The Secrets of Harry Bright Page 9

  In the dream, Tommy would often be clinging to his coffin, or sometimes to his surfboard, which had been torn from his ankle strap by the huge wave in Santa Monica that drowned him.

  Sometimes Sidney Blackpool would dream simply that Tommy was getting soaked to the skin lying in that coffin in the cold ground. This, during rainstorms. Sidney Blackpool hated rainstorms now and had begun to wish that he’d had Tommy cremated. His ex-wife had suggested it, but deferred when he insisted on burial in the ground. Like many lapsed Catholics he could not entirely escape the tenets drilled into him in grammar school. Even though the modern Church no longer cherished mystery and ritual and burial in the ground. The dead with bones intact to await the Redeemer? He never really knew why they used to demand it, but he had buried Tommy in the ground. And now he regretted it every time it rained. He used to read weather forecasts even before the headlines in the days when he was going mad.

  In all his years as a cop-even during the Watts Riot when he was trapped inside a burning warehouse believing he’d be burned alive-he’d never awakened in what they call a cold sweat. Dreams of fire had never tormented him. It was these dreams of water, and Tommy so cold. The detective was shivering as he plodded toward the shower, feeling very old, hoping he could stem the headache starting at the base of his skull.

  Cold sweat. A parent who dreamed of something as outrageous, as unnatural as his eighteen-year-old child lying in the ground, that’s who coined that one. He showered, shaved, dressed, took three aspirin and went downstairs hoping the hotel coffee shop opened early.

  Otto Stringer had breakfast served in his bedroom as promised. It was a typical Palm Springs November day. “The kind you expect” as the radio disc jockey said. About 78 degrees with humidity around 19 percent, making it comfortable and invigorating. Otto finished four eggs, two orders of bacon, toast, jam and coffee. He showered, shaved, put on a baby-blue golf shirt with a navy sweater tied around his neck, and realized they hadn’t decided where to play.

  They had the names of three head pros who would arrange games for them at some of America’s most famous country clubs. Victor Watson’s secretary had assured Sidney Blackpool that even if all the courses were not yet ready for the official opening of the 1984-85 desert season, she could make arrangements for them at just about any club that was. When Otto arrived at the coffee shop, his partner had a copy of Palm Springs Life on the counter beside him, along with the file containing the police reports dealing with the murder of Jack Watson.

  “Which one’s most fun to read?” Otto asked, nodding to one of the desert’s thousand daytime waitresses who have a tough time making it during the short tourist season, and who all walk like their feet hurt.

  “Morning,” she said, pouring Otto’s coffee. “Hot enough for you today?”

  “Sure is,” Otto said.

  “That’s half a the day’s conversation,” Sidney Blackpool said to Otto.

  “Where we eating tonight?” Otto asked, thus completing the other half.

  “You wanna play golf today or make our show for Watson?”

  “I was thinking, Sidney, maybe we oughtta get the business over with in case he calls and wants a report.”

  “I don’t think he’ll call,” Sidney Blackpool said. “He must know unconsciously that this is a fantasy. He’s just … just a screwed-up father who can’t deal with the loss of his son. Maybe lots a guys in his shoes if they had his money’d do strange things to try to find some …”

  “justice.”

  “I was gonna say peace. He told me he knows there’s no justice.”

  “I feel sorry for the guy, Sidney. Let’s work on his case today. We got all week to play golf. Wanna drop by Palm Springs P.D.?”

  “I was thinking about going by Watson’s house,” Sidney Blackpool said. “After all these months I don’t suppose Palm Springs P.D. knows anything we don’t already know. The houseboy’s supposed to be there.”

  “How long’s he been with the family?”

  “Only two years.”

  “Let’s pin it on him.”

  “Maybe we could get in nine holes this afternoon,” Sidney Blackpool said.

  The Las Palmas residence of Victor Watson was a disappointment to both cops. They were expecting a Beverly Hills mansion rather than a sprawling one-story home without real style that couldn’t even be seen behind the jungle of oleander. In Beverly Hills the residents claimed they wanted privacy but made sure that the ogling masses could at least see upper windows and gabled roofs over the vine-covered walls and through the wrought iron.

  Victor Watson’s home was 1950-ish, flat-roofed, spread around a large oval pool with a small grove of orange trees at the rear. The property was about an acre and a half in size. The drive-in gate was locked and they rang the buzzer but got no answer.

  “The houseboy might be out to the store or something,” said Otto.

  “Might be back in that grove,” Sidney Blackpool said, climbing up on the gate to take a peek.

  “I got my new pants on, Sidney, and I’m too old to climb.”

  “It’s only an electric gate. Just lean on it with the whole two-sixty.”

  “Probably set off an alarm,” Otto said, leaning his weight onto the gate and pushing against the jointed arm, which creaked and gave. The gate clanged shut after they were both inside.

  “Cost the ten grand he gave us just to repair our damage,” Otto said.

  “Can’t waste too much time, Otto. We gotta play golf.”

  Both men went to the driveway on the side of the house and Otto yelled, “Hellooooo!” but there was no sound from the grove except for desert birds chattering in the trees.

  Sidney Blackpool peeked in the garage and saw the Watson Mercedes. Otto rang the front doorbell and could hear music inside.

  “Let’s go around to the pool,” Otto said. “Maybe he was working on his tan and fell asleep.”

  The pool was impressive because of its size. There was a separate spa, large enough to accommodate the kind of orgy Otto dreamed of joining this week.

  “Whaddaya think, Sidney?” He winked toward the spa. “All this privacy. Bet they could throw some parties.”

  “What the hell’s that?”

  By a chaise lounge in the shade of the patio roof was a coffee cup spilled. Sidney Blackpool touched the coffee, which was cold. On the patio stones near the overturned cup was an unmistakable smear of blood. It looked very fresh.

  “Let’s get in that house pronto,” he said.

  It wasn’t difficult. The French doors leading to the patio were unlocked and the detectives entered carefully, looking at each other as they both realized they were ready for a golf vacation, not a homicide investigation. They were unarmed.

  “Anybody home?” Otto yelled, half expecting an intruder wet with gore to come slashing out of a closet.

  The home bore the touches of Mrs. Victor Watson. There was the same dizzy designer mix that Sidney Blackpool had seen in Watson’s outer office: Grecian urns, broken remnants of Roman antiquities in bas relief, pre-Columbian artifacts, eighteenth-century English landscapes, and three “conversation areas” that were overwhelmed by massive sofas, settees and loveseats, which were supposed to say, “We are desert casual in this house,” but which to Sidney Blackpool said, “I am without subtlety but do I ever have megabucks.”

  The radio’s music was coming not from the main bedrooms down the hall by the entertainment area but from the other side of the house, just off the kitchen. Otto picked up a vase, hefted it like a club, shrugged at Sidney Blackpool and put it back down. Both detectives were a little tense as they crept past a huge kitchen containing commercial gas ranges and ovens, freezers and refrigerators, all in stainless steel, which would’ve satisfied the needs of any restaurant chef in Palm Springs. There was an old chopping block in the center of the kitchen, showing a patina of fifty years. On the chopping block was a fourteen-inch butcher knife, stained by blood.

  Now Otto Stringer wished he’d k
ept the vase, and started looking for a real club. They crept a little more quietly toward the sound of the radio. It was turned to one of the Palm Springs stations, which, like the rest of this valley, refused to march with Time past the era of Dwight Eisenhower.

  The song on the radio was “Wheel of Fortune” by Kay Starr. They could hear the sound of a shower running. Kay Starr finished her song and the programmed music segued into “Long As You Got Your Health,” by Ozzie Nelson.

  Otto tried to break the rising tension by whispering, “I didn’t know he sang.”

  “Who?”

  “Ozzie Nelson. I thought he was just Ricky’s old man on television.”

  Sidney Blackpool stuck out his foot and nudged the bedroom door open. The music and shower got louder. They tiptoed toward the bathroom and could see that the shower curtain was drawn but there was no one standing behind it. Then they saw the outline of a human figure crumpled in the bathtub.

  Sidney Blackpool leaped forward and jerked the shower curtain back.

  A hairless man screamed, “Yeeeee!” dropping his toenail clipper and leaping to his feet. He was jockey size. His reflexes didn’t make him throw up his hands in defense. His hands flew over his genitals. He stood with his hip toward the detectives, his knee raised, covering his crotch. “Who are you?” he cried.

  “Sergeant Blackpool and Detective Stringer,” Sidney Blackpool said. “We were told you’d be expecting us. There was blood on the patio. And a butcher knife. We thought …”

  “Oh, God!” the little man cried, wrapping himself with the shower curtain.

  “We’ll let you get dressed,” Sidney Blackpool said, and both detectives retreated to the living room.

  “Poor little guy,” Otto said. “Coulda swallowed his tongue.”

  “Make him a little more security conscious,” said Sidney Blackpool, wondering if the well-stocked bar in the living room contained Johnnie Walker Black. Then he looked at his watch and saw that it wasn’t 10:00 A.M., and thought that the Johnnie Walker impulse was very bad, vacation or not.

  A few minutes later the houseboy came padding in barefoot. He wore a peppermint-green kimono with enormous sleeves and a silk-screen flying crane on the back. He was about sixty years old and now wore a strawberry-blond toupee slightly askew.

  “Golly you scared me!” he said, extending a hand palm down to Sidney Blackpool.

  After shaking hands with both detectives, he smiled and said, “My gosh! When that shower curtain came swishing back I expected to see Anthony Perkins standing there in drag! I was so disappointed! Would you like coffee or a drink or something?”

  “No, thanks, Mister Penrod,” Sidney Blackpool said. “Sorry to meet you this way.”

  “It’s okay,” the little man said. “And please call me Harlan. Everyone does. I can see how you’d get suspicious, being cops and all. Pardon me, policemen, I mean.”

  “Cops is fine,” Sidney Blackpool said.

  “Really? On Dragnet Jack Webb always said you didn’t like to be called cops.”

  “Jack Webb wasn’t a cop,” Sidney Blackpool said.

  “Well, sit for goodness’ sake,” said Harlan Penrod. “I must look a fright.” And after touching his toupee he realized he did. “Oh gosh,” he said, trying to tug it into place subtly. “I was just clipping my nails when you pulled the curtain back. The blood? Well, I was reading the L.A. Times and cutting a peach and oh, I just get so mad reading about Rose Bird and her California Supreme Court. We keep voting for the death penalty and they keep fixing it so these killers stay alive. I was so mad at Rose Bird I sliced my finger instead of the peach!”

  “We just stopped by to acquaint ourselves with the house and ask a few questions.” Sidney Blackpool glanced at Otto who knew that he was thinking, If we can think of what question to ask in a seventeen-month-old homicide.

  “We wouldn’t have to put up with Rose Bird if that so-called governor Jerry Brown hadn’t appointed her,” Harlan Penrod said. “Did you see the portrait of him they hung in the state capital? I mean, did the artist ever capture that repressed reclusive paranoid? In another life Jerry Brown was Emily Dickinson. I only wish we could get rid of Rose Bird and the rest of Jerry Brown’s supreme court. I think just like a cop. I’m all for death!”

  “We’re awful sorry to disturb you like this, but …”

  “Oh, you’re not disturbing me. Do you know how lonely it gels here? Mister and Mrs. Watson never come anymore since Jack died. Gosh, unless they let some friends use the place for a weekend I don’t see anybody. Do you know how lonesome it gets in a house like this all by yourself?”

  “Are you allowed to have friends come over?” Otto asked, his arms on the back of the sofa as he admired all the museum pieces that Sidney Blackpool hated.

  “Golly yes. Mister and Mrs. Watson are very nice to work for. And of course the property keeps me busy-enough. I’m not that young anymore.” Harlan Penrod took a sneaky little tug on his toup when he said that, but still wasn’t satisfied that it was centered. “This is a good job, believe me. I’m not complaining. I just miss having people here to take care of and cook for. Hey! When Mister Watson called, he said that you two gentlemen might be here for a week. Would you like me to cook a dinner for you?”

  “Well, I don’t think so,” Sidney Blackpool said. “We have our hotel and …”

  “Oh, it’s no trouble! I’d just love to. My training was originally as a chef, you know. What do you like? I could fix you anything. I have carte blanche at Jurgensen’s Market. You could invite your wives. Did you bring them along?”

  “We’re not married,” Otto said. “Both divorced.”

  “Really!” Harlan Penrod cried. “Oh, you must come to dinner!”

  “Well, maybe later in the week,” Sidney Blackpool said. “Now about the murder.”

  “Are you going to solve it? I mean, do you have some new clues?”

  “Not really,” Otto said. “We’re just gonna go over the old clues. Except there ain’t any.”

  “I know,” Harlan Penrod nodded, wrapping his kimono modestly around his bony knees. “I was wondering why two detectives came clear from Hollywood. I know you got lots of cases to work on there.”

  “We got cases by the gross, by the pound, by the case,” Otto said. “Were sort a doing a favor for Mister Watson. Just taking another look.”

  “Jack was such a beautiful boy,” Harlan Penrod said. “He was so sensitive, so intelligent, so … kind, you know? He was at the age where kids can be fresh and know-it-all, last year of college and all that. But not Jack. He was basically such a sweet person.”

  “To you?” Otto asked.

  “Golly yes,” Harlan Penrod said. “He was so … comfortable to be around. He liked people and was concerned about them. I think he cared about me, I really do. Like a family member, not just an employee.”

  “The police report says you were out of town the night he disappeared,” Otto said, going through the motions of a homicide follow-up.

  “Yes, to L.A. I’ve hated myself for not being here. You have no idea how many times I’ve thought of it.”

  “Why’d you go to L.A.?”

  “Well, I never admitted it to the Palm Springs detectives, but after all this time I guess it doesn’t make any difference. I had to testify in a criminal trial and I didn’t want Mister Watson to know. It was soooooo lurid.”

  “A criminal trial?” Otto cocked an eyebrow at Sidney Blackpool. “Were you involved in a crime?”

  “Gosh no! I was sort of a witness. Oh, it was awful!” Harlan Penrod jumped up and took several little steps over to the bar where he poured himself some orange juice from a pitcher. “Care for some juice? Fresh-squeezed.”

  “No, thanks,” Otto said, while Sidney Blackpool shook his head and spied the bottle on the bar shelf-Johnnie Walker Black.

  “Well,” Harlan Penrod said, returning to the sofa and crossing his legs after making sure the kimono didn’t flop open. “I actually left Hollywood and came t
o live in the desert because of that terrible business. You see, I used to work for one of the sound studios on Santa Monica where people with no talent whatsoever go to cut records. Oh, it was so sad. All these young boys and girls with hopes and dreams. Little rock bands with some awful song they wrote. Hopes and dreams. I was so depressed all the time.”

  Sidney Blackpool looked at his watch and Otto said, “We, uh, have an appointment in a little while.”

  “Do you?” Harlan Penrod was crestfallen. “Anyway, one day in the studio when they were doing a sound mix, my boss who was oh so nelly got in a terrible row with his boyfriend, this person named Godfrey Parker, a bitch if there ever was one. They were almost slapping each other’s face when I went home. And the next day they found my boss. Oh, it was unspeakable!”

  “What happened?” Otto was getting caught up in Harlan Penrod’s narrative.

  “It was a typical queen murder,” Harlan said. “I remember one in my apartment building. A closet queen cut his lover to pieces. When the cops came they found all these trash bags in the apartment. ‘He’s in this one,’ a cop would yell. ‘He’s in this one too,’ another cop would holler. Oh, it was awful. The best part of him was found in an alligator bag!”

  “But back to the sound studio,” Otto said, pouring himself some orange juice after all.

  “Yes, well, the police came the next morning after the janitor called and they found my boss lying dead right there in the studio. With a studio microphone … oh, this is awful … sticking two feet out of his rectum!”

  “That’s pretty gruesome, all right,” Otto said.

  “And Godfrey had turned up the volume full blast! He was a fiend! And those cops that came that morning, do you know what they said?”

  “Can’t imagine,” said Sidney Blackpool.

  “The first one said, ‘Well, I know who the deceased must be.’ And then he named that T.V. reporter on Channel Seven? You know, the one that’s always doing exposés on the L.A.P.D. And the policeman said, ‘The suspect’s one of us. Some cop finally did what we’ve all been threatening to do.’ Well, they had to cut the mike pole out of him with a bolt cutter!”