Tourist Trap (Rebecca Schwartz #3) (A Rebecca Schwartz Mystery) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series) Read online

  “Okay. I’ll ask it. How?”

  “I’ve asked myself again and again, and I can’t come up with anything—that is, if Lou’s the Trapper. I’ve even put the question to Lou and he doesn’t get it.”

  “Of course he’d say that.”

  “The point is, I can’t get anywhere. But if the Trapper were someone else, it might fit in.”

  “But who?”

  She just wouldn’t bite—I’d thought the wine would loosen her mind up, but it hadn’t. Chris being a Virginian, I would have been better off with bourbon, but it was too late to switch now. I hit her with my theory: “The person who’s trying to frame Lou.”

  She put her wineglass down and rubbed the side of her long nose with one of her long fingers, a gesture that seems to help her think. “A frame-up. The only possible alternate solution. Yes, I see it. The only tricky part would be getting the mussels into the restaurant without Lou seeing him—but it’s not that tricky. He could have come before Lou’s shift started.’’

  “Right.”

  “Why would anyone want to frame Lou?”

  “Think about it.”

  But she didn’t need to. Her mind was now sufficiently loose to work without prodding. She answered her own question: “For beating his head in.”

  “Right again. Les Mathison.”

  “The Perry Mason solution! Partner, you’re flat out colorful.”

  “But it does make sense, doesn’t it?”

  “Let’s put it this way—I don’t see what other defense you’ve got. You can put Rob and Alan and yourself on the stand to testify about the phone call—”

  “And make laughingstocks of all of us.”

  “And you can have whachadoogy…”

  “Lou.”

  …testify that he was watching TV that night—or maybe he was in a bar he can’t remember the name of—”

  “And make a laughingstock out of my client.”

  “Or you could try something else—and frankly, I can’t think of a single other possibility.”

  “Except finding the real Trapper.”

  She sighed. “Okay, I’m game. Where do we start?”

  “Let’s call Terry Yannarelli.”

  But Terry wasn’t in the phone book. This time I sighed. “I guess I’ll have to go see him. Want to join me?”

  “Can’t. Bob and I are going out to dinner.”

  It was a bit unusual interviewing a potential witness without a witness of my own (in case he later changed his story), but I’d be taking only a preliminary statement, certainly not a formal one. He might be more relaxed if I went alone.

  Terry wasn’t at home, so there was nothing for it but to try the Yellow Parrot. He was there, talking to a kid who looked rather like a blond version of Art Zimbardo. Not Terry’s type, I should have thought, but maybe there weren’t any older married types in the place at the time.

  He remembered me, greeting me with a hearty “Where’s Rob?”

  “Why? Want your picture in the paper again?”

  “I got a lot of tricks out of that.”

  “I’m sure you do okay without benefit of press agent.”

  He shrugged. “My face is my fortune.”

  “You know, Terry—you’re the only person I know who’s actually seen the Trapper.”

  “What do you mean? You haven’t seen your own client?”

  “Well, see, I’m pretty sure my client didn’t do it. Did you see his picture in the paper?”

  “Sure.”

  “What did you think?”

  “Not bad. More or less my type, to tell you the truth.” The blond kid made a face and walked away. I cocked an eyebrow. Terry shrugged. “No problem. There’s plenty more where he came from.”

  “Could you get serious for a minute?”

  “About what?” He looked genuinely surprised.

  “My client. Was he the guy you talked to the night Sanchez was murdered?”

  “Who’s Sanchez?”

  “Rhinestone, dammit. How many murderers have you talked to lately?”

  He smiled. “Maybe lots. I like danger, remember?”

  “Terry, can I buy you a drink?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Jake the bartender set us up and I started over. “Now, about my client. Did he look familiar to you?”

  “I couldn’t really tell. He’s clean-shaven and the trick had a beard.”

  “I thought he wasn’t a trick.”

  “They’re all tricks. He just didn’t work out.”

  “If you actually saw my client, do you think you could tell? Maybe if he talked to you—could you recognize his voice?”

  “Maybe.”

  “But you don’t think so.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t remember a damn thing about the guy except he didn’t want to su—”

  “Never mind. Listen—that name he gave you. Was it Les, by any chance?”

  He thought for a minute. “Could have been.”

  “I’ll bet you’re a whiz at Trivial Pursuit.”

  “Huh?”

  “Having total recall and all.”

  He laughed. “I do too many drugs.”

  “Les, Lee, or Lou?”

  “Haven’t a clue.”

  So much for my only possible witness.

  * * *

  The next day was Saturday and I had it all to myself. Rob and I had never finished our conversation about a “trial separation,” but things were sort of working out that way. We were wary of each other. I was preoccupied with Lou’s case and he, I think, had gotten his feelings hurt by my admission that I’d had a date with someone else. To tell the truth, I think he might have been dating someone else, freed to do it by my admission. I didn’t know what I wanted from him right then and didn’t have the energy to confront the thing at the moment.

  I fed my fish, played a little Beethoven, and looked up two names in the phone book—Miranda Waring and Les Mathison. There wasn’t even an M. Waring, but there was a Leslie Mathison on Twelfth Avenue.

  For a while, I stared at the fish, trying to figure out what to do next. If this was my Les, he was a guy I suspected of being a lunatic who’d as soon murder me as put on his socks. I could hardly phone such a person—that would serve no purpose except to put him on his guard. But I couldn’t see the point of confronting him either. At least not yet. The thing to do first was figure out if he was my pigeon.

  I drove out to Twelfth Avenue and looked at his house. It was a duplex, his address being the second-floor apartment. A perfectly nice place, if slightly characterless—big enough for a family. I remembered Lou’s telling me that Les had lost his wife—though whether she’d died or left him I didn’t know; I wondered if he had children. It was hard to think of the Trapper as someone’s dad.

  I got out of the Volvo and stood on the sidewalk, staring rudely until I saw a curtain move in the downstairs apartment. Gathering my nerve, I rang the doorbell. Two scruffy children answered my ring in about two seconds, followed instantly by a tired-looking woman, overweight and lank of hair. “You look too old,” she said, “for a baby-sitter.”

  “I am, I think. Are you expecting one?”

  She looked downcast. “She’s half an hour late already.”

  “I’m actually looking for Les Mathison.”

  “Les moved out six months ago.”

  “I’m not sure I’ve got the right Les. Is this one married?”

  “He was. You must have been out of touch for a long time if you don’t know about all that.”

  “We sort of lost track of each other.”

  “Are you his friend or Darlene’s?”

  I hated it when Rob lied to get a story, but I could see how tempting it was. I paused a moment, trying to stem my mendacious urges, and finally blurted out, “I heard he had an accident on a cable car.”

  She looked terribly distressed. “Look, I’m afraid I don’t know where to find him.”

  “Do you know anyone who woul
d? I really need to talk to him.”

  “His mother, maybe, but I don’t know her name. All I know is she’s from Turlock. She came down to take care of him after he—I mean, I always just called her Mrs. Mathison.” The distress suddenly left her face. “Oh, there she is. Thank God.” I looked around, half expecting Mrs. Mathison herself, but the only human in sight was a teenage girl. The babysitter.

  I left elated, pretty sure I was on the right track. Les’s neighbor, I thought, had pegged me for an old friend and didn’t want to be the one to tell me bad news—either about Darlene or about Les’s assault on the cable car. At any rate, there was something she didn’t want to tell me; if this was a different Les, he’d had his share of bad luck, too.

  Now I had to figure out how to approach Mom Mathison. On practical grounds, I decided against driving to Turlock. I might have all day Saturday to myself, but that was ridiculous.

  In the end, I phoned, using one of Rob’s favorite tactics for getting people to talk. He claims experience has taught him it’s what they really want to do, anyway—just give them a chance and they’ll probably go at it full tilt. I wasn’t sure what I’d do if Mrs. Mathison asked any difficult questions—like why did I want to find Les—but I felt that after berating Rob for lying to get information, I ought to try to avoid doing it myself.

  There were four Mathisons in Turlock, and the third time I asked for Les a woman spoke up hopefully: “Les? He’s not here right now—did he tell you he would be?”

  “Is this Mrs. Mathison? His mother?”

  “Yes, it is. Are you a friend of Les’s?”

  “I’m afraid not, Mrs. Mathison. But I need to talk to him, and his neighbor told me he might be there. My name is Rebecca Schwartz,” I added, hoping she wouldn’t recognize it.

  “Oh.” She sounded disappointed. “Well, I haven’t heard from Les in—oh, maybe a year or more. Before that, only every once in a while. Ever since his accident he’s stayed away. I so much wanted him to come home, too—he never had a worry in the world till he moved to San Francisco.”

  I was starting to get goose bumps. Controlling myself, I said, “You mean the accident on the cable car?”

  “Yes. Unless—don’t tell me there’s been another! I couldn’t stand it.”

  “Not that I know of. It’s just that I don’t know what he’s been doing lately.”

  “Trying to find himself, I imagine. I pray to God every night that nothing else has happened to him and that he’ll come home to us soon. And come home to Jesus, too.”

  The last sentence sounded so heartfelt I could almost feel Mrs. Mathison’s pain myself. “I didn’t know he was a religious man.”

  “Went to church every Sunday of his life until he left Turlock. Active in Sunday school, too. And the 4-H and the Boy Scouts and president of the Future Farmers of America. We brought him up to lead a good, healthy life and he did, too—a model boy. They still remember him over at the high school.”

  “So Les grew up on a farm.”

  “More like a ranch, really. I never saw a boy that cared so much for his animals. Hated it when he had to slaughter ’em—but he did have to, of course; they teach ’em that in 4- H; what’s the point of raisin’ ’em if you don’t slaughter ’em? But he was always a sensitive boy. Said they hadn’t done anything to anybody, so why should he hurt ’em? My husband had to whip him till he’d do it; hurt him more than it hurt Les, but he had to—only way to teach him. We never believed in sparin’ the rod, but there was a lot of love here and Les knew it. He’d never have left home if we hadn’t lost the ranch. He said there was nothing for him in Turlock anymore—he had to go to San Francisco and try to make it on his own.” She started to sob. “I’ve wished so many times he’d stayed here, but I know it was God’s will that he had to go. That’s what our pastor said when I went for counseling and I know he’s right. I pray every night I’ll learn to accept it someday.”

  “Did he move to the city with his wife?”

  “Say, are you a girlfriend of his?”

  “No. I’m a lawyer and I thought he might have some information about a case I’m working on.”

  “He’s not in trouble, is he?”

  Only the worst possible kind. I said, “Frankly, I’m a little worried that no one seems to know where he is.”

  “I don’t understand. I thought you said his neighbor told you to call.”

  “She told me he’s moved away.”

  “Oh, lordy, lordy, I knew I shouldn’t have stopped writing him. My husband told me to, said Les would get in touch when he was ready; I think he thought he’d come home like the prodigal son one day.”

  “Maybe you should file a missing persons report.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t do that. We aren’t the kind of people who have dealings with the police.”

  “I see. I wonder if you could tell me something else. You said Les’s trouble started when he moved to San Francisco. Did something happen besides the incident on the cable car?”

  “Are you a Christian, dear?”

  “I’m not, actually.”

  “Well, I’m not sure I should be talking to you. I think I ought to pray about it.”

  “I understand how you feel; but I feel I should tell you the truth. I think Les really might be in trouble.”

  “Are you trying to help him?”

  There it was—the crunch of conscience. I took a deep breath, but before I could say anything, she spoke again: “I don’t think you are. You’re not a Christian and sometimes I don’t think there is one in the whole city of San Francisco—just last Easter they crucified someone like they did Jesus.”

  “Why don’t I give you my address and phone number, just in case?”

  She cheered up. “I could send you some very interesting pamphlets.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “And if you hear anything about Les, you’ll let me know, won’t you?”

  “I’ll be glad to. But turnabout’s fair play—if you hear something, will you let me know?”

  “I don’t know…” She sounded very doubtful indeed.

  “I know you’ll do what you can.” I gave her my stats and hung up in a cold sweat.

  I’d found the conversation chilling. Mom Mathison talked almost like the Trapper wrote—blaming all her son’s problems on the city itself. I went straight to the piano and spent most of the rest of the day there.

  * * *

  The next day I drove to Marin, squirmed through my parents’ slides of Israel, and finally managed to get Dad to take a walk with me; I knew talking about the case in front of Mom would cause about the same reaction as announcing I’d joined the Hare Krishnas.

  When I’d laid the whole thing out, he said, “I’d been wondering how you were going to pull this one out, Rebecca.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief—he hadn’t called me Beck; that meant at least he wasn’t about to have an aneurysm from worry. “The thing’s plausible, all right. A kid from an upright all-American home—and yet abused.”

  “Abused?”

  “They beat him, didn’t they? Beat him to make him kill his pets?”

  “Dad, they don’t think of them as pets in 4-H.”

  “But he thought of them as pets—his mother said so. Can you imagine anything more horrifying to a child than being beaten by his own parents because he refused to heartlessly kill the helpless animals he’d raised and loved?”

  “Dad, for heaven’s sake—this is me, not a jury.”

  “I may be being a little dramatic, but think about it—can you?”

  “It sounds pretty awful, all right. I wonder if any of them were lambs.”

  “I don’t think things like that unbalance a person, exactly, but suppose someone with that kind of history actually does go off the deep end; he’s bound to have a skewed sense of justice. And even as a youngster, this lad had justice on his mind—the mother said he thought it was unfair to kill animals that didn’t hurt anyone, didn’t she?”

  “Some
thing like that.”

  “Add the element of Christianity and you get another set of contradictions. You get Jesus saying to turn the other cheek, but the Old Testament God saying, ‘Vengeance is mine.’ You also get Jesus saying, ‘Blessed are the meek,’ and Christian parents beating up their lads for acting wimpy. Most kids work it out somehow or other, but in the case of one who’s slightly unbalanced, all that stuff is still in the brain somewhere, mixing it up like a couple of street gangs.”

  Suddenly I had a mental image, not of thugs at a weekend rumble, but of tiny knights in heavy armor, flailing about with mouse-sized swords somewhere in Les’s skull.

  “I’ll bet Mrs. Mathison wasn’t lying when she said there was a lot of love in that home and that Les knew it. I’d be willing to believe he was a perfectly sincere, if somewhat confused Boy Scout and Future Farmer. But suppose he became severely disillusioned, convinced God wasn’t quite the benign shepherd He’s cracked up to be.”

  “He might get cranky and nail someone to a cross on Easter Sunday.”

  Dad sighed. “He might if he were messhuge. But nothing Mrs. M. said really indicated that. I wonder about those animals.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Suppose I wanted you to kill Noah.”

  Noah had been my childhood cat. “And suppose I forced you to do it by beating you.” I nodded, trying to take it in.

  “Then when you actually killed Noah, do you think you might still be angry?”

  I was beginning to get the hang of it. “Angry enough to kill, you mean? You mean in some weird way, I might be so mad at you I’d actually enjoy killing Noah?”

  He nodded. “I’ll have to talk to one of my shrink friends. It might possibly work that way.”

  “The only problem is, it’s just a theory. The only way we’d ever find out is if Les told us.”

  “Hold your horses, babe. I’m just kicking it around, trying to figure out if I can believe in Les as the Trapper.”

  “And?”

  “Well, let’s put it this way—your client’s going to the green room if you don’t come up with some better defense than you’ve currently got.”

  “Dad!” It hurt, hearing it put so bluntly.

  “Don’t get upset, Beck. You’ve got to be practical about this. What if you do lose him? You have to be prepared for it. You can’t get too emotionally involved.”