The Blue Hammer

XXIII

When I got up in the morning, Fred was still sleeping. One arm was over his eyes as if he dreaded the new day and its light. I asked the deputy on duty in the substation to keep track of Fred. Then I drove my rented car into Copper City, guided by the plume of smoke over the smelter.

A barber sold me a shave for three dollars. For a similar amount, I got a small breakfast and directions on how to find my way to Southwestern Savings.

It was in a downtown shopping center, which looked like a piece of Southern California that had broken loose and blown across the desert. The little city that surrounded it seemed to have been drained of energy by the huge wound of the copper mine in its side, the endless suspiration of the smelter. The smoke blew over the city like a great ironic flag.

The sign on the glass front door of Southwestern Savings said that the building didn't open until ten. It was not quite nine by my watch. It was getting hotter.

I found a phone booth and looked for Paul Grimes in the directory. His name wasn't listed but there were two listings for Mrs. Paul Grimes, one for a residence and the other for Grimes Art & School Supplies. The latter turned out to be in the downtown area, within easy walking distance.

It was a small store on a side street, full of paper goods and picture reproductions, empty of customers. The deep dim narrow room reminded me of an ancient painted cave, but most of the modern pictures on the walls weren't quite as lifelike as the cave paintings.

The woman who emerged from a door at the back looked like Paola's sister. She was broad-shouldered and full-breasted, and she had the same dark coloring and prominent cheekbones. She was wearing an embroidered blouse, beads that jangled, a long full skirt, and open sandals.

Her eyes were black and bright in her carved brown face. She gave an impression of saved-up force that wasn't being used.

"Can I help you?"

"I hope so. I'm a friend of your daughter's." I told her my name.

"Of course. Mr. Archer. Paola mentioned you on the phone. You were the one who found Paul's body."

"Yes. I'm sorry."

"And you are a detective, is that correct?"

"I work at it."

She gave me a hard black look. "Are you working at it now?"

"It seems to be a full-time job, Mrs. Grimes."

"Am I under suspicion?"

"I don't know. Should you be?"

She shook her handsome head. "I haven't seen Paul for over a year. We've been divorced for a good many years. Once Paola was out of her childhood, there was nothing to stay together for. It was all burnt out long ago."

Mrs. Grimes spoke with a direct emotional force that impressed me. But she must have realized that she was telling me more than she needed to. She put her left hand over her mouth. I noticed that her red fingernails were bitten down to the quick, and I felt sorry that I had frightened her.

"I don't think anybody suspects you of anything."

"They shouldn't, either. I didn't do anything to Paul except try to make a man of him. Paola might tell you different-she always took his side. But I did my best for Paul whenever he let me. The truth is-the truth was, he was never meant to be married to any woman."

Her hidden life, the memories of her marriage, seemed to be very near the surface, boiling cold behind her smooth dark face.

Remembering what Paola had once told me, I asked her bluntly, "Was he homosexual?"

"Bi," she said. "I don't believe he had much to do with men while I was married to him. But he always loved the company of young men, including his high school boys when he was a teacher. It wasn't a bad thing entirely. He loved to teach.

"He taught me a lot, too," she added thoughtfully. "The most important thing, he taught me to speak correct English. That changed my life. But something went wrong with his life. Maybe it was me. He couldn't handle me." She moved her body impatiently from the waist down. "He always said it was my fault that his life went off the track. Maybe it was."

She lowered her head and clenched her fists. "I used to have a bad temper. I used to fight him hard, physically. I used to love him, too, very much. Paul didn't really love me. At least not after I became his wife and stopped being his pupil."

"Who did he love?"

She thought about the question. "Paola. He really loved Paola-not that it did her much good. And he loved some of his students."

"Does that include Richard Chantry?"

Her black gaze turned inward toward the past. She nodded almost imperceptibly. "Yes, he loved Richard Chantry."

"Were they lovers in the technical sense?"

"I think they were. Young Mrs. Chantry thought so. In fact, she was considering divorce."

"How do you know?"

"After Paul moved in with them, she came to me. She wanted me to break up their relationship, at least that was the way she put it to me. I think now she was trying to use me as a witness against her husband, in case it came to divorce. I told her nothing."

"Where did the conversation take place, Mrs. Grimes?"

"Right here in the shop."

She tapped the floor with her toe, and her whole body moved. She was one of those women whose sex had aged into artiness but might still flare up if given provocation. I kept my own feet still.

"What year did you have that talk with Mrs. Chantry?"

"It must have been 1943, the early summer of '43. We'd only just opened this shop. Paul had borrowed quite a lot of money from Richard to fix the place up and stock it. The money was supposed to be an advance on further art lessons. But Richard never got his money's worth. He and his wife moved to California before the summer was out." She let out a snort of laughter so explosive that it jangled her beads. "That was a desperation move if I ever saw one."

"Why do you say so?"

"I'm absolutely certain it was her idea. She pushed it through in a hurry, practically overnight-anything to get Richard out of the state and away from my husband's influence. I was glad to see the twosome broken up myself." She raised her spread hands and lifted her shoulders in a large gesture of relief, then let them slump.

"But they both ended up in Santa Teresa, after all," I said. "I wonder why. And why did your ex-husband and Paola go to Santa Teresa this year?"

She repeated the gesture with her arms and shoulders, but this time it seemed to mean that she didn't have any answers. "I didn't know they were going there. They didn't tell _me._ They just went."

"Do you think Richard Chantry had anything to do with it?"

"Anything is possible, I guess. But it's my opinion-it has been for a long time-that Richard Chantry is dead."

"Murdered?"

"It could be. It happens to homosexuals-bisexuals-whatever he is or was. I see a lot of them in this business. Some of them go in for the rough trade almost as if they wanted to be killed. Or they wander away by themselves and commit suicide. That may be what Richard Chantry did. On the other hand, he may have found a soul mate and is living happily ever after in Algiers or Tahiti."

She smiled without warmth but so broadly that I could see that one of her molars was missing. Both physically and emotionally, I thought, she was a bit dilapidated.

"Did your ex-husband go for the rough trade?"

"He may have. He spent three years in federal prison-did you know that? He was a heroin addict on top of everything else."

"So I was told. But I heard he'd kicked the habit."

She didn't answer my implied question, and I didn't put it to her more directly. Grimes hadn't died of heroin or any other drug. He had been beaten to death, like William Mead.

I said, "Did you know Richard Chantry's half brother William?"

"Yes. I knew him through his mother, Mildred Mead. She was a famous model in these parts." She narrowed her eyes as if she had remembered something puzzling. "You know, she's gone to California, too."

"Where in California?"

"Santa Teresa. She sent me a card from there."

"Did she mention Jack Biemeyer? He lives in Santa Teresa."

She knitted her black brows. "I don't think so. I don't think she mentioned anybody by name."

"Are she and Biemeyer still friends?"

"I doubt it. As you probably know, he inherited Mildred from old Felix Chantry. He stashed her in a house in the mountains and lived with her for years. But I think he broke off with her long before he retired. Mildred was quite a lot older than Jack Biemeyer. For a long time she didn't show her age, but she's feeling it now. She made that clear in the card she sent me."

"Did she give you her address?"

"She was staying in a motel in Santa Teresa. She said she was looking for a more permanent place."

"Which motel?"

Her face went vague in thought. "I'm afraid I don't remember. But it's on the front of the card. I'll see if I can find it."