Pennines on a Dead Woman's Eyes Read online

  “It’s important to Lis Benedict. She was convicted—unjustly, I think. And even though they didn’t execute her, she spent most of her adult life in prison.”

  Wingfield nodded. “It’s odd,” she said, “but if Lis was unjustly convicted, she and I have a good deal in common. Cordy’s murder marked the beginning of a living death for both of us.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Before I went back to the office, I stopped at a corner grocery and bought a Coke and some microwaveable popcorn—not much of a lunch, but all I saw that appealed to me. Besides, popcorn contained fiber, and wasn’t fiber one the big nutritional buzzwords these days? I nuked it, as my nephew Andre says, in the co-op’s microwave, then carried it upstairs, losing a couple of handfuls to passersby, including one of the painters.

  There had been no messages in my box in the foyer, but I found a pinks slip on my desk on top of a stack of letters to be signed. The message was from Leonard Eyestone’s office at the Institute for North American Studies, where I’d called early that morning to request an appointment. Since it was the noon hour, I put the slip aside for later, then called Rae on the intercom.

  “Have you developed any good informants in the Mission’s Hispanic community?” I asked her.

  “A couple, but neither is as reliable as your Tony Nueva.”

  “Well, Nueva’s no longer mine.” I ran through the particulars on the graffiti incidents for her, then asked, “Will you contact your informants and see what they can come up with?”

  She agreed, verified a couple of details, and hung up.

  I signed the waiting letters, then turned my attention to setting in motion the machinery for a trace on Melissa Cardinal. Finding her—if she was still alive—would be tricky, perhaps impossible. First I checked the area phone books in the law library, unsuccessfully. The next logical step should have been an inquiry to the Department of Motor Vehicles, but I used my contact there sparingly in light of the DMV’s strict confidentiality rules. I could check Vital Statistics for a record of marriage or death, but that would entail a personal visit to City Hall and perhaps to offices in the adjacent counties—a time-consuming procedure that wouldn’t necessarily produce results. I sat down on a stool beside the cluttered library table and pondered how to short-circuit the process.

  Wingfield had told me that Cardinal was a flight attendant for an airline with overseas routes. She would have retired long ago—after all, those were the days when they made women quit upon marriage or when they reached a certain age—but flight attendant were unionized and unions kept records. In the Yellow Pages I found a listing for the International Union of Flight Attendants in Burlingame, near SFO. I hurried back upstairs and made an exploratory call, but learned that their confidentiality was a stringent as that of the DMV. Sign of the times, I thought. We’re all mildly paranoid—and for good reason.

  All right, which airlines with San Francisco-based crews had held routes to Europe in the mid-fifties? Who would know? I consulted my Rolodex and called my travel agent, Toni Alexander. I was in luck, Toni told me; one of her employees had been in the business then. She spoke with her, came back on the line, and told me my best bet would be to try TWA. Before I hung up, Toni mentioned a fare to Hawaii that was so low I actually did a quick review of my finances. But funds were shorter than usual after installing the new fireplace, accommodations in the islands were expensive, and I didn’t want to go alone, anyway. I doubted I could entice Hy into taking a trip: those exasperatingly blank years away from Tufa Lake seemed to have cured him of wanderlust.

  TWA’s central records, Toni had said, were maintained at Kansas City. I got the number from information, dialed, and spoke with a Ms. Cook. She insisted on calling back to verify that I was actually at All Souls. When Ted put her through to me, her tone was less guarded.

  Now for the story I’d manufactured, designed to elicit Ms. Cook’s sympathy in case my request required extra effort on her part. “My problem is a little unusual,” I said. “Our deceased client was a very eccentric woman, worth millions. I’ve often wondered if having money makes people strange or if it just gives them the idea they’re entitled to let it all hang out, if you know what I mean.”

  Ms. Cook laughed; the ice was broken.

  “Anyway, I went on, “our client traveled extensively and chose to draw up a will leaving her estate to people who had been of service on her journeys. A fairly substantial bequest goes to a TWA flight attendant named Melissa Cardinal. That’s the good part. The bad part is that our client’s last contact with Ms. Cardinal dates from nineteen fifty-six.”

  “That is unusual.”

  “Would it be possible for you to look up Ms. Cardinal’s employment records? I’d like to get a Social Security number, last known address, or name of next of kin.”

  “Given enough time, I’m sure I can, but I can’t give it priority. It may be several days before I give you a response.”

  “Since our client waited thirty-some years to express her appreciation to Ms. Cardinal, I don’t suppose a few more days will hurt.”

  Ms. Cook said she’d get back to me as soon as possible. When I finally thanked her and hung up, it was nearly two, time to return the call from Leonard Eyestone’s office. I dialed the Institute; a secretary told me Eyestone had an opening at three. Setting aside the mound of paperwork I’d reluctantly been contemplating, I headed for the Embarcadero.

  The Institute’s new headquarters, a gleaming white building at the south end of the shoreline boulevard near China Basin, reminded me of an avant-garde church. Its many windows arched gracefully; its cruciform wings radiated from a glass dome like that of a basilica. As I opened the wide front door, I wondered if Eyestone had chosen the orthodox design to signify that this was a shrine to the intellect.

  The majority of the ground level was reception area, marble-floored and stark white. Three tiers of gallery rose about it, drawing my gaze upward to the glass dome. Its halves were drawn back like an open clam shell, exposing the sky; a salt-scented breeze spiraled down, rustling the fronds of the palms behind the semicircular desk. The strikingly attractive blond woman seated there smiled at my surprised expression. “It works on a sensor,” she said. “When the temperature’s right, it opens automatically.”

  “What if the temperature’s right but it’s raining?”

  For a moment she looked nonplussed, then shrugged. “I’m sure the sensor takes moisture into account.”

  It probably did, I thought. Nowadays they had sensors for everything—everything except the tragedies resulting from rage and frustration and craziness that threatened to rip our world apart.

  The woman took my name and spoke into her telephone. Soon a young man came down the stairway from the second-story gallery and introduced himself as Alex, Dr. Eyestone’s appointments secretary. Alex was as attractive as the receptionist and so fashionably dressed that he might have stepped off the cover of GQ, but a dullness of expression hinted that not much was going on behind his long-lashed eyes. The shrine to the intellect seemed to favor the physical over the mental in its acolytes.

  Eyestone’s office had a large anteroom on the bay side of the gallery. Alex led me across it to a pair of carved double doors and ushered me through them with ceremony. The inner sanctum was as glaringly white as the building’s lobby, with a vista that swept from Treasure Island to Alcatraz.

  My first impression was that the room was full of . . . stuff. Furniture: blue sofas and sand-colored chairs and bleached teak bookcases and an enormous old mahogany desk. Photographs: all of men, shaking hands and smiling and posturing for the camera. Sculptures and the kind of mechanical toys that are presented to the man who has everything. Framed certificates and Oriental vases and little boxes in ivory and silver and gold. Golfing trophies and a wall rack containing dozens of exotic pipes. A huge stuffed koala bear in a tuxedo jacket sat on a stool at the wet bar. The bear’s glassy eyes were dust-filmed, and he looked depressed, one arm outstretched on the bar as if
he could use a drink. I glanced from him to the man who came around the desk, arm also outstretched.

  “What’s his name?” I asked.

  “Hasn’t any. He’s only there to suggest that we academics have a sense of humor.”

  “Do you?”

  “Only in rare instances.” Leonard Eyestone clasped my hand, appraising me intently. He was of medium height and stocky, with silver-gray hair. His head looked too large for his body, and his blue eyes bulged slightly. When he smiled, there was an exaggerated tilt to the right side of his lips. Not an attractive man by any means, but one with character and sensitivity in his face. Something about him brought to mind the word “bruised”; I wondered briefly if any of the invisible contusions had to do with what had happened to Cordy McKittridge.

  Eyestone led me to a grouping of chairs by the window wall. After offering me a drink, which I refused, he sat opposite me. “Now, Ms. McCone,” he said, “I understand you wish to talk about the McKittridge case. Frankly, I find your attempt at resurrecting it counterproductive.”

  Odd phrasing, “What do you mean?”

  “What can you hope to accomplish?”

  “Possibly I can salvage what’s left of two badly damaged lives.”

  He frowned, fingers toying with an ivory-handled letter opener on the table beside him. After a moment he said, “I take it you mean Judy and Lis Benedict. Ms. Benedict has had every opportunity to make a good life for herself, and from all indications she’s succeeded. As for Lisbeth, I have no sympathy there. She chose ruin the night she hacked Cordy McKittridge to death.”

  “You speak as if you’ve kept track of both the Benedicts.”

  “I’ve monitored their situations from time to time.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged. “Wouldn’t you, had you been close to the central characters in such a grisly drama?”

  “You were close to the family?”

  “To Vincent, anyway.”

  “And what do you remember of the night of the murder?”

  “Nothing that contradicts the recorded facts, if that’s what you’re hoping for.”

  “Tell me about it anyway.”

  “I have nothing exceptional to tell. I didn’t live on the premises at the time, hadn’t been there all day, hadn’t seen Lisbeth, Judy, or Cordy in a couple of days. I was at the banquet for Dulles at the Blue Fox. Vincent was there, too, as were all the other staff members and their wives—save Lisbeth. Why go over this? Obviously you’ve studied the trail transcript.”

  “Even a cursory study of that transcript indicates that certain facts didn’t come out at the trial.”

  “Ah, the old cover-up theory. Why is it that the notion of conspiracies is so attractive to people?”

  “Because very often conspiracies exist.” I hesitated, then added, “Let me ask you this: if you don’t approve of my investigation of the case, why did you agree to see me?”

  Eyestone smiled, features skewing, “Why, Ms McCone I neither approve nor disapprove. Frankly, I agreed to this meeting because I was curious about you.”

  “About me?”

  “Yes. You may not be aware of it, but you enjoy a certain reputation in San Francisco. In exchange for the opportunity to meet you face to face, I’ll be glad to tell you whatever you wish to know—within reason.”

  “What’s ‘within reason’?”

  His smile broadened. “Test your limits and find out.”

  I felt as if I were involved in some sort of competition with Leonard Eyestone—one in which I knew neither the rules nor the prize for winning. “All right. Tell me what kind of woman Lis Benedict was back then.”

  He looked surprised; obviously he’d expected a different question. “She was . . . well bred, intelligent, articulate. She dabbled in hobbies—the calligraphy, for instance. I sensed frustration and anger in her, primarily because of Vincent’s drinking and womanizing, but it may also have had to do with the fact that she had nothing to put her considerable talents to. I also sensed fear in her.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of a good many things. Lisbeth Benedict was—still is, as far as I know—an extremely superstitious woman. By nature, superstitious people are fearful; they guard carefully against mishap with rituals.”

  “I take it you’re not superstitious?”

  He shook his head. “I’m a social scientist, with the emphasis on scientist. A pragmatist. And I’m seldom afraid—probably because I have very little imagination. One has to be able to visualize dire consequences in order to fear them.”

  I hadn’t ever thought of it that way, but what he said made sense. I had a good deal of imagination, and whenever I found myself in a dangerous situation, I had to turn it off by force of will.

  “What about Vincent Benedict?” I asked. “He was an alcoholic, a wife-beater. What did Cordy and his other women see in him?”

  “Pain.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The man had an aura of deep psychic pain—carefully cultivated, of course. He consciously projected the image of an unrecognized genius, misunderstood and undervalued by everyone, and stoically suffering in silence. Woman lapped it up; they wanted to kiss him and make it all better. It didn’t hurt that he was extremely handsome in a dissipated way.” Eyestone spoke without rancor, as if on some level he admired Benedict’s pose.

  “I have the impression, though, that Cordy wasn’t just another of Vincent’s women.”

  “You’re correct. He was planning to divorce Lisbeth and marry her.”

  “Had he told Lis of his intention?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why wasn’t that used against her at the trial?”

  “I presume because Vincent didn’t want his wife to go to the gas chamber.”

  “But you knew about it. Others must have, too.”

  “I doubt that. Vincent didn’t tell me until the week before the trial began, and in the strictest confidence.”

  “And you told no one?”

  “No. In fact, I’ve never spoken of it until today.”

  I hesitated, taking time to formulate my next question. “It was rumored t hat there were other men in Cordy’s life besides Vincent. Someone else at the Institute.”

  “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  He shrugged, smiling slyly.

  “You?”

  “So people said.”

  “You, Dr. Eyestone?”

  “Such an irritated look, Ms. McCone! Yes, I admit I was involved with Cordy.”

  “Yet you and Vincent were friends.”

  “Some male friendships transcend territorial squabbling over women. Besides, my affair with Cordy was over long before she died, before she took up with Vincent.”

  “How long?”

  “Since the previous summer, when she aborted our child.”

  Louise Wingfield’s suspicion had been correct, then. “Whose idea was the abortion, yours or Cordy’s?”

  “Hers. I would gladly have married her, but she’d tired of me by then. She said she would have the abortion no matter what, so I gave her the money to buy a safe one. I cared enough that I didn’t want her to risk her life at the hands of some butcher.” Eyestone looked away from me. It was a moment before he was back.

  It surprised me that the memory of Cordy’s rejection could still cause him pain. I thought of Judy Benedict’s dislike of the woman, as strong now as thirty-six years before. Cordy’s persona had been powerful, it if could tug so hard from the grave.

  Eyestone glanced at his watch. “Is there anything else, Ms. McCone? I have another appointment in two minutes.”

  “Nothing that we can cover in two minutes. I’d like to talk with you again. I’m interested in the Institute—about what a think tank actually does.”

  He winced exaggeratedly. “Bad phrase. Don’t use it again. It emerged long ago in the popular press; we didn’t care for it then, and we still don’t. But why are you interested in us? Surely the operations of the Inst
itute have no bearing on Cordy’s case.”

  “Probably not, but I like to develop the context in which a crime took place.”

  He squinted, studying me intently in the glare from the window. After a moment he said, “Every man enjoys talking about his work. I’ll be glad to meet with you again. Call Alex and arrange an appointment—next week would be best.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  We rose simultaneously, and Eyestone escorted me out and through the anteroom. It was completely deserted, and I saw no one in the lobby below who seemed to be waiting for an appointment. On the gallery, Eyestone clasped my hand, lips quirking lopsidedly. “I’ve enjoyed out talk, Ms. McCone,” he said. “You’ve lived up to your reputation.”

  Now, what did that mean? Before I could ask, Eyestone went back to his office.

  At All Souls I put thoughts of the case aside and slogged through my neglected paperwork. It was after seven when I finished. I’d planned to go home and read over the Benedict trial transcript once more, but my verbal sparring with Leonard Eyestone had stimulated me. What I wanted was active investigation, but I seemed to have temporarily run out of leads. Perhaps I needed some inspiration.

  I picked up the phone receiver and dialed Project Helping Hands. Louise Wingfield was still there, as much of a workaholic as I. She responded with enthusiasm when I suggested she come along with me on a journey into the past.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I know a fellow investigator, an Italian-American and native San Franciscan in his late fifties who frequently bemoans the death of the old North Beach. Although I haven’t lived here long enough to remember those days, I fully understand what my friend, a self-admitted nostalgiac, means. Chinatown has spilled over into what used to be Little Italy; topless clubs and bars and T-shirt shops forma sleazy neon-lighted hub at Broadway and Columbus. Trendy restaurants have supplanted many of the generations-old Italian establishments, and high rents are driving families out. But there are still pockets of the once-dominant culture, where the odors of crusty sourdough and oregano and espresso drift on the air and the official language is that of the native land. To me, North Beach is an exciting place where cultures clash and mix, bohemian life-styles bound, and a good meal of pasta and strong red wine can be had for under twenty dollars. If you can find a parking space, that is.