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  “All three witnesses came up here that Friday before the regatta. Ira arrived on Sunday, Bobby Gardena on Tuesday. It soon became apparent to everybody that Tom and Bobby weren’t getting on. Bobby was baiting Tom. They quarreled frequently and publicly. Bobby confided to Sandy Janssen that he’d told Tom he’d quit his job and put his San Francisco house up for sale, with the intention of moving to New Orleans. Tom accused him of being involved with somebody else, and Bobby wouldn’t confirm or deny it. He taunted Tom with the possibility.

  “After the regatta there was a barbecue on the beach. Everybody was there except for Tom, Bobby and Ira. Bobby had told Darryl Williams he planned to pack and head back to the city that night. Ira was described by Mark Curry as alone and unhappy.”

  I heard a noise in the reception area and looked that way. A thin scarecrow’s shape stood deep in shadow on the other side of the desk. Ira Sloan. I started to say something, then thought, No. Shar and Chris are discussing him. He has a right to hear, doesn’t he?

  “Something unusual happened that night,” Shar continued. “Mark Curry noticed it when he returned to the hotel around two. Sandy Janssen described a strange atmosphere that kept him from sleeping well. Darryl Williams talked about hearing whispers in the corridors. The next morning Tom told everybody that Bobby had left early for the city, but Darryl claims he saw Bobby’s car in the lot when he looked out his window around nine. An hour later it was gone. None of my three witnesses ever heard from or saw Bobby again. The skip trace I had run on him turned up nothing. The final closing on the sale of his city house was handled by Tom, who had his power-of-attorney.”

  Chris Fowler started to say something, but Shar held up her hand. “And here’s the most telling point: On Thursday night, all the guests received notice that they had to vacate the premises on Friday morning, due to a potentially dangerous gas leak that needed to be worked on. A leak the PG&E has no record of. The only men who remained behind were Tom and Ira.”

  Chris sat very still, breathing shallowly. I looked at the reception area. The scarecrow figure in the shadows hadn’t moved.

  “I think you can draw your own conclusions,” Shar added. She spoke gently and sadly—not the usual trumpeting and crowing that I hear from her when she solves a case.

  Slowly Chris said, “God, I can’t believe Tom killed Bobby! He was a gentle man. I never saw him raise his hand to anybody.”

  “It may have been self defense,” Shar said. “Darryl Williams told me one of his friends had an earlier relationship with Bobby, and abusive one. Bobby always threw the first punches.”

  “So an argument, a moment of violence…”

  “Is all it takes.”

  “Naturally he would’ve turned to Ira to help him cover up. They were best friends, had been since grade school. But that doesn’t make Ira a murderer.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “Anyway, you can’t prove it.”

  “Not without Bobby’s remains—which are probably somewhere in this hotel.”

  Chris glanced around, shivering slightly. “And as long as they’re here, Ira and I will be at a stalemate, estranged for the rest of our lives. That’s how long he’ll guard them.”

  I was still staring at Ira Sloan’s dark figure, but now I looked beyond it, into the common room. The stained-glass oval hanging on the fireplace chimney, that I’d fancifully thought of as the stone in a mood ring, gleamed in the rays from a nearby floor lamp: pink, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo. The seven colors of the rainbow.

  I said, “I know where Bobby’s buried,”

  “When I saw this stained glass yesterday,” I said, “I couldn’t tell the colors, on account of it being hung where no light could pass through. A strange place, and that should’ve told Shar or me something right then. Tonight, with the lamp on, I see that it’s actually the seven colors of the rainbow.”

  We—Shar, Chris, and I—were standing in front of the fireplace. I could feel Ira Sloan’s presence in the shadows behind us.

  “It’s the only rainbow symbol in the hotel,” I went on, “and it was probably commissioned by Tom Atwater sometime in 1978.”

  “Why then?” Shar asked.

  “Remember I told you that the first rainbow flag was designed in ’78? And that a version of it that was flown at the parade only had six colors. They dropped indigo so there would be exactly three stripes on either side of the street. That’s the one that’s become popular and is recognized by the International Congress of Flag Makers.”

  Chris said, “So Tom and Ira put Bobby’s body someplace temporary the night of the murder—maybe the walk-in freezer—and after Tom closed the hotel, they walled him in behind the fireplace. But Tom was a sentimental guy, and he loved Bobby. He’d’ve wanted some monument.”

  Behind us there was a whisper of noise, such as I imagined had filled this hotel the night of August 16, 1978. Shar heard it—I could tell from the way she cocked her head—but Chris didn’t.

  Bitterly he said, “It couldn’t’ve been self defense. If it was, Tom or Ira would’ve called the county sheriff.”

  “It wasn’t self defense. It was an accident. I was there. I saw it.”

  Slowly we turned toward the reception area. Ira Sloan had come out of the shadows and was backed up against the warning tape, his face twisted with despair of one who expects not to be believed.

  “Bobby was leaving to go back to the city,” he added. “He was taunting Tom about how he’d be seeing his new lover. They were at the top of the stairs. Tom called Bobby and ugly name, and Bobby went to hit him. Tom ducked, Bobby lost his balance. He fell, rolled over and over, and hit his head on the base of the reception desk.” He motioned at the sharp corner near the stairway.

  Shar asked, “Why didn’t you call the sheriff?”

  “Tom had been outspoken about gay rights. Outspoken and abrasive. He had enemies on the county board of supervisors and in the sheriff’s department. They’d have seen to it that he was charged with murder. Tom was afraid, so I did what any friend would do.”

  Chris said, “For God’s sake, Ira, why didn’t you tell me this when we inherited the hotel?’

  “I wanted to preserve Tom’s memory. And I was afraid what you might think of me. What you might do about it.”

  His partner was silent for a moment, then he said, “I should’ve let you keep your secret.”

  “Maybe not,” Shar told him. “Secrets that tear two people apart are destructive and potentially dangerous.”

  “But—”

  “The fact is, Chris, that secrets come in all varieties. What you do about them, too. You can expose them, and then everybody gets hurt. You can make a tacit agreement to keep them, and by the time they come out, nobody cares, but keeping them’s still extracted a toll on you. Or you can share them with a select group of trusted people and agree to do something about them.”

  “What’re you trying to tell me?”

  “The group of people in this room is a small and closed-mouthed one. We all know Ira can keep his own counsel. Bobby Gardena’s been in this tomb a long time, but I doubt he’s rested in a more suitable place on the property, and created a better monument to him.”

  I said, “A better monument, like a garden in the colors of the rainbow.”

  Chris nodded. A faint ray of hope touched Ira’s tortured features.

  I added, “Of course, a fitting monument to both Bobby and Tom would be if you renovated this hotel like you planned and reopened it to the living.”

  Chris nodded again. Then he went to Ira, grasped the warning tape, and tore it free where it was anchored to the pigeonholes.

  I rode in the back of the van on our way home to the city, making sure the Seeburg Trashcan didn’t slip its mooring. Both Shar and I were quiet as we maneuvered it up my building’s elevator and into the apartment.

  Later, after Neal promised to become the fifth party to a closely held secret, I told him the story of August 16, 1978. He was quiet too.<
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  But still later, when we’d jockeyed the Trashcan into position in our living room and plugged it in, the nostalgic tunes of happier times played long into the night, heralding happy times to come.

  KNIVES AT MIDNIGHT

  (Sharon McCone)

  My eyes were burning, and I felt not unlike a creature that spends a great deal of its life underground. I marked the beat-up copy of last year’s Standard California Codes that I’d scrounged up at a used bookstore on Adams Avenue, then shut it. When I stood up, my limbs felt as if I were emerging from the creature’s burrow. I stretched, smiling. Well, McCone, I told myself, at last one of your peculiarities is going to pay off.

  For years, I’d taken what many considered a strange pleasure in browsing through the tissue-thin pages of both the civil and penal codes. I had learned many obscure facts. For instance: it is illegal to trap birds in a public cemetery; anyone advertising merchandise that is made in whole or in part by prisoners must insert the words “convict-made” in the ad copy; stealing a dog worth $400 or less is a petty theft, while stealing a dog worth more than $400 is grand theft. Now I could add another esoteric statute to my store of knowledge, only this one promised a big payoff.

  Somebody who thought himself above the law was about to go down—and I was the one who would topple him.

  Two nights earlier, I’d flown into San Diego’s Lindbergh Field from my home base in San Francisco. Flown in on a perilous approach that always makes me, holder of both single- and a multi-engine rating, wish I didn’t know quite so much about pilot error. On top of a perfectly natural edginess, I was aggravated with myself for giving in to my older brother John’s plea. The case he wanted me to take on for some friends sounded like one where every lead comes to a dead end; besides, I was afraid that in my former hometown I’d become embroiled in some family crisis. The McCone clan attracts catastrophe the way normal people attract stray kittens.

  John was waiting for me at the curb in his old red International Scout. When he saw me, he jumped out and enveloped me in a bear hug that made me drop both my purse and my briefcase. My travel bag swung around and whacked him on his back; he released me, grunting.

  “You’re looking good,” he said, stepping back.

  “So’re you.” John’s a big guy—six –foot-four—and sometimes he bulks up from the beer he’s so fond of. But now he was slimmed down to muscle and sported a new closely trimmed beard. Only his blond hair resisted taming.

  He grabbed my bag, tossed it into the Scout, and motioned for me to climb aboard. I held my ground. “Before we go anyplace—you didn’t tell Pa I was coming down, did you?”

  “No.”

  “Ma and Melvin? Charlene and Ricky?”

  “None of them.”

  “Good. Did you make me a motel reservation and reserve a rental car?”

  “No.”

  “I asked you—”

  “You’re staying at my place.”

  “John! Don’t you remember—”

  “Yeah, yeah. Don’t involve the people you care about in something that could get dangerous. I heard all that before.”

  “And it did get dangerous.”

  “Not very. Anyway, you’re staying with me. Get in.”

  John can be as stubborn as I when he makes up his mind. I opted for the path of least resistance. “Okay, I’ll stay tonight—only. But what am I supposed to drive while I’m here?”

  “I’ll loan you the Scout.”

  I frowned. It hadn’t aged well since I last borrowed it.

  He added, “I could go along, help you out.”

  “John!”

  He started the engine and edged into the flow of traffic.

  “You know, I’ve missed you.” Reaching over and ruffling my hair, he grinned broadly. “McCone and McCone—the detecting duo. Together again.”

  I heaved a martyred sigh and buckled my seat belt.

  The happy tone of our reunion dissipated when we walked into the living room of John’s stucco house in nearby Lemon Grove. His old friends, Bryce and Mari Winslip, sat on the sofa in front of the corner fireplace; their hollow eyes reflected weariness and pain and—when they saw me—a kind of hope that I immediately feared was misplaced. While John made the introductions and fetched wine for me and freshened the Winslips’ drinks, I studied them.

  Both were a fair number of years older than my brother, perhaps in their early sixties. John had told me on the phone that Bryce Winslip was the painting contractor who had employed him during his apprenticeship; several years ago, he’d retired and they’d moved north to Oregon. Bryce and Mari were white-haired and had the bronzed, tough-skinned look of people who spent a lot of time outdoors. I could tell that customarily they were clear-eyed, mentally acute, and vigorous. But not tonight.

  Tonight the Winslips were gaunt-faced and red-eyed; they moved in faltering sequences that betrayed their age. Tonight they were drinking straight whiskey, and every word seemed an effort. Small wonder: they were hurting badly because their only child, Troy, was violently dead.

  Yesterday morning, twenty-five-year-old Troy Winslip’s body had been found by the Tijuana, Mexico, authorities in a parking lot near the bullring at the edge of the border town. He had been stabbed seventeen times. Cause of death; exsanguination. Estimated time of death: midnight. There were no witnesses, no suspects, no known reason for the victim to have been in that place. Although Troy was a San Diego resident and a student at San Diego State, the SDPD could do no more than urge the Tijuana authorities to pursue and investigation and report their findings. The TPD, which would have been overworked even if it wasn’t notoriously corrupt, wasn’t about to devote time to the murder of a gringo who shouldn’t have been down there in the middle of the night anyway. For all practical purposes, case closed.

  So John had called me, and I’d opened my own case file.

  When we were seated, I said to the Winslips, “Tell me about Troy. What sort of person was he?”

  They exchanged glances. Mari cleared her throat. “He was a good boy…man. He’d settled down and was attending college.”

  “Studying what?”

  “Communications. Radio and TV.”

  “You say he’d ‘settled down.’ What does that mean?”

  Again the exchanged glances. Bryce said, “After high school, he had some problems that needed to be worked through—one of the reasons we moved north. But he’s been fine for at least five years now.”

  “Could you be more specific about these problems?”

  “Well, Troy was using drugs.”

  “Marijuana? Cocaine?”

  “Both. When we moved to Oregon, we put him into a good treatment facility. He made excellent progress. After he was release, he went to school at Eugene, but three years ago he decided to come back to San Diego.”

  “A mistake,” Mari said.

  “He was a grown man; we couldn’t stop him,” her husband responded defensively. “Besides, he was doing well, making good grades. There was no way we could have predicted that…this would happen.”

  Mari shrugged.

  I asked, “Where was Troy living?”

  “He shared a house on Point Loma with another student.”

  “I’ll need the address and the roommate’s name. What else can you tell me about Troy?”

  Bryce said, “Well, he is…was athletic. He liked to sail and play tennis.” He looked at his wife.

  “He was very articulate,” she added. “He had a beautiful voice and would have done well in radio or television.”

  “Do you know any of his friends here?”

  “…No. I’m not even sure of the roommate’s name.”

  “What about women? Was he going with anyone? Engaged?”

  Head shakes.

  “Anything else?”

  Silence.

  “Well,” Bryce said after a moment, “he was a very private person. He didn’t share many of the details of his life with us, and we respected that.”

 
; I was willing to bet that the parents hadn’t shared many details of their life with Troy either. The Winslips struck me as one of those couple who have formed a closed circle that admits no one, not even their own offspring. The shared glances, their body language, the way they consulted nonverbally before answering my questions—all that pointed to a self-sufficient system. I doubted they’d know their son very well at all, and probably hadn’t even realized they were shutting him out.

  Bryce Winslip leaned forward, obviously awaiting some response on my part to what he and Mari had told me.

  I said, “I have to be frank with you. Finding out what happened to Troy doesn’t look promising. But I’ll give it a try. John explained about my fee?”

  They nodded.

  “You’ll need to sign one of my standard contracts, as well as a release giving me permission to enter Troy’s home and go through his personal effects. I took the forms from my briefcase and began filling them in.

  After they’d put their signatures on the forms and Bryce had written me a check as a retainer, the Winslips left for their hotel. John had fetched me another glass of wine and a beer for himself and sat in the place Mari had vacated, propping his feet on the raised hearth.

  “So,” he said, “how’re we going to go about this?”

  “You mean how am I going to go about his. First I will check with the SDPD for details on the case. Do you remember Gary Viner?”

  “That dumb-looking friend of Joey’s from high school?”

  All of our brother Joey’s friends had been dumb-looking. “Sandy-haired guy, one of the auto shop crowd.”

  “Oh, yeah. He used to work on Joey’s car in front of the house and ogle you when he thought you weren’t looking.”

  I grinned. “That’s the one. He used to ogle me during cheerleading, too. When I was down here on that kidnapping case a couple of years ago, he told me I had the prettiest bikini pants of anybody on the squad.”