No Sign of Murder Page 3

  Ellen removed her hand. Slowly. “I could feel your words,” she said, “by feeling your throat. That was just one of many exercises in school. That was a way of teaching us how to talk. Throat vibrations. I like the feel of your voice, Mr. Winter.”

  I didn’t reach for her larynx, but I was sure I’d like her throat, too. I think she read my face, which caused me to reach for my throat and clear it. We both laughed. “Tell me,” I emphasized, “about some other exercises.”

  “There’s ‘mirror, mirror, on the wall,’ ” she said.

  “Which is?”

  “Facing the mirror all day and repeating words.”

  “Not much fun.”

  “It was Anita’s favorite. She liked her reflection very much. She complained about most of the other lessons, thought they were degrading. It shows in her speech. She learned to be a good lip reader, but not a very good speaker. Because of that, she didn’t talk.”

  “Deaf and dumb, then.”

  “Not an acceptable term. Neither is mute. Virtually all deaf people have voices. She chose to be nonverbal. That’s not an uncommon choice.”

  “Why?”

  “Where do you think the expression ‘dummy’ came from? The implication still stands today. If we don’t sound right, we’re slow, aren’t we? And since we have a hard time modulating, that makes us that much more suspect. Do you know how many blowing exercises I had to endure in learning how to differentiate between a shout and a whisper?”

  She obviously had learned her lessons. Ellen’s voice was close to a shout. I moved the subject back to Anita. “So, she chose to be nonverbal?”

  “Yes. Deaf people have a lot of pride. Some deaf people have a chip on their shoulder. Anita has both. Some of the deaf choose to be expressive with their gestures rather than fail in speech. They prefer to not speak, so as to not give the hearing an opportunity to make judgments. ASL, American Sign Language, is a wonderful and descriptive language. Among the deaf, Anita is very articulate. But when she was with the hearing she wouldn’t speak. She didn’t want to give them the opportunity to look down on her. Anita preferred they think her snobby or haughty, a being who didn’t deign to talk.”

  “You haven’t forgiven her, have you?”

  “No. She has so much. She didn’t need to toy with Darren.”

  “Your boyfriend?”

  “Ex.”

  “What’s his last name?”

  “Fielder.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “I lost contact. But I heard he’s stayed in the area and is working for some high-tech firm.”

  “Mrs. Walters said Anita had a number of interests. Tell me about them.”

  “Did you know she was a model?”

  “Not the particulars.”

  “It was a good profession for her. It allowed her to look at her portfolio almost as much as she did her mirror.”

  “Was that a tough choice?”

  “For her, yes.”

  “Did she work for an agency?”

  “Sort of. An agency of one, I think. His name was Kevin Bateson. He was always taking her out on sessions.”

  “Was he a boyfriend?”

  “One of many.”

  “Was he successful in placing her?”

  “A bit. Everyone at Greenmont got a little sick of her displaying this one cold-cream ad.”

  “What about hobbies?”

  “When she was a senior, she decided to be a rebel with a cause. She volunteered for gorilla training.”

  “Guerrilla training? As in rebels?”

  “Gorilla.” Ellen made the sign in sign language, then pantomimed walking on knuckles, blowing out her cheeks, and beating her chest. “See how miscommunication wouldn’t occur as often if everyone signed?”

  I was still laughing at her gorilla imitation. She continued talking, this time without beating her chest.

  “Up in the Berkeley Hills they’ve been teaching some gorillas sign language. Anita was actually dedicated to that project. She went once or twice a week.”

  I had heard about the work. It was controversial. It upset some people to think that animals could use language to communicate. There were reports that the gorillas talked back, even lied on occasion, and we’ve always wanted the corner on the deception market. We don’t like our cultural toes stepped upon, especially by feet that are substantially larger than our own. I made another note on a pad that was growing heavy with them.

  “Mrs. Walters also said Anita was political.”

  “She became more and more so,” said Ellen. “Anita wanted individuals with disabilities to get a fair shake. She thought we were abused. That was a constant theme of hers. She said she was going to change things.”

  “Change what?”

  “Attitudes, I guess. Which are about as easy to change as the tide.”

  I hid my smile. “How did she get along with her family?”

  “Just so-so, I’d say. She didn’t go home very much. In her junior and senior years, I don’t remember her going home at all to see her parents. She was angry about something, but never said what.”

  “No hints?”

  “Not really.”

  “How did they treat her?”

  “In checkbook terms, they spoiled her rotten.”

  “Were her parents affectionate to her?”

  “No. They were always reserved.”

  I clicked my pen and put it away. “You’ve been very patient, Ellen,” I said. “There’s a lot to Anita.”

  Ellen surveyed me with her calm eyes. “There’s a lot to me, also.”

  “I know that,” I said. “I’ll probably have to bother you again.”

  “It was no bother.”

  I think I knew that, too.

  “Do you like being a private detective?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “It must be exciting.”

  I stood to leave. “Thank you very much,” I said. “How do you say ‘thank you’ and ‘good-bye’ in sign language?”

  Ellen showed me the signs. “Good-bye” was easy, a simple wave. “Thank you” wasn’t much harder. It was similar to blowing a kiss. I signed my thanks. I’m not sure if I blew Ellen a kiss, and I’m not sure whether she signed thank you back, or blew me a kiss. I suspected sign language had as many nuances as verbal speech, and wondered if I was punning already with my digits. Or flirting. Likely both.

  I paused at the quilt before leaving. This time I remembered to face Ellen. “It really is beautiful,” I said. “How much will you be selling it for?”

  “Two thousand dollars,” she said.

  I whistled. She probably couldn’t hear it, but saw my pursed lips.

  “But everything’s negotiable,” she said.

  I wondered, briefly, how someone who couldn’t really hear could put such intonation and meaning in her words.

  4

  I LOOKED FORWARD TO taking my rental on the open road, but the open road no longer exists anywhere near San Francisco. I drove on 101 south down the peninsula. Once there were communities separated by little boundaries, but now everything was merged. Burlingame, San Mateo, Redwood City, Palo Alto, Mountain View, Sunnyvale—all looked the same from the freeway.

  Greenmont didn’t look any more enticing from 101, but after making my escape from the road I found some verdant growth and a few open spaces. The school appealed to my senses even more. It was clean, well landscaped, and, yes, quiet. I went to the administrative offices and asked the receptionist if the school counselor could spare a few minutes with me. I was asked about my business, and appraised by orbs that made a raptor’s look charitable. I volunteered as little information as possible, and tried to make long with smiles and patter. The glib words literally fell on deaf ears, the loss of which the receptionist made clear was a blessing in my case. Grudgingly she finally moved herself from her chair and approached a woman standing nearby. After my request was signed, I was judged by two sets of frowns, and then a further conversation in hand
talk. When you are the topic in a language you don’t understand, paranoia generally sets in rather quickly. Their talk lasted another minute, which is twenty minutes in paranoia time, before the second woman approached me.

  “I’m Mrs. Lockhart,” she said, her voice easily understood but with the intonational giveaways of the deaf.

  “I’m Stuart Winter,” I said. “I’m doing investigative work for a client, and she suggested I visit here. I am hoping you can spare me a few minutes to discuss a private matter.”

  Mrs. Lockhart gave me a curt nod and motioned for me to follow. She was in her forties and had a no-nonsense manner. We went into her office, and by the sign on her door I saw that she was vice principal. I was reminded of being sent to the vice principal’s office too many times when I’d been younger. Her office was on the stark side, and matched her manner.

  “What may I help you with, Mr. Winter?”

  “I’m a private investigator, Mrs. Lockhart. I’ve been hired by the Walters family to find their daughter Anita. I’m sure you know that she’s missing.”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you have any idea where she is?”

  “No. And I’m not at all sure this is a subject I should be talking to you about.”

  “Why is that?”

  “To start with, you claim to be something. I’ve seen no proof.”

  I passed her my card. When she took her eyes off it, I continued talking. “Please feel free to call Mrs. Walters,” I said. “She’ll corroborate my story.”

  Mrs. Lockhart pushed my card back, not wanting it or me in her office. “Schools are sanctuaries, Mr. Winter. I’m not very inclined to answer your questions even with the consent of Mr. and Mrs. Walters.”

  I ignored that. “Mrs. Walters believes that Anita’s in trouble.”

  “I have always found Anita very capable of handling herself.”

  “You don’t think she’s in trouble then?”

  “I think she’s probably in Rio doing a photo session.”

  “Why Rio?”

  “Why not? I understand it’s hot there. Hot water is her natural element.”

  “And who’s doing the shooting? Kevin Bateson?”

  “More than likely.” Her lips curled in disdain.

  I made my first guess. “I heard you had trouble with him.”

  “Who told you that?”

  Second-guessed means second guess. “I heard you talked with him, threatened him even.”

  “It wasn’t so dramatic as that. I just told him that he was interfering with Anita’s studies. She did poorly her junior year because of him.”

  “What about her senior?”

  “She didn’t associate much with him. She had other interests.” The last word was emphasized a little too fully.

  “Too busy spending time with Darren Fielder, I guess.”

  Mrs. Lockhart credited me with an almost imperceptible highbrow sneer. “You have been busy, haven’t you, Mr. Winter? But I doubt whether Anita reciprocated his interest. I suppose you know that already, though?”

  “I’m visiting Darren after this,” I said, offering up another lie. “I’ll let him tell me.”

  “Give him my regards,” she said. “Tell him we’re all proud of his progress.”

  “It’s nice he landed such a prestigious high-tech job at such a young age,” I said.

  Mrs. Lockhart gave a maternal nod. “Many of our graduates have gone on to become computer software engineers. We have a strong informational sciences program at Greenmont.”

  “I’ve heard. He’s doing well by Data-Link.”

  “Has he left Cube Tech already?”

  “No,” I said quickly. “My mistake. But back to Anita. Was she a trouble to you?”

  “Anita had her own mind,” she said. “She changed rather dramatically. As a sophomore she was very reserved. During her junior year she realized how pretty she was. And as a senior she was something of a rebel.”

  “What was she rebelling against?”

  “Authority, I suppose.”

  “Any guesses why?”

  “No.”

  “She worked with gorillas.”

  “Yes.” Mrs. Lockhart almost smiled. “She got credit for that, and she enjoyed it very much.”

  “What else did she enjoy?”

  “Her privacy,” she said pointedly. “And I really don’t think I should violate it any further.”

  She rose. I continued to sit. “I’d like to see her records. Short of that, I’d like to discuss them.”

  “Out of the question.”

  “Are there things about Anita you don’t want me to know? Are there things that would embarrass this school?”

  “I have to go to a meeting, Mr. Winter.”

  She stood up, and I reluctantly did the same. “Why was Anita nonverbal?”

  “Because people like you are so judgmental. Do I criticize you because you can’t sign? Or even if you did, would I think less of you because you’d do it haltingly? The hearing are not very understanding.”

  “It’s my job to ask questions.”

  “And I have a job of my own to attend to.”

  I followed her out the door. We said our good-byes, and I walked away. My ears burned, and I turned to see who was talking about me. Two sets of hands were working furiously; Mrs. Lockhart and the receptionist had a lot to say. Even though I couldn’t be sure of what they were talking about, I had the distinct feeling I wouldn’t be welcomed back.

  Sunnyvale is the heart of Silicon Valley. Once upon a time, before nanoseconds and megahertz, in the days of I LIKE IKE and I Love Lucy, Sunnyvale was mostly an agricultural community. Orchards abounded, and some of the most fecund land in the world produced a multitude of crops in that sunny valley. But asphalt and concrete became the order of the day when the silicon chip began its reign. Sunnyvale grows computers now, not apricots and cherries.

  Finding Cube Tech was no easy task. I knew the building, or thought I did, but others had grown up like it, and everything looked the same. High-tech might have spawned computer design, might have been the biggest boon to architecture since the arch, but Frank Lloyd Wright didn’t have any competition in Sunnyvale’s buildings. Cube Tech was old by Valley terms, having been around for decades. I guessed it would be in the center of the sprawl, but it was soon clear I didn’t know where I was going. I pulled out my cell phone and called up GPS to guide me. Since my phone was out, I decided to make a few calls.

  Miss Tuntland didn’t sound pleased to hear my voice. She gets that way when I don’t check in regularly.

  “What grand occasion prompts this call?” she asked.

  “National Answering Service Day.”

  “I am sure that was yesterday,” she said pointedly.

  “I’ve been working.”

  “On whom?”

  Her voice was more than suspicious. I liked an indignant Miss Tuntland.

  “Tammy Walter’s daughter,” I said. “She’s been missing for six months.”

  Not totally convinced. “Uh huh.”

  “Which means that we have a lot of work cut out for us.”

  “We?”

  She didn’t squawk too indignantly, so I kept talking.

  “First, I would appreciate it if you could call Mrs. Walters at your convenience. Tell her I’ve accepted the case and that I’ll need payment by the end of the week. Also, tell her that I want to meet with her husband as soon as possible. She said he works in the City. I’ll go to his office or he can come to mine.”

  “You’ve fumigated?” she asked.

  “And the other meeting I am hoping you can set up . . . ”

  The overdue protestation finally occurred. “Hey!” she said. “Remember me—the one who’s just supposed to answer your phones?”

  “Flowers,” I said, “roses even, a San Francisco tradition. Belated offerings for National Answering Service Day.”

  There was a long moment of silence. I upped the ante. “And chocolates, too. All se
nt tomorrow.”

  “Long-stem,” she said, “and Ghirardelli chocolate. No substitutions.”

  “No substitutions.”

  “Okay, what else?” Her voice was definitely mollified. I would even have guessed pleased.

  Normally an investigator doesn’t allow anyone else to set up an appointment. Sometimes one call is all you’ll get; sometimes the proper phone technique saves you a trip. But I trusted Miss Tuntland to make my professional calls, which was another way of saying I trusted her with my life.

  “I’ll need you to call the Gorilla Project and set up an appointment with its director.”

  “The Gorilla Project?”

  “As in apes.”

  “Located where?”

  “Up in the Berkeley Hills.”

  “And who should I ask for, Fay Wray?”

  “Enough monkey business, Miss Tuntland. Tell them I need to visit at a time convenient for them. Tell them I’m investigating the disappearance of Anita Walters.”

  “Okay.”

  “Any calls?”

  “Several. I discouraged one or two. But B&H called. They’ve something for you. Your contact is Denise.”

  “I’ll call later.” B&H was Bradford & Hall, attorneys at law. The firm was a big one. They paid for most of my necessities, and a few of my vices.

  “Mr. Winter?”

  Miss Tuntland had her quiet voice on.

  “Yes?”

  “Is this a dangerous case?”

  “No. Piece of cake.”

  “Good,” she said, “because I still haven’t gotten your check.”

  It was our way to mask concern. I made some mild remonstration, and she faked umbrage, and we hung up on one another. Then I made a second call.

  “San Francisco Public Library.”

  “Special Collections, please.”

  The connection went through.

  “Special Collections. This is Leland Summers.”

  “This is Winter.”

  “And just when I was wondering whether you were still alive. I wondered whether Winter disappeared in the summers. I’ve wondered about that a lot.”

  He was using his teasing voice, full-throated, almost echoing on every word, and indignantly exclamatory.

  “Keep dreaming,” I said.

  He laughed. Lee likes to play the vamp with me and make me feel like a stodgy, straight dinosaur.