t get along,” she said stiffly. “Mr. Pollexfen… well, he’s always ready to believe the worst about Jeremy.”

“Why is that? Why don’t they get along?”

“I don’t know. It’s none of my business.”

“Do they argue often?”

“I… can’t say. Mr. Cullrane isn’t here very much during my working hours.”

“Money seems to be an issue between them,” I said. “A leech, Mr. Pollexfen called him.”

“That’s not true. He doesn’t take money from Mr. Pollexfen.”

“How do you know he doesn’t?”

“Part of my job is to pay the household expenses.”

“And you’ve never written any checks to Mr. Cullrane?”

“No. Never. He has a very good job. He doesn’t need to be supported.”

“Some kind of promoter, isn’t he?”

“Music. He books performers for small clubs and charity events.”

“Sounds like you know him fairly well.”

“Why do you say that?” Defensive now.

“So you don’t know him well.”

“No. I… no.”

More color in her cheeks, almost a flush. Maybe she didn’t know him well, but she’d like to.

“I understand he’s quite a ladies’ man,” I said.

“… Did Mr. Pollexfen tell you that? It’s not true.”

“No?”

“He has a… steady relationship. He’s not interested in other women.”

Meaning she’d made her feelings known to him in one way or another and the attraction wasn’t mutual. I said, “Nicole Coyne.”

“What?”

“The woman he has the steady relationship with. Nicole Coyne.”

“Oh. Yes.”

“I understand you have her address. Why is that?”

“Mr. Cullrane gave it to me. In case someone calls for him.”

“Does he receive many calls?”

“Here? No.”

“The calls he does receive. From anyone in particular?”

“It’s not my place to give out that information. You’ll have to ask him.”

“I take it he spends a lot of his time with Ms. Coyne?”

“Yes.” Tight-lipped.

I asked for the address. She gave it to me, along with the singer’s phone number. I wasn’t going to get any more out of her about Jeremy Cullrane, so I moved on to a different subject.

“What can you tell me about Mrs. Pollexfen?”

She stiffened again. “Tell you? I don’t know what you mean.”

“Do you think it’s possible she had anything to do with the theft?”

“I… don’t know.”

“Eliminate Mr. Pollexfen and Mr. Cullrane, and yourself and the housekeeper, and Mrs. Pollexfen is the only one left.”

“Yes. That’s true.”

“So you do think she could be involved.”

“I didn’t say that. Please don’t put words in my mouth.”

“Are the two of you on friendly terms?”

“Friendly? I hardly know the woman.”

“That’s right, she’s not here much during the day, is she?”

“Not much, no.”

“Spends most of her time shopping.”

“Shopping,” Brenda Koehler said.

She didn’t put any emphasis on the word, but it came out through lips pinched even more tightly; I had the impression of disapproval and scorn. As if she knew or had her suspicions that Angelina Pollexfen spent her days doing something more than spending her husband’s money.

“Does she have other outside interests?” I asked.

“I’m sure I don’t know.”

“What about money? Her husband give her carte blanche or put limits on her spending?”

“She has credit cards. Several.”

“Uses them all regularly, does she?”

“I can’t tell you that without Mr. Pollexfen’s permission.”

“Run up any large debts?”

The thin lips pinched again. But all she said was, “Please don’t ask me any more questions about financial matters. I don’t have the authority to answer them.”

I’d run out of questions, period. Trying to extract specific information from Brenda Koehler in these surroundings was pretty much a wasted effort. The perfect discreet employee. But insecure nonetheless; she’d continued to glance at the closed door every third or fourth question the entire time we’d been talking.

I put an end to the interview, left her, and went out to the front parlor where Pollexfen had said he’d be waiting. He was sitting in an armchair reading one of his mystery books the way I read my pulps-carefully, with it open only about a third of the way so as not to strain the binding. When I came in, he bookmarked his place and hoisted himself, wincing, to his feet.

“Damn arthritis,” he said. “Hell to grow old, isn’t it?”

“Better than the alternative.”

“Trite but true. Did Brenda have anything illuminating to tell you?”

“Not really.”

“I didn’t think she would. My wife still isn’t home. You’re welcome to wait, if you like.”

“No, thanks. Another time.”

“Come back tomorrow morning. I’ll make sure she’s here.”

“Thanks, but I’d prefer to talk to her somewhere else. Your brother-in-law as well. You have no objections?”

“Of course not. Suppose I arrange for you to have lunch with Angelina?”

“Lunch isn’t necessary.”

“She’ll be downtown anyway. As usual. And one has to eat.”

“All right, then. If she’s agreeable.”

“She will be,” Pollexfen said. “As for Jeremy, you’ll have to make your own arrangements.” He added meaningly, “If you can catch him.”

I t was four thirty when I drove away from Sea Cliff. Tamara would still be at the agency, but I didn’t feel like fighting crosstown traffic. Easier to phone her, then take the shorter route home through the park and on up to Diamond Heights.

When I reached the Palace of the Legion of Honor I pulled over into the main parking lot to make the call. The Henderson case first-I asked Tamara if Jake had checked in yet.

“Few minutes ago,” she said. “He thinks the stalker’s motive might have something to do with the father, Lloyd Henderson.”

“Because of the grave desecration?”

“Yep. Only problem with that is, the man’s been dead five years. Doesn’t seem likely somebody’d all of a sudden decide to go after his sons.”

“You look into the father’s background yet?”

“Doing that now. Another model citizen. Dentist. Retired four years before he died. What could a dentist’ve done that’d make some dude start slinging acid?”

“Fillings gone bad, maybe.”

She laughed. “Hey, who says you don’t have a sense of humor. Every now and then you get off a funny line.”

“By accident, no doubt.” I went on to fill her in on the interview with Gregory Pollexfen.

She said, “Rich people,” in her scornful way. “So what’s your take? Man swipe his own books?”

“Possible, but it seems to be another case of no motive. Unless you’ve come up with facts I don’t know about yet.”

“Nope. Rivera was right-Pollexfen’s a financial rock. Got more money than you or I will ever see.”

“How about the others in the menage?”

“Well, Jeremy Cullrane’s no angel. Been in trouble before.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Assault case a few years ago-argument with the husband of a woman he was shagging that led to a brawl. Husband pressed charges but dropped them later. One other mark on Cullrane’s record: arrest five years ago for aggravated assault, charges dropped for lack of evidence.”

“A sweetheart.”

“Yeah. And a loser. Considers himself a player, but he doesn’t play real well. Reputed to’ve dropped a bundle in a deal that went sour five years ago, right before the assault arrest.”

“What kind of deal?”

“Details a little hazy, but I’ll find out.”

“His own money?”

“Not unless he’s been dealing drugs on the side.”

“Could be Pollexfen’s. Through his sister.”

“Well, the Cullranes grew up lower middle class in Fresno, so no financial resources there. With his business record, doesn’t seem too likely he’d have friends or connections for big-bucks loans.”

“Promoter, right? Booking agent for club acts?”

“Among other things,” Tamara said.

“Where’s his office?”

“Doesn’t have one. There’s a listing-Jeremy Cullrane Associates, on Geary. But it’s just a mail drop-I checked.”

“Any hint what he might be involved in now? Some kind of deal, say, that would require a large sum of cash?”

“Not so far.”

“He’s seeing a singer named Nicole Coyne, lives in North Beach.” I spelled the name and recited the address. “See what you can find out about her and her financial situation.”

“Will do.”

“Anything I ought to know about Mrs. Pollexfen?”

“Well, she’s a boozer. Two DUI arrests, lost her license for six months on the second. EMT call to their house three years ago-toxic reaction to prescription drugs and alcohol that put her in the hospital for three days.”

“What did she do before she hooked up with her husband?”

“Travel agent. She’s more than thirty years younger than him. True love at first sight, you think?”

“On his part, maybe,” I said. “I’d like to know if there was a prenup.”

“I’ll see if I can find out.”

“How faithful she’s been, too. Any whisper stuff, links with prominent men. Both Pollexfen and his secretary made sly little remarks about her daily ‘shopping trips.’ If she has been cheating, she couldn’t have been very discreet about it.”

“Oh boy,” Tamara said, “down and dirty.”

“One more thing. Any expensive habits or vices-her, and also her brother and husband.”

“Poor Tamara. Work, work, work.”

“You know you love it,” I said.

“Well, I’ve got the energy for it now. Sure is amazing what getting laid can do for a girl’s stamina.”

K erry said, “I have news.” There was a time, less than a year ago, when she’d made that same announcement, and the news had been bad enough to knock my world off its axis. Breast cancer. But long, difficult weeks of radiation therapy had done its job; she’d been cancer-free for several months now, as of her most recent checkup two weeks ago. This news couldn’t be linked to the disease. She was smiling and her green eyes were aglow.

“Good news, right?”

“Very good. Get yourself a beer and me a glass of wine and I’ll tell you.” When I’d done that and we had drinks in hand, she said, “You are looking at Bates and Carpenter’s newest vice president.”

“Hey! A promotion!”

“Effective immediately. Bigger office, bigger perks, and a bigger paycheck every month. How about that?”

“Terrific.” We clinked glasses. “More hours, too, though, I’ll bet.”

“Probably. Do you mind?”

“Not if you’re up to it.”

“I’m up to it. Jim Carpenter thinks so, too, or he wouldn’t have offered the promotion.”

“The important thing is what your oncologist thinks. I don’t have to remind you what he said about too much stress…”

“No, you don’t. I know my limitations, don’t worry.”

“It’s my nature to worry, especially where you’re concerned.”

She patted my cheek and leaned up to kiss me. “You’re sweet,” she said. Then she said, “You’re staring at me again.”

“Am I?”

“I catch you doing that a lot lately. I must really look different, huh?”

“Beautiful. Gorgeous.”

“Ten years younger?” she asked, pleased.

“At least.”

She’d had a face-lift a few weeks ago. Her treat to herself after the breast cancer ordeal. I’d been leery of it at first, all that slicing and dicing, and when I first saw her after the surgery, all bandaged and bruised and swollen like the victim of a bad accident, I’d been more than a little anxious. (Not Emily, though; nothing much bothered that kid of ours anymore.) Kerry had spent two and a half weeks holed up in the condo, going out only for post-op visits to her plastic surgeon, doing her ad agency work by home computer as she had during the cancer radiation treatments. When the last of the bandages came off and the scars finally healed, good-bye, anxiety, hello, happy surprise. The minor age wrinkles and eye bags and mouth lines that had bothered her, if not me, were gone and she truly did look ten years younger. More beautiful than ever. No wonder I kept staring at her.

“Where’s Emily?” I asked.

“It’s her choral group night, remember?”

“That’s right. Our daughter, the budding chanteuse. So how about you and I celebrate the promotion?”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Oh, something Tamara told me this afternoon, about stamina.”

“And that is?”

I told her. Then I told her, juicily, what I had in mind. She actually blushed a little.

Face-lifts do wonders, all right. For a woman’s selfimage and morale. And for a man’s libido.