Strawberry Sunday Read online

  “I know it’s hard, Carlos. I lost my best friend a few weeks back. He was killed, too. But gunning down an innocent man won’t help.”

  “I don’t need help, I need vengeance.”

  “Randy Gelbride’s not the place to look,” I told him, then left him to his honor and his conscience and the love he had won from Rita.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The Cantina was almost empty, the way it had been on my first visit. The jukebox was dead. The late afternoon sun spiked through the window like a golden syringe inserted into a suntanned arm. The three people sharing a sinful Sunday with me looked even more damned than the town they lived in.

  I was on my second beer, trying to decide what to do with the little information I’d collected and the few ideas I had. The alternatives were barren at best, but when Mace Dixon walked in the door, I’d almost reached a decision.

  He ambled toward a stool at the end of the bar but when he saw me he nodded a greeting, then pointed to a table in the corner. I grabbed my beer and headed that way. When the chief had his whiskey in his hammy hand, he joined me.

  “Hell of a thing when the only time you got to do your drinking is Sunday,” he said as he dumped his heavy body onto a wooden chair.

  “Better than no time at all,” I said, feeling blithe and carefree and far drunker than I was.

  Dixon looked me over. He wore Levi’s and a tank top and looked as if he’d just come from the gym. “Looks like you got you some sun,” he said after a sip of the whiskey.

  “Hard to avoid down here.”

  “Looks like you been losing some sleep, too.”

  “Hard to avoid anywhere.”

  “Get Gus Gelbride to sit and spit with you?”

  “He invited me up to the mansion, as a matter of fact. We’re almost bosom buddies.”

  The chief raised a brow. “You must know something I don’t.”

  “If I do, I don’t know what it is.”

  He shrugged. “What did the old bastard have to say?”

  “Several things, most of them directives. Gus is your basic force of nature.”

  “That’s one word for him, anyway.”

  “What’s another?”

  His smile was lifeless. “Gangster is one that comes to mind.”

  “Literally?”

  “Not if you go by the rap sheet.”

  “And if you go by your hunches?”

  “Gus Gelbride’s a multiple felon.”

  “What’s behind the friction between you two, Chief?”

  He looked toward the bar. “Hell, I don’t know. Maybe I don’t like strawberries.”

  “Sounds like it’s more than that, to me. I’m thinking it has something to do with Franco Lombardi.”

  The chief drained his whiskey and motioned for the bartender to bring him another. When he had a second helping, he turned garrulous. “Gus has been committing crimes in this valley for the last fifty years. Big crimes like Franco and little crimes no one ever heard of. And I can’t lay a finger on him.”

  “You peg Gus for both Lombardi killings?”

  He squinted at me. “I don’t know. Do you?”

  “I don’t know, either.”

  “Hell of a pair of detectives we are.”

  “Yeah. When you came in, I’d just about decided to go back to the city and leave all the questions to you.”

  He met my eye. “Funny, I was about to ask you to do the same.”

  “This isn’t the get out of town and don’t come back speech, is it, Chief? Because that could make me change my mind.”

  “Something like that, but with a difference.”

  “How so?”

  “The Upshaw woman made several calls to a number up in Frisco during the month before she died. We haven’t been able to reach the party on the other end, so I thought maybe you could check it out. Save me sending someone up there I can’t spare or having to beg crumbs from the SFPD.” The chief dug a notebook out of his shirt pocket. “Name we got from the Pacific Bell people is a Tess Haldeman. Phone’s at a residence on York Street.” The chief gave me the number.

  “That’s out near S.F. General, I think,” I said.

  “What’s that?”

  “The hospital where Rita had her surgery.”

  “Which is when she started getting big ideas about reforming the berry business.”

  “Apparently so.”

  The chief thought it over, then nodded to himself. “Maybe you better head on home, Mr. Tanner.”

  “Before I go, I want to know if you’ve got anything else tucked away in your brain that I should know about.”

  “Can’t think of anything.”

  I paused for effect. “I can.”

  “Such as?”

  “The size of Mona Upshaw’s bank account, for one thing.”

  His smile was sheepish. “There’s that all right. Course I figured you knew all about that already, given the time you had to poke around her house before we got called to the scene.”

  “You have any idea where that money came from?”

  “Nope. Working on it, though. Bank records and all that. We come up with something, I’ll let you know. If I think it’s relevant.”

  “Then there’s the fact that Randy Gelbride wasn’t the first male in the Gelbride family to chase women he had no business pestering.”

  “That’s a fact. Gus was a world-class cocksman himself. No question.”

  “He fathered the Vargas girl.”

  The chief considered it, then nodded sagely. “That would explain some things. Are you suggesting that’s a crime?”

  “It was forcible rape, but you’ll never be able to prove it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the weapon he employed was the caste system that’s been in place in these valleys for the last hundred years.”

  “Hey now, wait just a—”

  “Maria Vargas is as much in bondage to Gus as his slaves were to Jefferson.”

  “Come on, Tanner. It’s not that bad.”

  “It’s too close to it to be allowed to continue.”

  “Which brings us back to Rita,” he said.

  I nodded above my beer. “All roads lead to Rita.”

  “Bumpy ones at that.” The chief drained his second whiskey. “I been doing all the talking, Tanner. You got anything at all to contribute? Or you as empty as you claim?”

  “I’ve got a hunch,” I said.

  “Is it something I want to hear?”

  “I doubt it.”

  He shook his head and sighed. “Go ahead,” he ordered.

  “I think thirty years ago, Franco Lombardi was working with some highly toxic chemicals on the Gelbride farm—pesticides, herbicides, methyl bromide, DDT, whatever. I think Franco got so much of them in his system it screwed up his genes, and the genetic glitches were passed along to his daughter in the form of a couple of bum legs. I think when Franco saw Rita’s deformities, he started nosing around, talking to doctors and such, and figured out what happened. I think he complained to Gus, made a demand for money to pay Rita’s medical bills and to repair her legs, and Gus killed him or had him killed.”

  “How about the girl?”

  “Twenty years later, Rita figured out the same thing and made a similar approach to Gus or maybe to one of his kids. In any event, history repeated itself.”

  “They killed her, too.”

  “That’s what I think.”

  “And the Upshaw woman?”

  “She was a nurse. I figure she was on duty when Rita Lombardi was born. Maybe she and the doctor are the ones who figured out the toxic poisoning in the first place. Maybe she told Franco, and then told Rita about it years later. Maybe Rita told Gus who her source was, so he got rid of Upshaw as well.” I drained my beer. “So what do you think?”

  “I don’t know of anything that says it couldn’t have happened that way.”

  “Good.”

  He chuckled. “But I don’t know anything that prov
es it did.”

  “Me, either.”

  “Then where are we?”

  “Another free pass for the Gelbride family, it sounds like.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Another beer?” the chief asked.

  “Why not?” I said, even though there were several answers contrary to the one I gave.

  The booze came and the chief looked into his glass and then at me. “You married, Tanner?”

  “Nope.”

  “Ever been?”

  “Nope.”

  “Homo?”

  “Nope.”

  “Cocksman like Randy and Gus?”

  I smiled. “Why the Kinsey report, Chief?”

  He leaned back in his chair and spoke loud enough to be heard by the room. “Heard you were paying some attention to Sal at Shortcake’s this noon.”

  “Sal’s an interesting woman.”

  “So she is.”

  “Attractive, too.”

  “Yep.”

  “But I’m not interested. In the romantic sense of the term.”

  “Why not?”

  “As it happens, I’ve got something else working along those lines.” As I said the words, I wondered if they were the truth.

  The chief sighed with the sound of an air brake. “Oh. Well. Good.”

  We sipped in silence. “Where you from originally, Chief?”

  “Bakersfield.”

  “Miss it?”

  “Not a bit. Why?”

  “Just wondering about life in a small town like this.”

  “Pretty slow. Slow and sleepy. Most days.”

  “You like that?”

  “I got used to it. Nowadays whenever I go to Frisco or L.A. or some such, which I do as seldom as possible, I can’t wait to get home.”

  “What’s the problem with the big cities?”

  “Too many people. And most of them wouldn’t do nothing but step on the gas if you was standing by the road with a knife in your heart.”

  “It’s not that bad.”

  “No? Then why you thinking of getting out?”

  “Who says I am?”

  “You are.” As I blushed, he laughed. “If you want, I could let you know next time we need a new man.”

  “Thanks but no thanks, Chief. I’m too set in my ways to do this kind of thing officially.”

  “Yeah, the badge makes a difference. Usually for the better but not always. You make any money doing it like you do?”

  “Not much. A few big cases over the years, enough to keep me out of debt, but the rest of it’s pretty mundane. I’m not ahead of the game all that much. Don’t even own a house.”

  “Pretty tough to go it alone these days. Without the benefits, I mean.”

  “Yeah, at this rate, I figure I can retire when I’m ninety-six.”

  “Maybe you’ll get lucky.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Maybe you’ll die on the job. The only retirement plan you’ll need is a casket.”

  I stood up. “On that cheery note, I think I’ll head down the road.” I tossed some money on the table but the chief handed it back. “My treat.”

  “Put it on the expense account.”

  “City council’s not a big fan of drinking on the job.”

  “But you’re not on the job.”

  “So I can’t put in a voucher.”

  “Catch-22, I guess.”

  “All day every day. You’ll let me know about the Haldeman woman.”

  “You bet. Meanwhile, take care of Sal for me.”

  “I will for a fact. But it won’t have anything to do with you.”

  I turned to leave, but the chief had another question. “By the way,” he said.

  “What?”

  “You filing charges about what went down with your car?”

  “Nope.”

  “Good.”

  “Why?”

  “You file a complaint, I’ll have to take it in. Don’t want that hunk of junk polluting my impound lot.”

  “I don’t blame you,” I said, then got in my infamous car and drove it back to the big city where it wouldn’t cause the slightest stir.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  I took 101 into the exploding metropolis of San Jose, then I-280 along the spine of the peninsula until I dropped off at the end of the line and tacked my way through the city streets to my digs on the south slope of Telegraph Hill. It was good to be home, good to be cool, good to be back where I belonged, assuming I belonged anywhere. Everything was good except for my professional pride—the assignment I’d taken on was still undone and if the woman who lived with the phone number on York Street was a dead end, it might remain that way.

  I made some minestrone by opening a can and pouring the contents into a plastic bowl and heating it in the microwave. Then I poured a stiff drink, grabbed a handful of soggy Oreos, and repaired to the TV.

  But it was a summer Sunday, so there was nothing worth watching on the entire cable system, even the X-Files was a repeat, though I was tempted to linger at Silk Stalkings. I grabbed the nearest magazine but was bored by the news of the world. I grabbed the nearest book, but was bored by the latest literary rage which had to do with the Civil War in every respect but the bloody battles. After fixing a second drink, I picked up the phone and called Jill Coppelia, which was probably where I’d been headed all along.

  I was about to hang up when she spoke. “Jill Coppelia.”

  “Marsh Tanner.”

  “Hey.”

  “Hey.”

  “Still tiptoeing through the strawberries?”

  “No, I’m home. Nibbling through the Oreos.”

  “You solved the case?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Taking a break.”

  “Not exactly. Turns out there’s a major lead up here in the city.”

  “Who? What?”

  “I don’t know yet. The only thing I’ve got is a phone number.”

  Her voice chilled ten degrees. “I suppose you want me to run it for you.”

  “No, what I want is for you to go to dinner with me tomorrow night.”

  “Where?”

  “Wherever.”

  “We’re not talking Salinas again, are we?”

  “Definitely not.”

  “Well, I’d like to, but I can’t.”

  “Why not?” I blurted.

  “Previous engagement. Not that it’s polite of you to inquire.”

  I was angry and embarrassed and hurt. “I’m sorry I called. I’m clearly an annoyance.”

  “I didn’t mean to be snippy. But I—”

  “No apologies necessary. I’m an idiot. After Salinas I figured we were in a different place than we obviously are.”

  “I don’t think you should read too much into Salinas, actually.”

  Her voice was flat enough to play pool on. “I won’t. Believe me.”

  “I don’t mean … I guess I don’t know what I mean.”

  “It’s all right. I’m sorry to bother you.”

  “Don’t be like that. I just—”

  “Have a nice life, Ms. Coppelia.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sakes. You sound like some adolescent—”

  I hung up. The receiver hit the cradle the way an axe hits a tree.

  I was still hurt and angry and embarrassed, and frustrated and disappointed as well. But come hell or high water I was going to stick by the only principle that applied in these cases, which was not to call Jill until she called me first.

  I went to bed at ten, an hour before my usual time, but didn’t fall asleep till midnight. As usual I woke four or five times in the night, anxious and wide awake and overcome with the sense that my life had been squandered and misspent, finally falling back to a restive sleep until I awoke at five-fifteen.

  Past experience with dawn’s early light told me I was awake for the duration, so I got out of bed, turned up the heat, and kick-started my morning routine. By the time seven o’cloc
k rolled around I was showered and shaved and dressed and halfway through the Chronicle. After a hit of Raisin Bran and wheat toast and a fourth cup of coffee, I decided to head for York Street, to catch the Haldeman woman before she left for work.

  The brick facade of S.F. General Hospital loomed over Twenty-third Street like a Moorish castle and the crowds moving in and out of the building suggested the caliph was holding open house. The jut of Potrero Hill immediately at its back gave the building an apocalyptic aspect, as though it were the last bastion against infidels from the East.

  Despite the overwhelming medical presence in the area, the homes in the surrounding neighborhood were like most of the residences south of Market, cramped, charmless, and derivative. Tess Haldeman lived three blocks from the hospital on a street that was half-rehabilitated and half-neglected to the point of blight. Her home was one of the rehabilitated ones, with a fresh coat of white paint on the stucco facade, fresh red trim on the windows, fresh orange tile on the roof, and a fresh iron grate standing guard across the front door.

  The driveway and garage were empty. The windows were shut and the curtains were drawn. Several newspapers, old and rolled and soggy from fog, were scattered over the tiny front lawn like the leavings of a giant gull. When I knocked on the door, the house sounded hollow.

  A narrow path led to the rear of the house, past a nook for the garbage can and another for the heat pump. The rear yard was a grassy postage stamp surrounded by a rotting fence, its privacy repeatedly violated by the rear windows of the apartment buildings that faced the street to the east. A white plastic chair and table and a row of petunias and marigolds along the back fence were the only manmade additions but they were more generic than provocative. I went back to the front and knocked on the door of the house next door, which was exactly like Tess Haldeman’s except the paint was ten years older and the grates guarded the windows, not just the door.

  The woman who answered was old and wizened, with a threadbare brown sweater gathered around her blue cotton housedress and faded pink mules warming her bony feet below ankles as thin as bamboo. Her sparse white hair was as tousled as if she lived on the prairie—when she patted it into place it dented like new grass. Her breath was bad and her perfume was abundant and pungent. The combination kept me out on the stoop.

  “Yes?” The question was wary and apprehensive.