No Sign of Murder Read online

  Vincent’s body of work convinced me he had talent, a conclusion I came to begrudgingly. But I also thought it was a talent perverted and misused. From a technical sense I admired A Widow. The shadows were provocative, and blended wonderfully with the colors for a dream effect. What could have been a great painting was ruined by Vincent’s willful desire to shock. He didn’t want to show you the electrical socket, he wanted you to put your finger in it.

  At first glance, maybe even second, nothing was wrong. The pure sensuousness of the painting and its subject held you. You didn’t question it. You experienced it. You were first person, present tense. With an exclamation point.

  The foreground featured the parlor, and an opened bottle of red wine. The seats looked comfortable, but the woman wasn’t sitting down. Reclined in a corner, her back against a wall, she was naked. A sheen of sweat covered her body. She waited, and her desire was yours. Paintings don’t usually make your legs weak. They have to be special to draw your face closer, and make you think, make you remember. Vincent had painted a dream, the kind of dream you can never quite remember.

  But the closer I examined the painting, the more something disturbed me. I wanted to ignore the bells and whistles, to take in the attraction without question, to accept physically without mind, but Vincent didn’t allow that. He included enough hints to turn the viewer cold after the hot. Was that hair, or something else, something gossamer and threadlike, even web-like, all over her head? And what was in the shadows of her bent arms, and spread legs? Just a reflection, or another set of arms and legs? And her eyes, what kind of desire was there? Carnal certainty, but something more. When I looked closely, I could see her pubic area was not quite right, not the black triangle I expected, but a red hourglass.

  Vincent used his paintings like a carny barker. He drew you in, then he gulled you. Sometimes he just made you laugh, albeit shakily. One picture was entitled The Plastic Surgeon’s Mistress. A circus backdrop, but in the foreground a woman is chained to a revolving platform. Blood flows down her leg, courtesy of her husband’s cutlery. At her feet a pool of blood has formed. The knife-throwing husband, the cuckold, holds another knife in hand. He knows the truth, and she knows he knows, but the ritual isn’t concluded. They stare eye to eye, and it’s hard to tell which looks more uncertain, which feels the cutting edge of despair more. He knows his misses send his Mrs. to her lover, for professional services and otherwise. And she knows how the steel can cut, how it can kill. The audience looks very pleased. They’re ready to cheer wherever the next knife lands.

  I decided I didn’t want to be part of the audience, and kept walking. Vincent was as prolific as he was disturbing. I Need Her showed a naked woman being kneaded and molded into something else by two strong male hands. The pubic hairs looked real, and so did the flesh, the flesh being rolled like dough. The only vague part was what the woman was being kneaded into. Maybe sweet buns.

  The next painting, Looking for a Drain, wasn’t so vague. I gave it a cursory glance, then came back to it. The picture showed a man with an opened mouth. On top of his forehead, and jutting out of the painting, was a faucet handle. By description it matched the handle that Anita Walters had needed replaced in her apartment. What had been her cabinet door was now hinged to a canvas titled Opening Doors. I looked at both paintings for a while, and wondered if they were signatures to a murder.

  A figure approached behind me. “Haven’t you had enough of the good-housekeeping section?” he asked.

  “Only if you’ve tired of ogling nudes. I saw you drooling over there.”

  “They’re not traditional nudes,” said Leland. “You just have to look a little closer to see that.”

  “Oh?”

  “Like this one.”

  I glanced at a pen drawing of a naked man, then looked back to Leland.

  “His equipment,” said Lee, “isn’t normal. It’s a pen.”

  I looked at the genitalia, then searched the title of the painting. It was The Pen Is Mightier Than the Sword. But the space between the words Pen and Is was barely a space at all.

  “Let’s go hear Vincent talk,” I said. “I’ve seen enough to make me pensive.”

  The auditorium was overflowing, so Lee and I stood in the back. Vincent didn’t have much of a prepared speech, but used significant pauses to precede theatrical lines. He narrated a slide show of his works, and used a flip chart to make some points, but I was disappointed that he didn’t open his veins. In the two days since I had last seen him, he hadn’t managed to lose his tic. I wondered if he had adopted the mannerism purposely, like his black clothes. It was an effective attention getter. The man thrived on being different, on drawing notice to his person. Ten minutes into Vincent’s talk, Leland whispered to me that library duty called, and I rather enviously watched him leave.

  Vincent finally opened the floor to questions, which gave him a chance to pontificate. Most of the crowd ate up his pabulum, and for the better part of two hours he held his position at the lectern. Then there were five minutes of thank-yous directed at the great man, and a chance for him to hold court with all his admirers afterwards. I waited on the fringe. Vincent saw me, but made no acknowledgment. When most of the faithful had finally left, I approached him, and this time he met my eyes.

  “Ah, yes, Mr. . . . ?”

  “Winter, Mr. Patchen, Stuart Winter.”

  “How may Vincent help you, Mr. Winter?”

  “Two of your paintings interested me, Mr. Patchen.”

  His black cape ruffled some, and his eyes turned mean and uneasy.

  “And which two paintings are those?”

  “Looking For a Drain and Opening Doors.”

  He gave a benign smile to his lingering followers that didn’t look totally phony. “Vincent likes those two, also, Mr. Winter.”

  “Don’t mistake me, Mr. Patchen,” I said. “I didn’t say I liked them. I said they interested me. Why don’t you tell me about them?”

  “Is that a roundabout way of asking Vincent where he obtained the spigot, or whatever it is called, and the cabinet door?”

  “Yes.”

  “Vincent tore them from Anita’s apartment. Probably half a dozen people saw Vincent do it. Vincent can supply their names if you’d like. Vincent was inspired to create and needed those objects.”

  “Do you often go around ripping things off their hinges?”

  “Only when necessary, Mr. Winter. Only when necessary.”

  I asked him for the names of the witnesses, and by the reaction of his disciples, I blasphemed. They didn’t understand what was going on, only knew that my manner was offensive. But Vincent was forgiving. He gave me the names, then added, “They will also tell you that Vincent paid Anita for the damages.”

  “How much?”

  “A hundred dollars, two hundred. Vincent doesn’t remember.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Patchen.”

  I drank four glasses of Scotch in about forty minutes. Mal didn’t question my thirst. He was unobtrusive, gliding in with the Glenfiddich, and lingering for that extra moment to see if I wanted to talk. I didn’t, not yet. I was early, and needed the extra time and drinks before Norman arrived. My pewter mug felt good in my hand. It was antique, had somehow survived the Revolutionary War. Probably a Tory had owned it, I thought, a Tory who wouldn’t give it up for the bullets of a new nation. You start thinking like that after four quick drinks.

  There was a method to my madness, and I wasn’t exactly new to it. Some cases don’t allow you to just go through the motions, and this was one of those cases. I had to walk with it, and work with it, and think with it. And now I was going to get drunk with it. Victor Hugo was my inspiration. Hugo had written about drink in Les Misérables, had written about the four goblets that lined a wall, and the inscriptions upon them. The first was monkey wine; the second, lion wine; the third, sheep wine; and the last, swine wine. The animals marked man’s descending degrees of drunkenness. I was at the Edinburgh Castle ready to oink in swin
e wine, in search of a dirty drunk so that I could think dirty thoughts. It wasn’t scientific, but sometimes it worked.

  I was at least halfway to my wallow when Norman joined me. Like Mal, he didn’t question my need for the drinks. He just attempted to keep up. He was on his swine wine glass when he started talking freely, complaining too loudly that the wine was no good.

  “So, don’t order wine in a Scotch bar,” I told him again. The same advice had been given on his monkey, lion, and sheep glasses.

  Norman wagged his finger at me. “I don’t know why you always bring me here,” he said. “It’s antique, like your drink. Who drinks Scotch nowadays?”

  He raised himself from his barstool and started to walk toward the bathroom. He was a little unsteady, but cloven hooves do that to you.

  It was Saturday at the Edinburgh Castle, a night I usually avoided. Tourist night, gawk at the bagpiper, throw some inaccurate darts. But even on its worst night the Castle is one of San Francisco’s best bars. Model airplanes and jets hang from the ceiling, and Winston Churchill busts stare at you from amidst countless labels of Scotch. A suspicious parrot, with the same Churchill stare, and same first name, rested in the corner. Winston rarely squawked, never spoke, and wasn’t very good about accepting new fingers. He had grown to accept mine. By standing tradition I didn’t drink until Winston came over to have his head scratched, and luckily, he hadn’t kept me waiting tonight. Sometimes the bird wasn’t so cooperative, but a good Scotch doesn’t worry about a little extra aging. The mugs of the regulars hung on the racks, each one distinctive. My pewter mug wasn’t as flashy as most, had in fact a tarnished exterior, but its interior was whistle clean from a Scotch finish. The mug’s wear showed it had served other hands well. It hadn’t done too badly in my own either.

  I don’t know whether I took my office on Geary because of the Castle’s proximity, but I was glad it was nearby. I doubted there was a bar west of Edinburgh with more brands of Scotch. It didn’t boast much in the way of food, but the fish and chips were good, even if they arrived cold more often than not. The bar had an iffy exterior on the eerie side of Geary. From the outside no one could ever guess the size of the place. Its lack of ostentation kept away a crowd I didn’t want anyway.

  I looked at my reflection, my face showing between the large letters of the mirror that advertised BASS & CO.’S PALE BURTON ALES. The mirror was old, and never gave an accurate reflection, but I could see my pink snout emerging, could feel the little curlicue tail pushing into the barstool beneath me. I was about ready to start talking, theorizing. Hell, I was about ready to start a chorus of “Old MacDonald Had a Scotch Farm.”

  Norman was about on the same wavelength. He came back singing.

  “Another, gentlemen?”

  “Thanks, Mal.”

  “And a coffee with mine,” said Norman.

  Mal nodded, and fetched our drinks. I watched his face and thought I saw a hint of his small smile. He had been at the Castle for twenty years, and his ears were as good as his hands. Unless you watched him very carefully, you never saw his small smile. He was the officious, anonymous bartender, soft-spoken and unobtrusive.

  It was the right time to talk. I told Norman everything about the case, and in the telling appropriated about a dozen of the Castle’s napkins. My entries and diagrams went all around and through the illustration of a Scotty begging at a martini glass. The Castle’s napkins are black and red, good tartan colors. My observations were less well defined. Mal kept supplying us with ammunition, and we kept talking. It was one o’clock in the morning, and we were alone, when Norman crumpled up my napkins and confronted me.

  “Okay,” he said. “So now I know everything. And that seems to add up to nothing. Right?”

  I nodded.

  “In that case, let’s play a game. I ask questions, and you give me your first answer.”

  “Norman . . . ”

  “Just humor me, would you, Stuart?”

  “All right.”

  “Is Anita alive?”

  I gave an answer I didn’t want to give. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “She wouldn’t just disappear. That’s not her way.”

  “Who killed her?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Who could have killed her?”

  “Just about anyone.”

  “Name the suspects.”

  “Vincent. Kevin Bateson. Dr. Harrison . . . ”

  “Why Harrison?”

  “I even surprised myself with that name . . . ”

  “Then why’d you say it?”

  “Something’s being covered up there. I don’t know what.”

  “What do you think?”

  “He was bothered?”

  “Who was bothered? Dr. Harrison?”

  “Yes. And Joseph?”

  “Are you asking? Does the gorilla know something?”

  “Yeah.”

  I gave him a hard look, a look to tell this shrink he’d better not say I was crazy, but Norman didn’t have that kind of look. He was too busy thinking of other questions.

  “Any other suspects?”

  “Terrence Walters,” I heard myself saying.

  “Her father? Are you kidding?”

  “No. Just reacting in my gut to something that’s wrong there too . . . ”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “He didn’t, he doesn’t, know how to sign. Why would a father not learn his daughter’s language? Why would he shut off her world to him?”

  “You tell me.”

  “He didn’t want to hear her thoughts. He wanted her . . . ”

  “He wanted her what?”

  “As his own creation. Without an identity, except for the one he gave her. Without words, except those he wanted to hear.”

  “And what words were those?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Really? Or aren’t you saying?”

  “It’s . . .”

  “It’s what?”

  “Farfetched. Probably.”

  “Farfetched? Or disgusting?”

  “Both.”

  “Say it.”

  “He molested her?”

  “Are you asking or telling?”

  “He molested her.”

  “A respected barrister? A leading citizen?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Her anger. That explains it. And her behavior.”

  “Explain.”

  “Look at the pattern. I don’t know why I didn’t think about it before. As Anita grew older, she began to rebel against authority. She began to realize she had rights. And she also began to realize just how badly she had been abused. But how do you confront a father? It takes some growing before you can do that, some muscles that time and experience provide. That’s why for a time she just avoided him, and took on other authority figures instead. She joined groups, and learned about her rights, and her worth.”

  “That’s not unusual. That doesn’t tell me she was abused.”

  “What about her relationships? Do you remember how cold she was with Darren Fielder? He said she just lay there, and didn’t react at all. She knew how to withdraw, knew how to make it not hurt her.”

  “The young are often confused during their early sexual encounters . . .”

  “Bullshit, Norman. What about her behavior toward Will Harrady? She was so desperate for affection. And when he pushed her away, she couldn’t stand the rejection. She was confused, God, she was confused. Love, father images, what was right, what was wrong—she didn’t know what she was doing.”

  “She knew enough to strike back.”

  “Yes. Her victim days were over.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “I think she began to confront a lot of people. It didn’t matter whether they were innocent or not. Think of the wounds of her childhood. How do those kinds of wounds usually heal? The scabs don’t protect very well.”

  “Is that what
got her killed?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He gave me a dubious look.

  “I really don’t know, Norman.”

  I was glad I was drunk. I didn’t have to feel the implications of everything I was saying. The ache that I’d feel all the way in my bones would come later. I could follow trains of thought that our minds usually derail. Terrence Walters, pinstripe, power broker. Neat, natty, man. Legal mind, legal air, and how, you sonofabitch, you made your daughter despair. I laughed out loud at my rhyme, but Norman didn’t notice. I guess he believed in my theory. His head was bent over, his pain not so private. That made me a little mad. I thought shrinks were supposed to be as hardened as private eyes. I thought they had heard it all.

  “Don’t cry in your wine, Norman,” I said. “That’s not professional. It’s beer you cry in. Don’t you ever read Emily Post?”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Hey, Mal! A beer for my friend and me. We need something to cry into!”

  “Are you sure, Mr. Winter?”

  His words sobered me a little. He’d pour the beer if I asked, even though last call had already sounded, and it was past time we left.

  “Forget it, Mal. Thanks.”

  He went back to cleaning his bar. He never left without putting a shine on the fine wood. There were a few spots that didn’t have the luster he liked. He worked at them and I watched him for a minute, and felt better for his cleaning, and only wished I could take a towel to my insides, and rub around for a while, and clean away all those dirty things that eat down deep.

  “Let’s finish up, Norman.”

  “Make a final toast, then,” said Norman, his voice not weepy at all, but just a little sad. “Say a toast that gives hope to this dark night, you know, one of your silly, sappy, historical toasts.”

  “To Andrew Hallidie.”

  “Explain,” he said to my raised glass.

  “It’s a Scotch bar. He was a Scotsman in San Francisco. In 1869 he saw four horses dragging a cart of passengers up a hill. The horses slipped, and the weight of the cart dragged them down the hill. Like Jack and Jill, but worse. None of the people were hurt, but the horses were. They had to be destroyed.

  “That bothered Hallidie. He thought there had to be a more humane way to transport people. And he did something about it. Didn’t just talk in a bar, didn’t just say ‘what a shame,’ and wring his hands. He invented the cable car. Without him Tony Bennett wouldn’t have had his song, and the City wouldn’t be the City.”