Masquerade in Blue, page 8
I drove back to my office and called Elaine. She’d checked out an hour ago. No message. Then I got obnoxious, arguing with the desk clerk, and accusing her of not giving Elaine my messages. She insisted she had passed the message on and informed me that it wasn’t her responsibility to force guests to return their calls. She cut me off before I could light into her again. I didn’t blame her.
Without a car or cash, Elaine would have to be in Foxport, unless she called someone to come get her. But who? Why had I been such a bastard to the desk clerk? Well, I could grovel with the best. I called back. The same voice answered.
“Uh, hi, this is Quint McCauley. I spoke with you a minute ago and was rather unpleasant. I just wanted to apologize.”
There was a long silence, then, “That was the only reason you called?” Still a bit of chill to the tone.
“Well, no. It’s just that I’m real concerned about this person and I wondered if, when she left, did you notice anyone with her or waiting for her?”
Another long pause.
“It’s very important.”
A sigh and then, in a tone that implied a huge sacrifice on her part, she said, “Well, I saw her get into a car outside the hotel. But I didn’t see who was driving.”
“What kind of car was it?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know cars at all.” A short pause. “I think it was black.”
“Was it large or small?”
“Oh, one of those mid size cars, I guess. Not real big and not small. Definitely not small.”
“Did it look fairly new?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I guess it did.” She was showing some enthusiasm and quickly continued with, “It was kind of sleek, you know. And shiny. Like it had just been washed.”
“That’s good. Now you said you couldn’t see who was driving. Could you tell whether it was a man or a woman?”
“No, sorry. The windows were tinted.”
I thanked her, told her she’d been immensely helpful, and hung up. The rest would be easy. All I had to do was find a new, black, mid size car with tinted windows that could have come from anywhere and could be going anywhere.
Chapter 7
WHEN IFIRST HUNG up, I was concerned. As I unlocked the car, I was getting ticked. I tried not to dwell on it, but I was fuming by the time I’d driven to the northwest corner of Foxport where Novotny’s former partner, Nick Guthrie, operated his business. What did Elaine want me to do? I considered it from all angles and I couldn’t believe she was still angry over the airport incident. That wasn’t like Elaine. If she’d planned on never forgiving me for my absence, she’d have told me right away. So, what was the problem? And what was I supposed to do about it? Chase all over Chicago and its suburbs looking for bent twigs trying to pick up her trail? I didn’t pick the fight in the restaurant. I didn’t ignore a message to call. I didn’t up and move to Santa Fe and return months later on three days’ notice with no explanation for either act. So why should I feel like I’d let her down? Made a lot of sense.
By the time I arrived at Nick Guthrie’s office, I was aching for the opportunity to beat a confession out of him. Nevermind that I’d never met the guy and had no reason to suspect him of jaywalking let alone murder. I slammed the Pontiac’s door shut and mounted the stairs to his office, ready to do battle.
I don’t feel good about myself when I hassle receptionists. Theirs is a tedious, usually low-paying job and they have to deal with morons who believe the telephone is their personal instrument of abuse. At least I planned on being abusive in person.
She was on the phone when I walked in, explaining to someone why Guthrie wasn’t there to take the call. While I waited, I cooled off a bit and convinced myself that my attitude wasn’t going to get me anywhere. She was under no obligation to tell me the time let alone the whereabouts of her boss. One thing a private investigator learns fast: nobody owes you anything.
I tucked my anger somewhere just out of reach and glanced around the room for a way to get my foot in. Nothing on the walls gave any of Nick Guthrie away. There were the usual innocuous paintings, a couple hanging plants, and several pictures of a residential development called Yorkshire Estates. One was an aerial shot before building started – flat, green Illinois plains. Another was a sketch of the proposed development – big homes, golf course, clubhouse, the works. The third was a palatial home, landscaped to the hilt. I wondered how much it cost to move into one of those places, and where the people were coming from who could afford it. I moved away from the wall and noticed, fanned out on a low table next to a carved mallard, about ten copies of Archery World with Nick Guthrie’s name on the address label.
The receptionist hung up the phone and gave me a benign smile. “Can I help you?” She was plump and wore large-framed glasses which matched her pink suit.
I introduced myself and said, “Well, from the sound of it, I may be out of luck. I was hoping to get a minute of Mr. Guthrie’s time.”
“You’re out of luck this afternoon. If you’d care to make an appointment for tomorrow morning, he’ll be in then.”
“Hmm,” I said. I’m a firm believer in the element of surprise when questioning people, whether they’re suspects for not. Once they know a P.I.’s going to talk to them, they have time to think about what they’re going to say. I like to have the advantage. So, after a minute I added, “Can you tell me where I can reach him?”
“Sorry,” she said, but I didn’t believe her.
“I understand.” Pausing, I tried hard for a look of anguish and continued with: “Here’s the situation. I’m selling a custom made longbow by Earl Gilroy. It’s one of only five of its kind. Gilroy passed away last year. And I heard from a friend at the NAA that Mr. Guthrie might be interested.”
“Well, I’m sure he’ll want to talk to you,” as she spoke, she opened an elaborate appointment book. “Why don’t you come by tomorrow at 9:30?” she asked, pencil poised over the cream-colored page.
I shook my head. “I’m only in town for the day.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.” Tapping the end of the pencil against the calendar, she studied me for a moment. Then, brightening, she said, “Why don’t you tell me how Mr. Guthrie can reach you? If he’s interested, he can get back to you.”
I glanced at my watch and looked past her toward the wall. Tough decisions. I shook my head, looking down at her again. “I don’t see how that’s going to work. I’m seeing this guy tomorrow who’s real interested in it. He’s made me an offer already.” Shifting slightly, I tried to look apologetic and a little ashamed. “Thing is, he’s kind of a rich yahoo. You know, today his sport’s archery; tomorrow it’ll probably be white water rafting. He’s not real serious about it. Hate to see a bow like that go to someone who, you know …” I finished with a shrug.
“Well,” she hesitated, obviously torn. “He really is unavailable now, but …” I leaned forward in anticipation. “He usually goes to the country club after work. You might try there. About six.”
I got directions to the country club, thanked her, and left, thinking that I’d have been better off going with the truth, but it was too late now. I had about an hour and a half so I called my office to check for messages. Once again, Elaine Kluszewski hadn’t called but Mary Mulkey had. She wanted to know if I’d checked out the lead she’d given me and added another. Apparently the phone bill had just arrived and she wanted to share with me the numbers he’d called “without a reason that I know of.” There were three – two in California and one in Arkansas. I dutifully wrote them down, promising to check them out when I was checking out Leonard’s fishing hole. I hung up thinking perhaps I should be more discreet about handing out my business card.
Next, I headed over to the Chronicle offices, hoping that Jeff’s notes were clearer than his head was right now.
Tim Skillman, a short, heavy man with a young face and a receding hairline, made me show some identification before he handed over Barlowe’s notes – three spiral notebooks bound together by a rubber band. “I hope you have some experience as a cryptographer. You’re going to need it to make sense out of Barlowe’s shorthand system.” A flip through the pages confirmed his statement. Well, I liked puzzles and it looked like I wouldn’t have much else to do that night.
I had time to pick up Louise and drive by the gas station where my Honda, with its four virgin tires, awaited me. At no charge, they’d taped a piece of corrugated cardboard across the empty window. The makeshift windscreen wouldn’t do much to keep the rain out, but it meant that Peanuts could still ride with me. It was just after six as I crossed the river at Main Street and turned north on Route 41 toward Foxport’s only country club.
My family used to live four blocks from a country club that, for me, had been a source of speculation and awe. Back then, not so many people could afford to join one of those clubs, and I figured the members must all be gods or something and once I got in there I’d know what Mt. Olympus looked like. The club was surrounded by a hurricane fence, softened by the ivy that crawled in and out of its links. My brother, Mike, and I used to spend a couple hours a week combing the tall grass surrounding the fence for golf balls. Then we’d sell them back to the club’s patrons at half their original price. We made a few bucks that way. When I was twelve and old enough to caddy, I figured I’d paid my dues and was ready for the big time. The thing was, you made more money if you were experienced. So when I applied, I told them, “Yeah, I’ve been doing this for years.” They sent me out on the course with this twosome that carried in one of the golf bags, in addition to the requisite clubs, balls, and tees, a mason jar full of gin and a smaller one containing vermouth-soaked olives. They were a little perturbed over my lack of golf-club knowledge. Hell, I didn’t know I was supposed to anticipate which club they wanted. Who was playing the game anyway? As the game progressed, my judgment improved and their ability to notice deteriorated rapidly. It was a blisteringly hot day, I recall, and somewhere near the twelfth hole one of the golfers lost his lunch, not to mention about four martinis. The thing was, he didn’t want to puke on the manicured green where the next group would have to play through the unsightly mess, so he turned to the nearest golf bag. Unfortunately, it wasn’t his. The bag’s owner took exception, hauled off and belted the offender, and left him lying there on the green. I’ll never forget the sight of this paunchy, red-faced guy, sprawled out next to the twelfth hole with blood and vomit dripping off his knit shirt. So much for Mt. Olympus.
The long, winding drive to Foxport Country Club’s main building spilled out onto North 41 from between red brick walls, each bearing an ornately sculpted F. I wasn’t sure how far I’d get, but hoped to make at least the entrance on my first assault. Unfortunately, there was a guard house twenty feet down the drive. I pulled right up like I knew what I was doing, nodded to the guard, and told him who I was and who I’d come to see. His badge said his name was Ramirez and he wore the khaki security uniform as though he took it all pretty seriously. As he moved away from the window, I pondered how far the upper class had come in all these years. Used to be only the top secret military installations placed a guard at the gate. I also wondered what I’d do once the guard told me to get lost. If I knew what Guthrie looked like, I could wait for him to leave, but I didn’t have an inkling.
I was more than a little surprised when the guard leaned out of his box and said, “Go right in and park in the visitor’s area.” He pointed up the drive which curved past the big, white-brick building, spawning a parking lot just north of the clubhouse before winding back toward Route 41. “Mr. Guthrie is on the archery range.” And he told me where to find it. This was bound to be interesting.
Foxport’s country club, like the town itself, is an interesting mix of country charm and decadence. The clubhouse reminded me of a French estate, and as I passed through it on my way to find Guthrie, I caught glimpses of a mirror-lined bar and a small restaurant with thick green carpeting and skylights.
The archery range was just north of the golf course, which brought to mind some interesting possibilities involving wayward arrows.
I was in luck. Only one person was taking target practice and I was going to assume he was Guthrie. As I approached from his rear, he was preparing to launch another arrow at the target, which was probably a hundred feet down the field. The bow itself was like none I remembered from my archery classes in high school. It was probably four feet from tip to tip, and the middle section, instead of consisting of a simple hand grip, made up a third of the bow’s length. It appeared to be made of some material other than wood – a laminate maybe – and the grip portion was shaped so his hand fit it like an extension. In all, it reminded me of some futuristic weapon which might turn up in a Road Warrior movie. I stopped a few yards back as he nocked an arrow and drew one string back with three fingers – the first above and the second and third below the arrow. After taking aim, he released the arrow. I could hear it cut through the air on its course to the black heart of the target.
Guthrie lowered the bow, and after looking in the direction of the target for several seconds, slowly turned toward me, pulling another arrow from a quiver hanging from his belt like a holster. He regarded me for several seconds. “A bow made by Earl Gilroy? Where the hell did you get that name?”
I shrugged. “My seventh-grade shop teacher.” Guthrie didn’t respond. He stood watching me, not sharing the humor, waiting, a bow in one hand and an arrow in the other. Though he was not a big man, five ten at the most, I could tell even through the knit shirt he wore that his upper torso was powerfully built. His hair was dark and coarse, with traces of gray, and he wore a pair of metal-framed aviator glasses.
“Why’d you let me in here?”
“Curious, I guess. I figured anyone desperate enough to come up with a story like that must have important business.” He paused and added, “Besides, it’d be easier than you would believe for me to get you thrown out of here.”
I took a step closer. “Well, I do have important business. I’m trying to find out who killed your former partner.”
“Len?” He looked genuinely puzzled. “Don’t they know who killed him?”
“Not to my client’s satisfaction.”
“Who’s that?”
“Jeff Barlowe.”
He nodded slowly and turned back to the target. I stepped up next to him. As he nocked the arrow and drew the string back, I could see the movement of muscle beneath his shirt.
“Jeff Barlowe?” He took sight and released the arrow. It hit just off center. He turned to me. “Isn’t he that reporter they locked up?”
“That’s him.”
He drew out another arrow. “You ever try this?”
“Some,” I said, then asked, “You watch a lot of Robin Hood when you were a kid?”
He smiled as he took aim. “As a matter of fact, I did. I must have seen Errol Flynn’s Robin Hood a couple dozen times. After the first I was hooked. That’s when I took up the sport. What about you?” There was something about the way he drew out the word I that reminded me of a drawl, but maybe he just liked the way it sounded.
“I’ve only seen it a couple times.”
He released the arrow, which found the other two near the target’s center. Didn’t this get monotonous for him? “You shoot anything besides targets?”
“Sure. I use it to hunt. Deer mostly.” He continued as he nocked a new arrow and drew it back, “Though it’s not the only weapon I use when hunting.” He released it and, without noting that he’d made another bull’s-eye, turned to me. “The bow and arrow is a graceful weapon. The gun is an efficient weapon.”
“Yeah,” I said, “I don’t guess I’d care to go eyeball to eyeball with a charging bull elephant armed with one of those,” I gestured toward the bow.
“A good crossbow can take down an elephant.”
“Yeah, but what if you miss?”
“You don’t.”
“You ever done it?”
“No. Seems like these days safaris are for wimps with cameras.”
“Pity,” I murmured.
“Here.” He held the bow out. “You like to take a shot at it?”
“No, thanks.”
“C’mon, give it a try.” I shook my head and he added, “It’ll make you feel like Errol Flynn.”
For a lot of reasons I didn’t care for the idea. But in the end, it wasn’t so much what he said as the way he said it – more an order than a coaxing – that helped me figure out that I’d have to do this if I wanted to ask more questions. Reluctantly, I removed my jacket and took the bow from him. I was grateful for the hours I’d spent tossing the Frisbee for Peanuts, because that was about all the workout my arms and shoulders got. I drew the arrow back ever so slowly, feeling my arms tremble with the pressure. The veins in my left forearm bulged, my shoulder hurt so badly it burned, and I could feel my forehead getting moist.
“Now, take aim. Use both eyes. Take your time.”
Seeing as how I felt like a tension trap about to be sprung, I didn’t feel like doing any of those things and was only interested in relieving my pain. I released the arrow and staggered backward, recovering fast enough so that I didn’t land on my ass. When I had the opportunity to see how I’d done, I saw that the arrow had hit the farthest ring from the center then sort of flopped down. Even though it was just a flesh wound, I was elated.
“Thanks, that was great.” Guthrie held my gaze as I handed the bow back to him, looking as though he’d just been amused. “How long did you work with Novotny?”
Somewhere nearby a bird chirped and I heard voices from the golf course. Guthrie took the bow from me and shifted his attention to it as he said, “Oh, let’s see. It must have been, what, ten years ago that we first got together. Yeah, that’s about right. I learned a lot from him and I think he sort of took me under his wing. I think maybe I reminded him of himself when he was my age. I’d worked my way up the hard way too. And I guess he knew that Martin wasn’t going to follow in his footsteps, so he was in the market for a successor.”
