Thirteen Diamonds Page 9

  “I’m not dead yet.”

  We returned to her house; I helped her carry in groceries and told her that I was expecting a call from Sandra at noon to confirm when the touring trio should pick me up. April asked where they were and I told her.

  “I love the San Diego Zoo!” she gushed. “And I haven't been there for ages. Have you ever been to the Zoo?”

  “Yes, but not for a long time.” I had gone with my husband, Milt, and Albert, when Albert was young.

  “It's been greatly improved. You've got to see it again. Why don't we go right now?”

  “We'll miss Sandra's call. And there's no guarantee we'll run into them there. It's a big place.”

  “I'll put a message on my answering machine telling them where we are and to meet us at the entrance at four. It will take them that long to see it all, anyway.”

  Modern technology is wonderful when you use it properly. April changed the message and then decided she had to change her clothes. She put on another T-shirt that was too short; it didn't reach her navel. When she came close to me I saw that the reason her navel looked funny was because she had a ring in it. Ouch! I'd heard of other places where girls wore rings that would have shocked my friends at Silver Acres. April also had on a red miniskirt with a slit. As if it needed that.

  However, I caught her enthusiasm. Suddenly I wanted to go to the zoo more than anything else.

  ***

  We ran into the others beside the mountain goat exhibit. Mountain goats rank high among my favorite creatures; they exemplify freedom to me by being able to bound effortlessly up and down the steepest cliffs. I, myself, have acrophobia and prefer to stay in the valleys.

  Sandra and Mark held hands. With his free hand Mark pushed a sleeping Winston in a rented stroller. I introduced April to Sandra and we joined forces. It was one of those beautiful sunny days, for which Southern California is famous. Fortunately, the dry air kept the heat in check and the tree-lined paths and roads provided some shade.

  I walked much farther than I usually do, even negotiating the hills without much trouble. When I got tired we took the bus tour and saw even more. The animals were well cared for and the zoo was clean. Some of the rarer animals no longer existed in the wild and the San Diego Zoo played an important part in preserving them.

  When I absolutely couldn't walk any more I suggested that we all eat dinner together. April asked if she could bring her boyfriend and I let her call him on my cell phone. We met him at a pizza place. Pizza wasn't served at Silver Acres and my mouth watered for some pepperoni.

  April's boyfriend was named Ron. He looked like a beach boy, with his long blond hair and deep tan. A surfboard fastened to the top of his old car completed the picture. He wore cut-off jeans and a shirt with the sleeves also cut off. It's a good thing we weren't dining at Tres Chic. He did not emanate the aura of a job. It appeared that he had a sugar mama in April.

  We hadn't left the animals at the zoo. The pizza place was full of screaming young humans; apparently a birthday party was in progress. In order to have a prayer of hearing any conversation I insisted we sit in the corner farthest from the ordering counter.

  When the pizzas came, everybody dug in with youthful appetites. Even Winston ate small pieces fed to him by Sandra and made it clear he wanted more. He gravely watched the children racing around but didn't take part in the noise-making. He was a cut above that sort of nonsense. As a doting great-grandmother, I predicted a bright future for him.

  The other four adults also drank beer, in addition to eating pizza, but Sandra just sipped hers, as she attended to her motherly duties.

  When the pace of eating slowed down, Mark said, “Lillian, Sandy filled me in a bit on what you're doing here. When you took advantage of me in the bar you didn't tell me you were investigating a murder.”

  “I didn't know whether it was a murder,” I said. “In fact I still don't.”

  “From what you've told me,” April said, “it looks very suspicious. Since I'm almost the only surviving member of Uncle Gerry's family, I owe it to him to get to the bottom of this. I'll help you in any way I can.”

  And because Uncle Gerry was very kind to you in his will, I thought. I thanked her.

  Mark said, “I was a little flip when you asked me whether I could recognize the lady who bought the lobster. I didn't take your question seriously. I've thought more about it; if I could get a good look at her and perhaps hear her speak, I might be able to identify her.”

  “I appreciate your honesty,” I said. “Maybe we can work something out when we get back home.” With a little help from my friends, I might be able to put together a case yet.

  “Have a police lineup,” April said. “Put those old ladies up against the wall. Excuse me, Mrs. Morgan, no offense intended. I don't consider you to be old.”

  “No offense taken.” Her eyesight must be poor. She showed more enthusiasm for this detective business than Sandra did. Too bad she lived in California.

  The conversation moved on to other subjects, including women's fashions. although Mark and Ron didn't seem to have much in common, they agreed that miniskirts were a good thing.

  “In addition to my other questionable skills,” Mark said, “I write a bit of verse once in a while, when a subject moves me enough. Does anybody know who Mary Quant is?”

  To my surprise, I was the only one with an answer. I said, “Mary Quant invented—or designed, if you will—the first miniskirts.”

  “Right! Anyway, I wrote a poem about her, which I will now recite.”

  Sandra was feeding Winston, apparently ignoring the conversation. I wondered how she was taking this, since April was the one wearing a miniskirt, not her. I tried to flash Mark a warning with my eyes, but he was looking at April.

  “Let's give three cheers for Mary Quant

  who knows just what the people want.

  What's that? You don't remember her?

  Well, she created quite a stir,

  and controversy—yes, a binful,

  with fashions that some thought were sinful.

  'Twas nineteen-hundred-sixty-eight;

  her minis stormed the Golden Gate.

  For she designed the miniskirt,

  with which each coed soon was girt.

  It took America by storm

  and made us all feel really warm.

  It brought elation to the eye

  of every woman-loving guy,

  and was the swinging, swaying pal

  of every freedom-loving gal.

  For garterbelts and crinolines,

  sometimes held up by safety pins,

  had been replaced by pantyhose,

  or just a suntan, heaven knows.

  For guys the mini left revealed

  the wonders skirts had long concealed.

  For gals the mini marked the hour

  of breaking out and taking power.

  It helped to foster new relations

  between the sexes in all nations.

  It brought world peace; it was a star!

  What's that? You think I've gone too far?

  Well, anyway, it doesn't hurt,

  so lets enjoy the miniskirt.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Sandra was still asleep when I woke up the next morning, but Winston was standing in his crib, ready for action. I changed his diaper and fed him a bottle—I was getting pretty good at this—then took him outside in the morning sun.

  I had babysat with Winston again the night before. The four young people had gone out together and Sandra had come in late again. Now, Winston and I explored the parking lot of the motel while we let her sleep. After a while I took him back inside because I was hungry and wanted to give her a nudge.

  She was just waking up. She didn't seem to be her usual cheery self as she went into the bathroom. When she came out she said, “What's the matter with men?”

  I didn't have a quick answer for that one so I kept quiet. After some chitchat about Winston and other minor topics,
she said, “Mark spent most of the evening talking to April. It was as if I didn't exist.”

  “You should know by now that Mark talks to everybody. He's a friendly person. You don't have anything to worry about. April already has a boyfriend.”

  “Surfer dude Ron? He's a nonentity.”

  I couldn't disagree with that. I shut up and decided to let her funk run its course.

  I had received a message from Tess stating that nobody named Harrington lived at Silver Acres. However, I had Benny's home telephone number; I decided to give him a call. After we greeted each other I said, “Do you remember the name of Maxwell Harrington's wife?”

  After a pause Benny said, “I'm afraid I don't. Is that important?”

  “It might be.”

  “I believe his son still lives in San Diego. I think he's a dentist. Hang on while I get a phone book.”

  I hung on, hoping he would come up with a name. I didn't relish having to search through county marriage records. Besides, I didn't even know where Maxwell had gotten married.

  Benny came back on the line and said, “Dr. Michael Harrington is his name. He has an office right here in La Jolla. Probably specializes in tooth problems of the rich.”

  He gave me a telephone number and address. I immediately dialed the number and a cheery female voice answered. I asked about office hours today—Saturday. The cheery female voice said that they went until noon but that Dr. Harrington had no openings. Could she make an appointment for me? I said that all I needed was five minutes of his time and that I would come in and wait until he was free. She began some well-rehearsed arguments, but I told her in a voice as cheery as hers that I would be right there; then I hung up.

  ***

  As I sat in Dr. Harrington's waiting room, thumbing through an old issue of Cosmopolitan, I tried to work on my story. I certainly couldn't tell him I was investigating a murder.

  Sandra, Mark and Winston had dropped me off and were looking at the interesting caves along the La Jolla beach. Although Sandra had been cool toward Mark during breakfast he was so relentlessly cheerful that I suspected he would soon be back in her good graces.

  The cheery voice I had talked to on the phone belonged to a face and body I never would have associated with it. The woman of the voice was overweight, and although she couldn't be more than 50, I suspected that I was in better shape than she was. She finally condescended to let me have my five minutes with Dr. Harrington at quarter past twelve.

  I met him in one of his dental procedure rooms, complete with reclining chair and instruments used for oral torture. He still had a patient in the next room, for whom he was mixing something in a small container. His colorful sport shirt, long hair and mustache were perhaps intended to make him look younger than his forty-some years. They succeeded in disguising the fact that he was a dentist.

  I introduced myself. He looked at me when he said hello, asked what he could do for me and then turned back to his mixture. Realizing that I wasn't going to get any more of his attention than this, I said, “I'm sorry to take up your time. But I have a friend in the Economics Department at the UC campus here—uh, Benny Tokamatsu.”

  “I don't know anybody who's in the department now,” Dr. Harrington said without turning his head. “It's been a long time since my father taught there.”

  “But he remembers your father. He was a student when your father...when your father was there.”

  “As far as I'm concerned, those days are best forgotten. What is your interest in my father, Ms....?”

  “Lillian.”

  “Lillian.”

  Sometimes honesty is the best policy. “I knew Gerald Weiss.” Dr. Harrington seemed to miss a beat with his stirring, but he didn't say anything. “I was looking through his papers at Dr. Tokamatsu's office when I came across a draft copy of the book, Fiat Money Madness. On the title page it had Gerald's name and it also had your father's name.”

  Dr. Harrington snapped his head around to face me. He said, “Can you wait another 15 minutes until I finish with my patient?”

  “Yes.”

  He ushered me into a small office that contained a desk and no dental equipment. There was a single chair at the desk and he motioned for me to sit there. I actually waited about 20 minutes for him to return. A picture of a young boy and girl sat on the desk. So did a picture of a woman, who looked wife-like. I looked around for more pictures, but didn't see any.

  Dr. Harrington came bustling in, looking somewhat agitated, sat down on the edge of the desk and said, “Where did you say you were from...Lillian?”

  I hadn't said. “North Carolina.”

  “Is that where you knew Dr. Weiss?”

  “Yes.”

  “I heard that he died. From something very strange. A food allergy, I think.”

  “He was allergic to shellfish. It was a long-time problem. I don't suppose your parents ever mentioned it.”

  “No. But I remember meeting him a few times. I was a teenager when Fiat Money Madness was published. Dad had been working on a book, but I never heard a title. He suffered a stroke just before Fiat Money Madness was published. I dimly remember my mother being very upset about something—not just my Dad's condition—but I was fuzzy about the details at the time. Thinking back, it probably had to do with the book.”

  “What is your mother's name?”

  “Ellen. Maybe you know her. Do you live at the Silver Acres Retirement Community?”

  “Yes.” There was no point in denying it. “I know an

  Ellen Tooner.”

  “That's her. That's my mom. She remarried after Dad died. Now my stepdad's dead, too, of course.” Dr. Harrington became lost in thought for a minute. “What are you planning to do with the information you found out about my father?”

  “Nothing. I'm just a retired mathematics professor, not an economist. When Benny—Dr. Tokamatsu—told me you were living here in La Jolla I thought you ought to know, if you didn't already. He seemed reluctant to tell you, himself. I guess he was afraid you'd stir up ghosts.”

  Dr. Harrington fingered his mustache. “I suppose I could stir up something. My mother didn't because she was too busy taking care of my father, and probably because she didn't like to cause trouble. But if I brought it up now half the economists in the country would vilify me. I guess I'm like my mother in that respect; I'm living a pretty good life and I don't want it to change.”

  “Dr. Harrington, I'd like to ask you a question that's a little bit off the subject. Do you play bridge?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Did your parents play bridge?”

  “They taught me how to play.”

  “Did they ever play bridge with Gerald Weiss and his wife?”

  “There was a faculty bridge group; they met at our house from time to time. I'm sure Dr. and Mrs. Weiss were part of it.”

  “Gerald—Dr. Weiss—was playing bridge when he died. In fact, now I remember that your mother was sitting at his table. He had just been dealt a very unusual hand—13 diamonds.”

  “Wow! I never had a hand like that.” His surprise seemed genuine.

  “Somebody told me that Dr. Weiss had been dealt 13 diamonds once before. Do you remember your parents ever mentioning that?”

  “No, I don't.”

  I decided to shut up; I was beginning to sound like an interrogator. I thanked Dr. Harrington for his time. He thanked me for telling him about the book. I gathered that this may have supplied a missing piece to his perception of his father's life.

  As I walked out of his office I wondered if his good life was about to change. I liked him and didn't wish him any ill fortune. It occurred to me that I could help to keep it from changing by doing nothing. Perhaps justice had already been served. An eye for an eye.

  Nobody wanted me to be involved, anyway. Albert didn't. Tess didn't. Carol Grant didn't. The ladies of the lunch committee—the former lunch committee—didn’t. Why not just forget the whole thing?

  Sandra, Winston and M
ark impatiently waited for me in the parking lot. We had the rest of the day to enjoy ourselves in Southern California since we weren't flying home until the next day. I resolved to have some fun.

  CHAPTER 16

  “Okay, Tess, are you ready to review the evidence to date?”

  “Ready when you are.”

  Tess sat on my couch with her yellow pad, her pen poised for writing. We had just returned from our Monday morning water aerobics class and the endorphins flowed in our bodies. Or maybe acid flowed in our stomachs. Tess had decided that I was incorrigible and would never drop the case, so she saw her job as trying to keep me out of trouble. I poured her a cup of coffee, which she promptly smothered with cream and sugar. I poured myself a cup and left it black.

  “Let's start with Gerald's will. First, he left $500,000 to Silver Acres.”

  “A goodly sum of money. And people have been known to kill for an inheritance, but in this case that would be weird because the money is going to a nonprofit organization.”

  “Right. Next, he's leaving $100,000 to his grandniece, who is apparently supporting a surfer. But she inherited the house she lives in and makes big bucks—or at least big compared to what our generation made. I did some chatting with her surfer boyfriend and asked him whether April had had a vacation recently—very innocently, as if I were concerned for her health. He said no, not for six months. She has taken some business trips, but nothing to North Carolina. There's no evidence that she has been here during the last two years or that she has any connection with anyone here.”

  “Besides,” Tess said, making a note, “from what you've said about her, in some ways you wish she were your granddaughter instead of Sandra.”

  I laughed. “Well, Sandra could use an attitude adjustment in regard to men. The other significant provision of Gerald's will—actually, an attachment—is forgiving Dora a $25,000 loan. Dora told me she didn't know about Gerald's forgiveness provision, which is actually more incriminating than if she had known about it. And from the way she almost fainted when I mentioned it, I believe it was a complete surprise to her.”