Jeff Sherratt - Detour to Murder

“The police gave me your number. The detective said my aunt had a box full of files and papers, but the box had been stolen. He said you told him one of the files in the box contained an insurance policy, said you saw it.”

“Well, I saw the file, but I don’t think it held an actual insurance policy. She was looking for some old phone records in the box and pulled out a thick file secured with rubber bands. She said it was her insurance policy. I think she used that term figuratively. You know, like-”

“That’s right, Mr. O’Brien, the file had nothing to do with insurance.”

“I really didn’t think it did, but it was none of my business.”

“The police said your client murdered my aunt, but I don’t think he’s the one who killed her.”

I almost bolted out of my chair. “What are you telling me?”

“I don’t like discussing this on the phone.”

“Discussing what?”

“It’s been going on for years.”

“What’s been going on?”

“On the next-to-last day of the month, every month without fail, going back farther than the bank has records, someone has been depositing $500 in my aunt’s account. Today’s that day. There was no deposit.” She paused for a few seconds before continuing. “Mr. O’Brien, the money has something to do with that so-called ‘insurance policy.’”

“Oh my God,” I said in a whisper.

“Her murder wasn’t reported in the media, and I hadn’t sent out the notices yet.”

“That means only the police and people in the DA’s office knew she was dead,” I said.

“And the person who stopped making the deposits knew,” she said, “the person who murdered my aunt.”

Gayle Goodrow and I agreedto meet at a location somewhere close to the motel. She suggested Ships, a coffee shop on La Cienega in West Hollywood. I told her I’d leave immediately and would be there in about forty-five minutes.

The traffic ran fast, and I drove faster than most of the other vehicles on the freeway, arriving at the fifties version of a space-age-styled coffee shop five minutes early.

On the drive I wondered about Gayle Goodrow, about how much she knew. But just as important, I wondered how much she’d tell me. Before I hung up, she had implied that the documents in the insurance file were related to a murder “that happened in the motel years ago.” I knew from various sources that the only murder that ever took place at Dink’s Hollywood Oasis was Vera’s. But there were a few things I couldn’t figure out. One, if Mrs. Hathaway’s documents were, in fact, related to Vera’s death and she was extorting someone on the threat of revealing the contents, why would the person being blackmailed cough up the money for almost thirty years and then decide to pop her now? Two, would all of this help me find Roberts? And finally, why did Gayle Goodrow call me? Why didn’t she just tell the police about the papers in the file and about the blackmail scheme?

The restaurant was practically deserted in the early afternoon. The lunch crowd-if there was one-must have left by now. One skinny guy who sat at the counter sipping coffee gave me the once-over when I entered. A waitress clad in a bright uniform, but wearing a dull smile, met me at the door and handed me a plastic menu. I told her a friend would be joining me shortly.

But then I saw her, a plain woman in her mid-thirties, sitting in a booth by the front window. She had the same build and manner as Sandy Dennis, the actress who’d played the mousy wife in The Out of Towners . She looked small, pale, and almost transparent and at any moment it appeared as if she might simply fade away and dissolve into the fabric covering the seat. The woman stared at me with a questioning look on her face and nodded slightly when our eyes locked. I walked to the booth.

“Miss Goodrow?” I asked.

“Yes, please sit down, Mr. O’Brien.”

Miss Goodrow sat proper-like with her hands folded in her lap and her shoulders hunched, her elbows tucked close to her wispy frame.

I slid into the booth across from her. “Let skip the formalities, if it’s okay. Please just call me Jimmy.”

“And I’m Gayle.” Her hand trembled when she raised it above the table to shake mine. “I’m nervous talking about this,” she said in a voice just above a whisper. “There are frightening details you should know, but can… can I trust you?”

“You called me, remember? You must have had a feeling that I could be trusted.”

“You defend people in trouble, and I thought… Anyway, I had to talk to you.”

“Anything you say to me regarding your aunt’s murder is protected-client privilege. Our conversation will be kept strictly confidential.” I leaned in closer and spoke softly. “Now, Gayle, what’s this all about?”

“I’m scared. Whoever killed my aunt could kill again.”

“Have you talked to the police about any of this?”

“Oh my God, no. They could be in on it.”

“In on what? The murder, the blackmail, or both?”

She made a tent with her hands and placed them in front of her mouth, her eyes dropping to the tabletop. I wanted to ask her again about the cops, but the waitress appeared, ready to take our order.

Gayle looked up. “Just coffee for me, please.”

“Make it two,” I added.

As soon as the waitress left I said, “Gayle, I can’t help you unless you tell me what this is all about. That is, if you want me to help.”

“This whole mess just won’t go away.” The fear showed in her eyes and it was real. “I don’t know much. My aunt didn’t tell me the whole story. But certain people might think I know more than I do.”

“How about if we start at the beginning?”

Gayle glanced around. Two men wearing business suits had entered and now sat at the counter. “I’m not comfortable here,” she said.

“We can talk in my car. Nobody will be able to eavesdrop.”

One of the businessmen tapped his buddy on the shoulder and looked over at us. He turned away when I looked back at him. They whispered together for a moment, then started to banter with the girl working the counter. She let out a giggle after one of the men made a crude remark about her full figure. She took it as praise.

“Yes, the car would be better,” Gayle said and started to climb out of the booth.

I stood just as the waitress arrived with our coffee. “Are you leaving?” she asked. “What about your coffee?”

“Something came up,” I said and dropped a buck on the table.

We cruised aimlessly though the streets of West Hollywood with neither of us saying a word. As I drove, I waited for Gayle to open up. I couldn’t blame her for being reluctant to talk, but I felt strongly that she wanted to tell me what was on her mind. Sooner or later she’d come around, but I couldn’t wait forever.

“Gayle, I’m here to help. Talk to me.”

She stared straight ahead, her eyes focused on something far away. Finally she said, “The papers my aunt had belonged to a woman who’d been murdered in one of her bungalows back in the forties. She found them in the woman’s room when she discovered the body, before she called the police.”

I hit the brakes and swerved to the curb. I turned to face her. “Do you know what was in those papers?”

“No, she wouldn’t talk about it. She didn’t tell me anything about the papers until recently. I took accounting courses in junior college and a few years ago I took over the bookkeeping for the motel-taxes, paying the bills, that sort of thing. Aunt Ida was getting up there, and it became more difficult for her to take care of the books herself.”

“That’s when you noticed the extra money being deposited every month, correct?”