Double

“Yes.” I told him what the note said. He looked thoughtful, but didn’t comment. “Anyway, Knowles has both letters now. But I was confused, and I forgot about the address book.”

“Uh-huh. But you remembered later, so why didn’t you give it to him then?”

“Because after I’d leveled with him and turned over the other stuff, he still insisted on pawing through my purse. He dumped everything out on the seat of his car and then tossed the stuff that was obviously mine back in. I guess he figured the address book belonged to me.”

“And you didn’t tell him otherwise.”

“No. It wasn’t really withholding evidence. And after what he did, I just didn’t feel like cooperating anymore.”

Wolf frowned, looking genuinely puzzled. “I don’t see why not.”

“Obviously you don’t know anything about women and their purses.” My hands curved protectively around mine, just thinking about Knowles’s treatment of it. “Purses are very private property. We keep all sorts of stuff in them, stuff we wouldn’t want anyone else to see.”

“Like what?”

“Well, in mine I keep a rock.”

“A rock.”

“Yes, a rock that an old boyfriend picked up and gave to me at the beach. And a piece of coral from a trip to Hawaii.”

“McCone the romantic.”

“I guess I am sort of sentimental. Anyway, who the hell wants some dumb cop looking at her piece of coral? I mean, it’s embarrassing.”

Wolf was grinning.

“What’s so funny?”

“Once, when I was first seeing Kerry, I fumbled around in her purse, looking for this little bottle opener she carries. And she yelled at me, told me to keep my hands out of there.”

“Of course. Maybe she hauls rocks around too.”

Wolf looked thoughtful, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “She lets me rummage in her purse any time I want now,” he said. “That’s a good sign, huh?”

“Very good.” Before he could bring the conversation back to the subject of my future plans, I opened the door and got out of the car. Leaning in, I said, “Wolf, for someone your age, you really don’t understand women very well.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said ruefully. “I never have.”

I thanked him again for helping me out, shut the door, and went to my car. Then I took out Elaine’s address book. I would check the two men called Rich, as well as the one called Rick, on the off chance that Wolf had misheard the name.

I figured when I found the right one, I’d know him by those funny eyes.

14: “Wolf”

It was after seven when I got back to the Casa del Rey. The talk with McCone had cheered me somewhat; now that I had additional confirmation that peculiar things were going on at the hotel, I would call Tom Knowles, tell him about Timmy and his mother, and then quit worrying and try to enjoy what was left of this so-called mini-vacation. I wished McCone would do the same thing. She was too stubborn and headstrong for her own good — and too young to respect the letter of the law as much as she should. But she’d learn eventually. The hard way, if she kept on creating and compounding felonies whenever it suited her.

There was a different clerk on the desk now, older and not quite as spiffily dressed as the other one. Along with my key, he delivered a couple of messages. One was from Charley Valdene; he wanted me to call him about our movie date tomorrow afternoon. The other one was from somebody I had never heard of, June Paxton. It said: Can we talk about Elaine Picard? I’ll be on the terrace bar for a while. Chubby woman, mid-fifties, dressed in black. Below that was her name and the time the note had been written: 6:15.

I asked the clerk, “Would you know a woman named June Paxton?”

“Yes, sir,” he said. “Ms. Paxton is an officer of the Professional Women’s Forum.”

“What’s that?”

He gave me an arch look and said patiently, as if explaining something obvious to an idiot, “An organization of professional women. They meet here regularly.”

“What sort of profession is Ms. Paxton in?”

“She is a certified public accountant, I believe.”

“Was she a friend of Elaine Picard’s?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Too bad about Ms. Picard, isn’t it?”

A pained look this time, but it was more professional than genuine. “A terrible accident,” he said in a voice like a bad actor playing an undertaker. “Terrible.”

“Yeah. All that bad publicity.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Never mind.”

I left him looking puzzled and went through the Cantina Sin Nombre and out onto the terrace bar. It was moderately crowded with conventioneers, Japanese tourists, and other people who liked fresh air, ocean views, and sunsets. Especially sunsets. There was an elegant one brewing out over the Pacific — dark reds, oranges, a little shading of lemon yellow, and some cloud wisps that were blackening at the edges like pieces of paper that had just been set afire.