I took the slip and glanced at it, recognizing the names from the list I'd checked. Both San Francisco numbers were now disconnects. "Thanks. I appreciate this." Worthless as it is, I thought.
He got up from the desk. "Now if you'll forgive me, I have to put in a quick appearance before I go to bed. Are you sure you wouldn't like a drink?"
"Thanks, but I'd better not. I have ground to cover yet, and I'm not in town that long."
"I'll walk you out," he said courteously.
I followed him down the wide white marble stairs, across the foyer, and through a vast empty room with a domed ceiling and pale, glossy, hardwood floors. At the far end, there was a small stage. "What will you do now that your business is sold?"
"This is the ballroom," he said, catching the curiosity in my look. "My wife had it refurbished. She gives charity balls for diseases only rich people get. To answer your question, I won't have to do anything."
"Lucky you."
"Not luck. This was my intention from the onset. I'm a goal-oriented person. I'd advise you to do likewise."
"Absolutely," I said.
In the foyer, we shook hands. I noticed he had the door closed before I reached the front walk. I retrieved my car, tipping the parking valet a buck. From his look of amazement, everybody else must have tipped him five.
I consulted my map. Russell Turpin's Haight Street address wasn't far. I headed south on Masonic and crossed the Panhandle section of Golden Gate Park. Haight was two blocks up, and the address I needed was only four blocks down.
The sidewalks were crowded with pedestrians. Remnants of the past glories of Haight-Ashbury were still in evidence: vintage dress shops and bookstores, funky-looking restaurants, a storefront clinic. The street was well lighted, and there was still quite a bit of traffic. The street people were decked out like the flower children of old, still wearing bell-bottoms, nose rings, dreadlocks, torn blue jeans, leather, face paints, multiple earrings, backpacks, and knee-high boots. Music tumbled out of bars. In half the doorways, kids loitered, looking stoned, though perhaps on drugs more exotic than grass or 'ludes.
I circled, driving an eight-block track – two down, two over, two up, two back – trying to find a place to tuck my car. San Francisco seems ill equipped to accommodate the number of vehicles within the city limits. Parked cars are squeezed into every available linear inch of curb, angled into hillsides, lined up on sidewalks, wedged against the buildings. Front bumpers are nosed in too close to fire hydrants. Back bumpers hang out into red-painted zones. Garage space is at a premium, and every driveway bristles with signs warding off the poachers.
By the time I found parking, it was nearly 1:00 a.m. I tucked my rental around the corner on Baker Street, whipping into a place as another vehicle pulled out. I fumbled in the bottom of my handbag until I found my penlight. I locked my car and hiked up the hill the half block to Haight. All of the buildings were close-packed, pastel, four and five stories tall. An occasional frail tree contributed a grace note of green. Many of the oversize windows were still lighted. From the street I could see, in a diminishing series of acute angles, fireplace mantels, bold, abstract paintings, white walls, bookshelves, hanging plants, and crown molding.
The address I had turned out to be a "modern" fourplex of shaggy brown shingles sandwiched between two Victorian frame houses. The streetlight was burned out, and I was left to surmise that one was painted dull red, the other an indigo blue with (perhaps) white trim. In the dark, both appeared to be shades of muddy gray. I talked to a painter once who worked on movie sets. For a film shot in black and white, he said the crew used brown paint in eleven different shades. My current surroundings had the same feel, an environment drained of color, reduced to tones of chestnut and dun. The gradations were infinite but visible only to night souls.
Turpin apparently occupied a second-floor apartment, and I was gratified to note that the hand-lettered card tucked in the slot actually specified "Russell" by name, along with a housemate named Cherie Stanislaus. I peered through the glass door at a handsomely papered foyer with an apartment door on either side. At the rear, a stairway angled left and out of sight, probably doubling back on itself to an identical hallway above. I moved out to the street and looked up at the second-floor windows. The front rooms on both sides of the building were lighted, which suggested that the occupants were still awake.
As I moved up the stairs to the entrance, I could hear the tapping of high heels approaching from behind me. I paused, looking back. The blonde coming up the stairs wore makeup so pale, the effect was ghostly. Her eyes were elaborately done up with thick false eyelashes, two shades of eye shadow, and a black pencil line on both her upper and lower lids. Her forehead was high, and her hair was teased upward at the crown, held back with a gaudy Rhinestone clip. The rest of her hair was long and straight, splitting at the shoulder so that half extended down her back. A cluster of long curls tumbled over her breasts. Her long dangle earrings were shaped like elongated question marks. She wore a dark leotard on top and a slinky black skirt that was split up one side. Her hips were narrow, her stomach flat. She took out a ring of keys and gave me a long, cool look as she unlocked the foyer door. "Looking for someone?"
"Russell Turpin."
"Well, you've come to the right place." Her smile was self-contained, not unfriendly, but less than warm I thought. "He's not here, but you can come up and wait if you want. I'm his roommate."
"Thanks. You're Cherie?"
"That's right. Who are you, pray tell?"
"Kinsey Millhone," I said. "I left a message on your machine...."
"I remember that. You're Lorna's friend," she said. She pushed the door open, and I followed her in. She paused, making sure the door had latched shut again before she headed up the stairs. I trailed behind. Having lied on the phone, I now had to decide whether to play this straight.
"Actually, Lorna and I never met," I said. "I'm a private investigator looking into her death. You knew she'd been killed?"
"Yes, of course we did. I'm happy to hear you mention it. Russell wasn't looking forward to delivering the bad news about Lorna's death." Her stockings were black mesh, and her three-inch stiletto heels forced her calves into high relief. When we reached the second-floor landing, she unlocked the door to apartment C. She stepped out of her shoes with a little grimace of relief, then padded through the living room in her stocking feet. I thought she'd turn on a table lamp, but apparently she preferred the gloom. "Make yourself comfortable," she said.
"You have any idea what time he'll be home?"
"Any time, I'd imagine. He doesn't like staying out too late." She turned on a light in the kitchen, which was visible through bifold shutters resting on the countertop. She pushed the shutters open. Through the gap, I watched her take out two ice-cube trays, which she cracked and emptied into an acrylic ice bucket. "I'm having a drink. If you want one, speak up. I hate playing hostess, but I'm good for one round. I have a bottle of Chardonnay open, if you're interested. You look like a white wine kind of girl."
"I'd love some. You need help?"
"Don't we all?" she remarked. "You have offices in the city?"
"I'm from Santa Teresa."
She tilted her head, peering through the pass-through at me. "Why would you come all the way up to see Russell? He's not a suspect, I hope."
"Are you his girlfriend?" I thought it was time I posed the questions instead of her.
"I wouldn't say that. We're fond of each other, but we're not exactly an 'item.' He prefers to be thought of as footloose and fancy free. One of those types."
She plunked several ice cubes in a tall glass and splashed Scotch halfway up the side. She squirted in seltzer water, using one of those devices I'd seen in old thirties movies. She took a sip, shuddering slightly, and then set the glass aside while she found a wineglass in the cupboard. She held it up to the light and decided it wasn't clean enough. She rinsed and dried it. She took the Chardonnay out of the refrigerator and fille
d my glass, then put the bottle in a cooler and left it on the counter. I moved over to the pass-through and took the wineglass she handed me.
"I don't know if you're aware of this, but Russell's very screwed up," she said.
"Really. I've never met him."
"You can take my word for it. You want to know why? Because he's hung like a mule."
I said, "Ah." Having seen him in action, I could attest to that.
Cherie smiled. "I like the 'ah.' It's diplomatic. Come on back to my room and we can talk while I change. If I don't get out of this girdle, I'm going to kill myself very soon."
Chapter 11
* * *
Cherie's bedroom furniture consisted of a fifties "sweet" of blond wood with curving lines. She sat down at a dressing table with a big round mirror in the center and two deep drawers on either side. She turned on a dressing table lamp, leaving the rest of the room shrouded in shadows. She had twin beds with blond-wood headboards, a blond bed table, an old forty-five record player with a fat black spindle, and a black canvas-and-wrought-iron butterfly chair covered with discarded clothing. My only choice for seating was one of the twin beds. I elected to lean against the door frame instead.
Cherie wriggled out of her girdle and panty hose and tossed them on the floor, then turned to study herself in the mirror. She leaned forward, checking the lines near her eyes with a critical gaze. She shook her head in disgust. "Isn't aging the pits? Sometimes I think I should just shoot myself and get it over with."
While I watched, she spread out a clean white towel and took out cold cream, a skin toner, cotton balls, and Q-tips, apparently in preparation for removing her makeup. I've seen dental hygienists who weren't as meticulous in assembling their instruments.
"Did you know Lorna?" I asked.
"I met her. I didn't 'know' her."
"What'd you think of her?"
"I was envious, of course. She was what they call 'a natural beauty.' All so effortless. It's enough to make you sick." Her eyes met mine in the mirror. "You don't wear a lot of makeup, so you probably can't relate to this, but I spend hours on myself, and to what end, I ask? Fifteen minutes on the street and it all evaporates. My lipstick's eaten off. My eye shadow ends up in this crease... look at this. My eyeliner gets transferred to my upper lid. Every time I blow my nose, my foundation comes off on the tissue like paint. Lorna was just the opposite. She never had to do anything at all." She peeled off a false eyelash and placed it in a small box, where it lay like a wink. She peeled off the other lash and placed it beside the first. Now it looked like two eyes closed in sleep. "What I wouldn't have given to have skin like hers," she said. "Oh, well. What's a poor girl to do?" She put a hand to her forehead and lifted off her hair. Under the wig, she wore what looked like a rubber bathing cap. She dropped her voice to its natural baritone, addressing my reflection. "Well! Here's Russell now. Nice to meet you," he said. Like a disappearing act, Cherie vanished, leaving a slightly gawky-looking man in her place. He turned and struck a pose. "Be honest. Which do you prefer?"
I smiled. "I like Cherie."
"So do I," he said. He turned and looked at himself again, squinting closely. "I can't tell you how obnoxious it is waking up every morning to a beard. And a penis? My gawd. Picture that in your lacy little underpants. Like a big old ugly worm. Scares me to death." He began to put cold cream on his face, wiping off foundation in swipes.
I couldn't take my eyes off him. The illusion had been perfect. "Do you do this every day? Dress up in women's clothes?"
"Most days. After work. From nine to five, I'm Russell: tie, sport coat, button-down collar, the whole bit. I don't wear wingtips, but the moral and spiritual equivalent."
"What sort of work do you do?"
"I'm the assistant manager at the local Circuit City, selling stereo systems. Nights, I can relax and do anything I want."
"You don't make a living from the acting?"
"Oh. You saw the film," he said. "I hardly made a dime, and it never went anywhere, which I must say was a relief. Think of the irony of getting famous as Russell, when I'm really Cherie at heart."
"I just talked to Joe Ayers at his place. He says he sold his company."
"Trying to turn respectable, I'd imagine." He raised his eyebrows, smiling slightly. His expression suggested there was no real chance of that. Foundation gone, he took a cotton ball and soaked it with skin toner. He began to wipe off the cold cream and any remaining traces of makeup.
"How many films did you make for him?"
"Just the one."
"Were you disappointed it was never released?"
"I was at the time. I've realized since then that I don't care to capitalize on my 'equipment.' I despise being male. I really hate all the macho posturing and bullshit, all the effort it takes. It's much more fun being female. Sometimes I'm tempted to do away with 'it,' but I can't bear to have myself surgically altered, as endowed as I am. Maybe an organ donor program would be interested," he said. He waved a hand airily. "But enough of my tacky problems. What else can I tell you about Lorna?"
"I'm not sure. I gather you really didn't know her that well."
"That depends on your frame of reference. We spent two days together while the film was being shot. We had an instant rapport and laughed our tiny asses off. She was such a kick. Kinky and fearless, with a wicked sense of humor. We were soul sisters. I mean that. I was heartbroken when I heard that she had died, of all things."
"That was the only time you saw her? During the filming?"
"No, I ran into her maybe two months later, up here shopping with that piggy-looking sister."
"Which one? She has two."
"Oh, really. I can't remember the name. Something odd, as I recall. She looked like an imitation Lorna: same face, but all porked out. Anyway, I saw them on the street down around Union Square, and we stopped to chat about nothing in particular. She looked spectacular as ever. That's the last I saw of her."
"What about the other actress, Nancy Dobbs? Was she a friend of Lorna's?"
"Oh, gawd. Wasn't she the worst? Talk about wooden."
"She was pretty bad," I admitted. "Has she done other films for Ayers?"
"I doubt it. In fact, I'm sure not. I think she just did that one as a lark. Someone else had been hired and opted out at the last minute. Lorna had her pegged. Nancy was terribly ambitious, without the talent or the body to get very far. She's one of those women who'd try to screw her way to the top, only no one would have her, so how far could she get? What a dog." Russell laughed. "Actually, she'd have screwed a dog if she'd thought it would help."
"How'd she get along with Lorna?"
"As far as I know, they never had any kind of snit, but privately each felt infinitely superior to the other. I know because they both took to confiding in me between takes."
"Is she still in the city? I'd like to talk to her."
Russell looked at me with surprise. "You didn't see her tonight? I thought you must have talked to her at Ayers's little soiree."
"What would she be doing there?"
"She's married to him. That's the point, isn't it? All during the shoot, she really flung herself at him. Next thing we heard... wahlah. She was Mrs. Joseph Ayers, noted socialite. It's probably why he dumped the porno flick. Imagine that getting out. He calls her 'Duchess,' by the way. Isn't that pretentious?"
"Was there ever a suggestion that Joe Ayers's relationship with Lorna was other than professional?"
"He was never involved with her sexually, if that's what you mean. It's really a bit of a cliché to imagine these guys are out 'sampling the merchandise.' Believe me, his only interest was in making a buck."
"Lorna's mother seems to think her death was related to the film somehow."
"Possible, I suppose, but why would anybody kill her for that? She might have been a star if she'd lived. As for those of us who worked on it, trust me, we got along. We were all so grateful for the opportunity, we made a point of it," he said. "How in the
world did her mother find out?"
"Somebody sent her the tape."
Russell stared at my reflection in the mirror. "As an expression of condolences, that's in poor taste," he said. "You'd have to wonder at the motive."
"Ain't that the truth."
I went back to the motel, feeling wide awake. By two in the morning Santa Teresa has shut down. In San Francisco all the bars had closed, but numerous businesses were still open: gas stations, bookstores, fitness gyms, video rentals, coffee shops, even clothing stores. I changed out of my flats and the all-purpose dress, stripping off my panty hose with the same relief Cherie had expressed. Once in my jeans and turtleneck, I felt like I was back in my own skin again. I found an all-night diner two doors away from the Del Rey and ate a lavish breakfast. I returned to my room and put the chain on the track. I plunked off my Reeboks, propped all the pillows at my back, and checked Lorna's file again, leafing through the crime scene sketches and the accompanying pictures.
The photographer had shot the outside of the house, front yard and back, with views looking north, south, east, and west. There were shots of both the front and back porches, wood railings, windows. The front door had been closed, but unlocked, with no signs of forced entry. Within the cabin itself, there was no weapon visible and no evidence of a struggle. I could see colored smudges where the fingerprint technicians had been at work with their various powders. According to the report, elimination fingerprints and palm prints had been taken, and most latents on the premises had been accounted for. Many were Lorna's. Some were from family members, the landlord, her friend Danielle, a couple of acquaintances who'd been interviewed by homicide investigators. Many surfaces had been wiped clean.
The photographs of Lorna began in long shot, establishing her position relative to the front door. There were intermediate-range photos, close-ups with a six-inch ruler in evidence to indicate scale. The log showed an orderly progression through the area. I was frustrated by the flat, two-dimensional images. I wanted to crawl into the frame, examine all the items on the tabletops, open up the drawers, and pick through the contents. I found myself squinting, moving pictures closer to my face and then back again, as if the subject matter might suddenly leap into sharper focus. I would stare at the body, scanning the background, taking in items through my peripheral vision.