Step to the Graveyard Easy (7 page)

She said, “My name is Justine. How may I help you? A gift for milady?”

Tall, jet-black hair, pale skin, striking almond-shaped eyes. Eurasian, probably. About his age. Not beautiful, not even pretty by any conventional standard, but with the kind of features you’d remember long after one of the plastic-faced Hollywood clones. Those eyes, especially.

She was used to being scrutinized; neither her gaze nor her smile wavered. At length Cape shook his head, said through his salesman’s smile, “Actually, I’m looking for someone. I wonder if you might be able to help.”

“Well…”

He held up one of the photos of the tawny-haired woman. “Do you know her?”

“Oh… yes, that’s Mrs. Vanowen.”

“Vanowen.”

“She’s a customer of ours.”

“Lives around here, then.”

“Yes, she does.”

“Would you have her address?”

“I’m sorry, but I couldn’t possibly…”

“I understand. A phone number where I can reach her?”

“I’m afraid not. But there may be a listing.”

“I’ll check. What’s her husband’s name?”

“Andrew.” Odd inflection. As if the name tasted bad in her mouth or stirred up an unpleasantness in her memory.

“And hers?”

“Stacy.” Justine hesitated. “Is it important, your reason for wanting to get in touch with Mrs. Vanowen?”

“It could be. A personal matter.”

Another pause. Then, “Rubicon Bay.”

“Pardon?”

“They live in Rubicon Bay.”

“Where would that be?”

“Southwest shore, on the California side.”

Cape showed her the photos of the two men, side by side. “Is one of these Andrew Vanowen?”

She pointed to the one of the older, silver-haired man. The oddness was in her expression this time, a darkening that might have been dislike or old anger or maybe both.

“Do you know Vanowen?” he asked.

“No. We’ve met, but… no.”

“How about the other man?”

“I’ve seen him before, but I don’t know his name.”

“Seen him here at the hotel? Or around the area?”

“Both.”

“Another local resident, then.”

“I think so, yes.” Justine had had enough questions; she said in her by-rote voice, “Now may I show you something for your wife or lady friend?”

“Sorry. I don’t have either one.”

“Then if you’ll excuse me…”

He watched her walk away. She had the kind of loose, rolling walk that makes a man wonder what a woman would be like in bed. Horny Cape, ever hungry to make up for all those faithful years. He almost felt ashamed.

Rubicon Bay.

One of a bunch of little enclaves strung along the lakeshore, along an inlet with the same name. Highway 89 hugged the shoreline here, running in twisty loops through trees and around vast protrusions of granite. Heavily forested slopes came down close on the west: Bliss State Park. There was woodland on the lake side to shield a few score year-round and summer homes. On the south side of the park, he’d passed through a couple of hamlets. None over here, though. Not even a roadside store where he could stop to ask directions.

Cape took the first side road that opened east off the highway. It led him down through pine and fir, past short dead-end lanes and driveways that accessed half-concealed houses. Some of the mailboxes had names on them, but none was Vanowen. He kept driving around, backtracking, until he spotted another car just swinging into one of the driveways. The car stopped at the box there, and the driver, a youngish brunette, got out to pick up her mail. Cape pulled over, put on the salesman’s smile as he poked his head out the window.

“Excuse me. I’m looking for the Vanowens, and I seem to have gotten myself lost. It’s like a maze in here.”

The Corvette as much as the smile put her at ease. In her world, strangers driving beat-up old cars were a threat, but strangers driving expensive sports cars were just plain rich folk. She told him, readily enough, that the Vanowens lived in the last house on Waterwing Drive, right on the lake.

Cape followed her directions, found Waterwing Drive, and drove along it for two hundred yards or so to where it dead-ended at a steep, gated driveway. The gate was open, so he drove on through. Halfway down, the drive jogged, and he could see the house. Big, made of cut pine logs and redwood shakes, thick woods crowding in on both sides. T-shaped pier and a boathouse behind it. A carport on the near side was empty, but an older-model black Mercedes with Nevada plates sat slewed on a pine-needled parking area in front.

He stopped alongside the Mercedes, walked up on a narrow
stoop, and rang the bell. No answer. After a minute he rang it again. Nothing. The third push finally produced results. Footsteps, the rattling of a lock, and the door opened and a woman stood there looking at him.

He’d been measured, dissected, and categorized by any number of less attractive women than this one. Seldom quite as fast or as thoroughly, though. There was a resemblance to the face in the photographs, but she wasn’t Stacy Vanowen. Older, thirty or so. Dark-haired, sloe-eyed, wet-lipped. Wearing a one-piece black Spandex bathing suit and a sheer beach wrap. Long legs, narrow hips, smattering of freckles that trailed down into the front of the suit. In one hand was a tall glass of clear, bubbly liquid with ice and lime. The shine in the sloe eyes said she had a lot more gin or vodka tonic inside her.

He rated high enough to win a slow, loose, slightly crooked grin. “Well,” she said. “And what’re you selling?”

“What makes you think I’m selling something?”

“You have that look. Don’t tell me you’re not a salesman?”

“I used to be. No more.”

“Everybody’s a salesman, in one way or another.”

“Maybe so,” Cape agreed. “I’m looking for Stacy Vanowen.”

“Uh-huh. Lots of people do.”

“Do what?”

“Look for Stacy. Look
at
her, too. She’s a prettier piece than I am, dammit.”

“Is she here?”

“Nope. Nobody’s here but me.”

“When will she be home?”

“Who knows? Whenever she gets here.”

“I’d like to talk to her. What’s a good time to catch her?”

“If you want to catch Stacy, you’d better be a fast runner. What’s your name, salesman?”

“Cape. Matt Cape.”

“Short and sweet. I like it.”

“I’m glad. What’s yours?”

“Lacy.”

“Vanowen?”

“God, no. Hammond. Stacy and Lacy. Cute, huh?”

“Sisters?”

“That’s us. Stacy and Lacy, Daddy’s little joke.” All at once her face darkened and she made a spitting mouth. Just as quickly, it cleared and she was grinning again. “He was hilarious, he was. Hilarious old son of a bitch.”

Cape said, “You live here?”

“Not me. I’m the poor relation. Little sister lets me come over and play with her toys when there’s nobody else around.”

“Uh-huh.”

“She feels sorry for me. Thinks I’m an alcoholic.”

“Are you?”

“You bet. Damn good one, too. Very controlled. I could give lessons.”

Cape slid the photos partway out of his pocket. The one of the ice-eyed man was on top. He held that one up.

“Recognize this man?”

Lacy looked, blinked, frowned. “Where’d you get that?”

“I’d rather give your sister the answer to that question.”

“Oh, you would.”

“If you don’t mind.”

The dark look and spitting mouth again; and again, as mercurially as before, her mood changed and she burst out laughing. A rich, bawdy laugh that said she was genuinely amused.

“What’s funny?” Cape asked her.

“You know who he is?”

“No. Who is he?”

“If you don’t know, how come you have his picture?”

“It’s a little complicated.”

“I’ll just bet it is. And you don’t want to explain it to anyone but Stacy.”

“Or her husband.”

“Aha.” The laugh rolled out again. “Those other photos in your pocket—little sister?”

“Two of them.”

“Pornographic? Let me see.”

“Just snapshots. Nobody in them but her.”

“Well, that’s too bad. Who’s in the others?”

“One other. Your sister’s husband.”

Lacy thought that was even funnier. The laughter rolled and echoed, finally caught in her throat and made her cough. She drowned the rest of her mirth with the last third of her drink.

“I haven’t laughed this hard in weeks,” she said a little breathlessly. “So it’s like that, is it.”

“Like what?”

“Come on, what’re you selling? And who to?”

“I’m not selling anything.”

“Shakedown? That’s what they call it, right?”

“Wrong.”

“What’re you up to, then? Oh,
I
know. You’re a private detective.”

“Wrong again. I’m here to do the Vanowens a favor.”

“Sure you are. And yourself a bigger one in return.”

“Look,” Cape said, “I don’t really care what you think of me or my motives. If your sister’s cheating on her husband, or vice versa, it’s none of my concern. That isn’t why or how I came into possession of these photos.”

Lacy’s amusement had vanished. Now she looked sullen, unhappy. “Shit,” she said.

“How about telling me the name of the man in this photo?”

“No. Ask Stacy, when you see her. Or Andrew.”

“The phone number here? So I can call later.”

“It’s unlisted.”

“I know. I checked the directory before I drove out here.”

“Well, you’ll just have to drive out here again.”

“So you won’t let me have the number.”

“Salesman, I won’t let you have a goddamn thing.”

“Will you at least tell your sister I stopped by?”

“Why should I? None of my business. You as much as said so.”

“If you change your mind,” Cape said, “I’ll be at the Lakeside Grand in Stateline. Staying there tonight if I can get a room. In the casino after seven o’clock, either way. If neither of them wants to see me in person, they can call my room or have me paged.”

“I’ve already forgotten you. More important things on my mind.”

“Such as?”

“Such as how much gin to put in my next drink.”

Cape stopped the ’Vette at the top of the driveway, next to the Vanowen mailbox. On a piece of scrap paper he wrote a note addressed to both Andrew and Stacy Vanowen—the same information he’d given Lacy, plus his name at the bottom. He put the note in the mailbox.

Twenty-four hours was all he’d give them. If they hadn’t made contact by this time tomorrow, he’d be on his way to someplace else. Even good deeds had a patience limit and a time limit.

Cape looked at the ace of clubs he’d just been dealt, glanced again at his down card: ace of hearts. The dealer had an eight showing. Cape was at the end of the blackjack table to the dealer’s left; when his turn came again, he flipped over the diamond ace and laid it alongside the club ace. He said, “Splitting these,” and doubled his twenty-five-dollar bet. The dealer slid one card facedown under each of the aces. Cape didn’t look at these.

The dealer turned his hole card. Jack to go with the eight. Eighteen. After the house paid the two other players whose hands beat eighteen, Cape let the dealer do the unveiling of his down cards. Deuce to go with the first ace, six to go with the second ace. Another pair of losers.

“Tough luck,” one of the other players said. “Just isn’t your night, looks like.”

Three hundred and sixty in the hole now. Cape said, “Looks like,” and raked up his handful of remaining chips. He quit the table, started toward the hotel lobby to see if he had any messages.

He was halfway there, threading his way through the noisy crowd, when somebody fell into step beside him. A hand touched his arm, lightly. When he stopped and swung his head, he was looking into the cold eyes of the olive-skinned man in the photograph.

“Cape, isn’t it?” Caviar voice: slick, grainy, salt-oily. “Matthew Cape?”

“That’s right.”

“Let’s go to the casino bar, Mr. Cape. Have a drink and talk.”

“Suits me.”

The other man stayed close on the walk across to the bar, as if to make sure Cape didn’t try to get away. They took an empty table in one corner. Cold Eyes ordered cognac from a waitress in a skimpy purple-and-gold outfit. Cape said he’d have the same.

Once they were alone, he said, “You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

“No? I thought you’d have found it out by now. You seem to be pretty resourceful that way.”

Cape shrugged. “I figured one of the Vanowens would supply it. Which of them told you about me? Stacy or Andrew? Or was it the sister, Lacy?”

“Does it matter?”

“Not really. I’m just wondering how you found me.”

“I’ve lived in this area a long time. Let’s just say I have contacts.” He leaned back, crossed his legs. A fat gold ring on one finger caught the neon bar lights, seemed to throw out sparks. An even fatter turquoise-and-silver ring gleamed on his other hand. His lightweight beige suit was shantung silk; the pale blue shirt was silk, too, and the mirror-gloss black shoes looked Italian made. “It’s Mahannah, by the way,” he said. “Vince Mahannah.”

“Mr. Mahannah.”

“What would you guess my profession to be?”

“I’m not good at guessing games.”

“Give it a try anyway.”