State’s Evidence Page 7

  “Okay, Chip,” I said roughly. “Why don’t you take your sweatlets in there and give them something to do. The first chance I get, I’ll ask Mrs. Blair to let you keep your balls.”

  His face flushed over and above his tan. “Listen, buddy. If you want to talk to someone who had it in for Tessa, look up a guy named Martin. Wayne Martin. He hated her guts.”

  “How do you know Martin?”

  “We used to hang out at the same club, The Buccaneers. It’s kind of a service club downtown. Martin was a member till we threw him out.”

  “Why’d you do that?”

  “He got religion. Started passing out these damned pamphlets at all the meetings. Really a bummer, you know?”

  “Why did Wayne Martin hate Mrs. Blair?”

  Chip grinned. “He claimed she broke up his marriage, told his wife to throw him out of the house. Old Wayne couldn’t get Tessa Blair out of his mind. He was a little crazy about her, there for a while. Still is, I imagine. The damned Christer.” Chip turned to go. “Just lay off me, man,” he said.

  I didn’t make any promises.

  After the Racquet Club the rest of El Gordo looked almost good. The boutique—Bathsheba’s—languished behind a narrow storefront that was sandwiched between the macrobiotic diner and the Gucci luggage shop in a shopping mall known as Cash Country. The display windows on either side of the door projected toward the sidewalk in rectangular blisters of glass, subdivided by precise, leaded panes, which were lightly tinted. Behind them two headless mannequins were draped in dresses slit to the thigh from below and to the navel from above and sufficiently thin and clinging to display the mannequins’ nipples, which were plastic but nevertheless erect.

  I opened the bottom half of the Dutch door and wandered idly among circular clothing racks and tiny display tables and overdressed salesclerks, fingering this and that—a husband on the eve of a double-digit anniversary. Most of the clothes had names or initials on them, which might say something about the ego structure of the women who wore them, or might not. The price tags were computerized and indecipherable. Neither the word “Sale” nor the fabric denim was visible anyplace in the store.

  The only person who paid any attention to me was a young salesgirl, blond and svelte, raised four inches off the floor by heels the size of cheroots. When she noticed me notice her, she sent me a ridiculously maternal smile, but when I gave no clear sign of distress she stayed where she was, which was directly across from a full-length mirror.

  If there was an office in the store, I guessed it was in the loft that extended out over the rear half. The walled portion of the loft had a window in it, but it was dark and I couldn’t see anyone behind it. I stared at the window long enough for the salesgirl to come over and ask if she could be of assistance.

  Her hair was braided into ropes that had bells and feathers attached to them. Her teeth were as white as clouds. I asked if Elliott was in. She said he wasn’t, but that he was expected back from lunch any minute. I told her I’d wait awhile. After assuring me she would be pleased to render me aid, she hobbled away on her heels, looking both drunk and palsied and leaving me wondering what thirtieth-century anthropologists will conclude when they unearth a twentieth-century shoe store.

  I toured the place for another quarter hour, periodically exchanging witless grins with the young salesgirl. The absence of customers indicated either that the store wasn’t doing well—which was not true according to James Blair—or that the profit margins were high enough to dispense with volume.

  When the little gold clock on the wall chimed twice I went over to the salesgirl. The brass bells on her braids clanked like a set of loose dentures.

  “Slow day,” I commented, looking around.

  “It usually picks up after lunch.”

  “Your customers must like to eat,” I said, looking at my watch.

  “They don’t eat much, but they eat long,” the girl said, and laughed. “Me, I just scarf it down. I could eat Whoppers all day long.”

  I looked her over. “It doesn’t show.”

  “Mama says it’s my, oh, what’s the word?”

  “Metabolism.”

  “That’s it. Anyway, seeing as how I’ve got one I sure hope I can keep it. I love to eat.”

  The girl was as friendly as a newly weaned puppy. If she knew anything she would tell me, as long as I didn’t get in the way of her upbringing. “This is sure a nice store,” I said.

  “Isn’t it? Oh, I could just hang out here forever. Really. You should see the wallpaper in the women’s john.”

  “I used to know someone who worked here, I think.”

  “Who?”

  “Teresa Blair.”

  “Mrs. Blair. Sure. I know her. She’s the nicest person in the world. Really.” Her gloriously unlined brow knit suddenly. “That explains it.”

  “What?”

  “Why she hasn’t been in. She must have quit.”

  “She didn’t quit,” I said.

  “But Elliott—Mr. Farnsworth, he’s the owner—he would never fire Mrs. Blair. I mean …” She struggled for the word.

  “You mean he holds her in high personal regard.”

  “I … sure. That’s what I mean, I guess. Geez, you talk the same way my boyfriend did when he came home from junior college the first time.”

  In the silence that followed, the girl became gradually confused, her role suddenly complex, perhaps ominous. I asked where she’d seen Mrs. Blair last. She said she’d seen her Thursday, at work. I asked if she’d known her well.

  “I think so. I mean, I liked her a whole lot. She was real good to me. Like a mother. Better than a mother, if you want to know the truth.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Oh, I had some hard times a while back.”

  “What kind of hard times?”

  The girl was both guileless and garrulous—unless I missed my guess, not long removed from the Central Valley, where people trade life stories the way city folks trade recipes for quiche. She put a hand on a hip and told me hers.

  “Ever since I was ten, I wanted to be a model,” the girl said seriously. “A fashion model, you know? Cheryl Tiegs? You know her? She’s my idol. Her and Cybill Shepherd, except Cybill’s too stuck-up. Anyway, after I graduated from high school, Mama drove me down to Frisco and we tried all the modeling agencies, every single one. But they weren’t interested, you could just tell, they didn’t ask me to wear any fashions or anything, and we were about to give up and go back to Red Bluff and then someone told Mama about this man down on Oswego Street here in El Gordo. So we went down to see him. He acted real nice, and told me I had good cheekbones and calf length and everything, so we signed, Mama and me. But six months later all I had for my five hundred dollars was a black and blue rear end from being pinched and a job standing all day in a used car lot wearing a white bikini and a red cape and handing out balloons with elephants on them. Mama thought everything was going real good, but only because I didn’t tell her what a creep the guy was and some of the things he wanted me to do. I hated to let Mama down—she wanted to see my picture in a fashion magazine so much she could hardly stand it—and there was no one I could talk to about it. Then one day, right after my agent had chased me around the office for about the hundredth time, trying to feel me up, Teresa—Mrs. Blair—saw me standing there on Oswego Street, crying my eyes out in front of God and everybody. Well, she up and took me to a restaurant and bought me whatever I wanted—I had a steak sandwich and cottage fries—and after that she took care of the creep and got me this job and everything. I even got my five hundred dollars back.”

  “How did she manage that?”

  The girl shrugged. “She just did. I think she went down to see the man and he gave it to her.”

  “What was your agent’s name?”

  “Lane Starr. Two r’s.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No. It’s right on the door. The Moran Building.”

  “What’s your
name?”

  “Fawn. Fawn Jones, it was, only I changed it.”

  “To what?”

  “Forest. I’m Fawn Forest now.”

  I managed to hold my tongue.

  “There’s nothing wrong with Mrs. Blair, is there?” Fawn asked seriously. “I mean, I’d do anything for Mrs. Blair. I really would.”

  I said something calming but noncommittal, then probed a bit. Fawn wasn’t holding back, but she didn’t have anything more I could use. She’d never met James Blair or Tancy Verritt, had never heard of Mary Quilk or Silver Season, didn’t have any idea where Teresa Blair might be if she wasn’t at home. The only place she’d ever gone with Mrs. Blair was to a bar in the shopping center called the Velvet Phone Booth. The only time they’d been there was right after work, during the period when Fawn was having her problems with Lane Starr.

  I made one last pass at it. “Did Mrs. Blair say anything at all that might help me locate her?”

  “I can’t think what it would be. She just gave me advice, mostly.”

  “What kind of advice?”

  “Oh, about what to do with my life. You know. Learn a trade, get a job with a future, don’t believe what men say, be good to my family. Things like that.”

  “Did she tell you anything about her own family?”

  “Not really, I guess. She just said your family is the only thing you can count on when things get bad. Not your looks, not your boyfriends, not anything or anybody, only family. I think she must have had some real hard times, too, don’t you?”

  I nodded. If she hadn’t had them before, I had a feeling she was having a few right then.

  Just then two women marched through the door like a pair of Prussians and began to paw their way through the store. Fawn excused herself and hurried toward them, a smile as big as my Buick on her face.

  The man entering the store just after them was tall, white-haired though not old, as thin as twine. He wore a striped shirt, his slacks were white, his loafers were burgundy, and he wasn’t wearing socks. A gold chain was snug at his throat, making it look from a distance as though someone had slit it. His movements were dainty and precise, making him one of those men who has been or has been assumed to be homosexual since the day he left home.

  Fawn called out, “Hello, Mr. Farnsworth,” then looked back to make sure I realized this was the man I’d been waiting to see.

  I hustled along behind Farnsworth, matching him step for step as he climbed to the loft, and trailed him into his office. When he turned and saw me, he started for an instant, then asked if I was the man from Koret of California. I shook my head.

  “I only see tradesmen before ten,” he said politely. His eyebrows were thin, possibly plucked. When I showed no sign of leaving, they rose like twigs carried aloft by birds.

  “I’m an investigator, Mr. Farnsworth,” I began. “I’m here because of Teresa Blair.”

  “Tessa? Is anything wrong?”

  “I’m not sure. I hope you can help me find out.”

  “I … who employs you?”

  “I’d prefer not to say.”

  “I see.” He curved his fingers and examined his nails as though they were mirrors. “I think perhaps I should call my lawyer.”

  “Should you?”

  His upper lip trembled slightly. “Yes. That is, I’m not certain. I guess it depends on why you’re here. I assume James Blair sent you.”

  “Never mind who sent me. What makes you think you might need legal advice?” I asked heavily.

  Farnsworth walked around the desk and wiggled into the chair, seeking comfort but failing to find it. His cheeks were smooth and tan, his hair stylishly awry. “Although I’ve never met the man,” Farnsworth said uncertainly, “it’s understandable that Mr. Blair might harbor me ill will. Of course, he has no grounds for displeasure, no actual grounds. That is, nothing ever, ah, came of any of it. And of course Mrs. Blair has profited, that is, the store has been quite successful and Tessa has shared in the profits for over a year now, and I just think we should let bygones be bygones. I’m certainly willing to. Perhaps if Mr. Blair and I were to meet without intermediaries? What do you think?”

  This babble finally came to a stop, although the guilt that prompted it was unabated. Farnsworth plucked an imported cigarette out of a pack and lit it with a trembling hand. He inhaled the smoke as though it was a mix of four parts courage and one part forgiveness.

  “I’d like to know a little about your business, Mr. Farnsworth,” I said after a silence that was too long for his comfort. “My name’s Tanner.”

  Farnsworth leaned back in his chair and drummed his fingers on the desk top in bursts of staccato rhythm. “I get it,” he said. “It’s me you’re after. Aren’t you? Tessa must have told stories. It’s an audit, isn’t it?”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “IRS or Franchise Tax Board? Which is it?”

  I just smiled.

  “Was it the Paris trip? Was that it? I bought several gowns in Paris. Two Saint Laurents. I can prove it. One of them is still on the floor. Do you want to see it? I’ll have Fawn model it. She looks stunning, in a bucolic sort of way. Shall I call her?”

  Farnsworth became too nonplussed to breathe. His face bleached, and intaglio wrinkles spread across his forehead and leaked from the corners of his eyes. “I’m interested in Teresa Blair, Mr. Farnsworth,” I explained, “not in your accounting methods. I’m not IRS or Franchise Tax or even Roto-Rooter.”

  Farnsworth stared at me for a time. “I’m going to believe you,” he said. “I don’t care if it is a lie, I’m going to believe you. What do you want to know?”

  “What’s Mrs. Blair’s function here at the store?”

  “Tessa is the chief buyer and personnel manager of Bathsheba’s. I handle the books and the advertising and do some buying myself. Tessa has a one-quarter partnership interest in the business. Now, is that all you want to know? If so, I have work to do.” With an exaggerated motion he scraped some papers toward him from the corners of the desk.

  “Just a few more things,” I said. “How much does Mrs. Blair draw a month?”

  A muscle bulged along his jaw, a muscle I doubted had seen much prior use. “I can’t imagine what business that could be of yours, at least if you’re who you say you are.”

  I like it when people resist giving out information about their friends or employees. Of course, it seldom takes much to get past the initial resistance, but still. Two points for effort. “You know Mrs. Blair hasn’t been at work this week,” I said.

  “Of course I know that.”

  “Do you know why?”

  He shook his head, his brows angling like carets.

  “She’s missing,” I said. “For four days. Her husband, along with the El Gordo DA’s office, has asked me to find her. You don’t have any objections, do you?”

  “Of course not. This is terrible. I just assumed she was annoyed with me again. She’s stayed away before when that’s happened.”

  “Why would she be annoyed with you?”

  Farnsworth paused. He had regained some color and some backbone since the conversation had drifted away from his business affairs and into his personal ones. “What do you know about Tessa and me, Mr. Tanner?”

  “Not much,” I admitted. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

  “There’s nothing much to tell. I was smitten the first day I laid eyes on her, six years ago. Have you ever been smitten, Mr. Tanner?”

  “My seventh-grade music teacher. She wore perfume and no slips. Whenever she asked me to sing, I sounded like a cross between a bullfrog and a bulldozer.”

  Farnsworth smiled for the first time since I’d entered his office. “Then you know what I mean. I’m helpless in Tessa’s presence. I admit it freely. She has given me my sexual … identity, I suppose you could say. I would give her anything. I have given her a share of my store. Of my life. I would give more if asked.”

  “What have you gotten in return?”
>
  His smile twisted with embarrassment. “Professionally, an excellent business partner. Personally, only her presence. Her proximity. My love is entirely unrequited, to put it bluntly, but I must confess I do become excessively ardent at times, and Tessa becomes justly exasperated. When she didn’t come in on Friday, I simply assumed she needed to be away from me for a while.”

  “I’m afraid it may be more mysterious than that,” I said. “If I knew more about her financial situation, I might be able to estimate more precisely where she might have gone.”

  “I see.” Farnsworth gave some more thought to his position. “I suppose I must trust you, under the circumstances. I can hardly call Mr. Blair to vouch for you.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a long, gray ledger and opened it, then nodded. “Tessa draws fifteen hundred dollars a month. On the first. Some of it is in merchandise, of course, but not always. In fact, lately she seems to have been taking strictly cash.”

  I thought about the additional deposit of twelve hundred dollars Mrs. Blair made on the fifteenth of every month. “Are you sure that’s all she ever draws?”

  He nodded. “I keep very close track of my cash flow. I have to,” he added defensively.

  “How much is her partnership interest worth?”

  “Roughly fifty thousand.”

  “That’s roughly a nice piece of change. I’m finding it hard to believe you gave it up for mere proximity.”

  Farnsworth shrugged. “Believe what you will. I don’t pretend my gesture was rational, and I don’t claim that I didn’t hope that eventually more would come of it. But it didn’t. It never will. Still, Tessa is here five afternoons a week. Quid pro quo.”

  Farnsworth asked me some questions about the police investigation of Mrs. Blair’s disappearance, and about Tony Fluto and his possible involvement. I asked him about Mrs. Blair’s background and friends, and neither of us got much out of the other. Teresa Blair had led Farnsworth around like an unbroken terrier, and somehow he had managed to retain some dignity and objectivity during it all. But he knew nothing of her background or her home life, had never met her husband, had rarely been alone with her. He didn’t believe for a moment that she had love affairs with other men, but if she had he knew nothing about them. Because I was beginning to feel sorry for him, I said the rumors about her love affairs were most likely untrue, the stuff of jealousy and envy.