I sat down in my usual booth with a glass of puckery white wine. It’s hellish to learn the difference between good wine and bad. Henry wandered in soon after, and we let Rosie browbeat us into a Sunday night supper that consisted of savanyu marhahus (hot pickled beef to you, pal) and kirantott karfiol tejfolos martassal, which is deep-fried cauliflower smothered in sour cream. While we mopped up our plates with some of Henry’s homemade bread, I filled him in on the events of the past few days. I must say, the situation didn’t seem any clearer when I’d laid it out to him.
“If Mickey and Mrs. Hightower are having an affair, her husband had as much reason to shoot him as Thea’s boyfriend,” he pointed out.
“Maybe so,” I replied, “but I got the impression Eric had made his peace with her. I keep thinking there’s more, something I haven’t thought of yet.”
“Can I do anything to help?”
“Not that I know, but thanks.” I glanced up as the door opened and the waiter from the Hightowers’ party came in with a hardback book under one arm. He wore a tweed sport coat over a black turtleneck, dark trousers, and loafers polished to a fare-thee-well. Having seen him in his white jacket serving drinks the night before, it took a moment to come up with his name.
I turned to Henry as I rose. “Can you excuse me for a minute? There’s someone I need to talk to.”
“Not a problem. I’ve been itching to finish this,” he said. He brought out a neatly folded copy of the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle and a ballpoint pen. I could see he was half done, completing the answers in a spiral pattern, starting at the edges and working toward the center. Sometimes he wrote in the answers leaving out every other letter because he liked the way it looked.
Stewart was passing the booth when he caught sight of me. “Well, hello. How are you? I wondered if you’d be here.”
“Can I talk to you?”
“Be my guest,” he said, gesturing toward the booth where he traditionally sat. I gave Henry’s arm a squeeze, which he barely noticed, given his level of concentration. Stewart waited till I was seated and then sat down across from me, the book on the seat beside him.
“What’s the book?” I asked.
He picked it up, holding the spine toward me so I could read the title, The Conjure-Man Dies by Rudolph Fisher. “I usually read biography, but I thought I’d try something new. Detective novel written in the early thirties. Black protagonist.”
“Is it good?”
“Haven’t decided yet. I’m just getting into it. It’s interesting.”
Rosie appeared. She stood by the table, her eyes fixed on the far wall, avoiding the sight of us. I noticed she was wearing slippers with her bright blue cotton muumuu.
Stewart reached for the menu and said, “Good evening, Rosie. How’re you doing? Any specials I should hear about?”
“You tell him is good, the pickled beef,” she said. Rosie can speak in perfect order the English when it suits her purposes. Tonight, for some reason, she was behaving like someone recently admitted to this country on a temporary visa. She seldom addresses men directly unless she’s flirting with them. A similar inhibition applies to strangers and women, children, the hired help, and people who pop in and ask directions of her. She might answer your question, but she won’t look.
I said, “The pickled beef is great. Fabulous. And the deep-fried cauliflower is not to be believed.”
“I think I’ll have that,” Stewart said, setting aside the menu.
“What to drink?” she asked.
“Try the white wine. It’s piquant. The perfect complement to pickled beef,” I said.
“Sounds good. I’ll try it.”
Rosie nodded and departed while Stewart shook his head. “I wish I had the nerve to order something else. That Hungarian stuff is for the birds. I come here because it’s quiet, especially on Sundays. I go home with indigestion keeps me up half the night. Now what can I do for you?”
I need to ask you about the Hightowers.”
“What about them?” he asked, with a caution that didn’t bode well for me.
I took a deep breath. “Here’s the deal,” I said. “My ex-husband was shot in Los Angeles. This was in the early morning hours, May fourteenth. He’s currently in a coma, with no clear indication he’ll pull out of it. For various reasons too complicated to go into, I’m trying to figure out what happened. Obviously, the cops are too.” I was watching his eyes: intelligent, attentive, giving, nothing away. I went on. “Both the Hightowers know Mickey, and I’m trying to determine if there’s a link.”
“What’s your question for me? Because some things I’ll tell you and some I won’t.”
“I understand. Fair enough. What’s your job?”
“My job?”
“Yeah, what do you actually do for them?”
“Chauffeur, handyman. I wait table sometimes.”
“How long have you been there?”
“It’ll be two years in June. Same as Clifton. He tends bar at parties like the one they had last night. Otherwise, he manages the house and handles general maintenance. All the major repairs are hired out, but it seems like there’s always something broken or in need of adjustment.”
“What about Stephanie? Does she work for both of them or just Dixie?”
“She’s Mrs. H’s personal assistant. She comes in Mondays and Thursdays, noon to five or five-thirty. Mr. H takes care of his business on his own. Phone calls and letters, personal appointments. He keeps it all up here,” he said, tapping his head.
“I take it there’s a cook, as well?”
“Cook and cleaning crew. There’s two women do the laundry and another one does flowers. Plus the gardeners, the pool guy. I wash the cars and Mr. H’s van. Clifton and the cook, her name’s Ima, both live on the property. The rest of us live out and come in as needed.”
“Which is when?”
“It varies. I’m usually not there during the week. Fridays and Saturdays I’m always on call, especially if the two of them are going out. Other times Mr. H prefers to drive himself. Mrs. H likes the car. They have a six-passenger limo she enjoys.”
“Did you drive either one of them to Los Angeles last week?”
“I didn’t, but that doesn’t mean they didn’t go down on their own.”
“You know Mickey Magruder? Good-looking guy, in his fifties, an ex-cop?”
“Doesn’t sound familiar. What’s his connection?”
“We go way back, the four of us. More than fifteen years. Mickey and Dixie were having an affair back then. I have reason to believe they’ve rekindled the flame. I’m wondering if Eric knew.”
Stewart thought briefly; then he shook his head. “I don’t carry tales.”
“I can appreciate that. Is there anything you can tell me?”
“I think you’d do better asking one of them,” he said.
“What about the marriage? Do they get along okay? ”
Again, Stewart paused, and I could see the conflict between his knowledge and his reticence. “Not of late,” he said.
TWENTY-THREE.
That was as much as I was able to get from him. I must say I admired his loyalty, though it was frustrating. The evening wasn’t completely unproductive. Henry’s point was well taken. If jealousy was the motive for the shooting, the number of suspects had just increased. Eric Hightower was in the mix and Thea was another candidate, though not a particularly strong one. She’d risked a lot for Mickey, and while she professed her care and concern, that might have been laid on for my benefit. Dixie was another possibility. What would she have done if she’d discovered Mickey’s affair with Thea?
The problem was, it all seemed so melodramatic. These people were grown-ups. I found it hard to picture any of them lurking in the shadows, plugging away at Mickey with my gun. It’s not like you don’t read about such things in the daily paper, but the scenario left too many things unexplained. For instance, who was Duncan Oaks? How was he related to events? Was Mickey on the trail of the person or persons responsible for Benny’s fatal beating?
We left Rosie’s at eight, Henry and I, walking home in the dark without saying much. Once back in my apartment, I sat down at my desk yet again and reviewed my notes. Within minutes, I realized my heart wasn’t in it. I made a pile of cards and shuffled, dealing myself a tarot reading of the data I’d collected. No insights emerged, and I finally packed it in. Maybe tomorrow I’d be smarter. There was always the outside chance.
Six A.M. Monday morning, I rolled out of bed, pulled on sweats, brushed my teeth, and went for a three-mile jog. The predawn light was gorgeous: the ocean luminous blue, the sky above it orange, fading to a thin layer of yellow, then a clear blue sky beyond. Along the horizon, the oil rigs sparkled like an irregular line of diamond scatter pins. The absence of cloud cover eliminated any special effects when the sun finally rose, but the day promised to be sunny and that was sufficient for me. When I finished the run, I headed over to the gym, where I variously stretched, curled, extended, crunched, hyperextended, pressed, pecked, pushed, shrugged, raised, pulled down, and pulled up weights. At the end of it, I felt keen.