by Casey Dorman
“What is this?” Ben asked, feigning alarm at the sight of yellow tape marked crime scene—do not cross.
“Uh… I’m not sure. I think they found some kind of evidence related to a crime in Newport Coast. That’s all I know. It really has nothing to do with Banning Ranch,” the woman stammered.
Ben could hardly blame her for not acknowledging the presence of the body of a murder victim on one of her property’s lots. The presence of the crime scene tape prevented him from examining the area where Regina Bonaventure’s body had been buried.
When they arrived back at the real estate center, the agent asked him to sign into the register where those who had taken a tour of the property had recorded their names and addresses, no doubt for purposes of receiving follow-up inquiries.
“I don’t see my friend, Lucas Bonaventure’s name here. He recommended your property to me. He said he’d taken a tour.”
“Not everyone records their names. But I remember Mr. Bonaventure. He did take a tour. I’m surprised he didn’t leave his name. He was very interested. Wanted to know who had already bought property here. He was very particular about who his neighbors would be. I guess that was why he told you about us. He wanted his friends to be his neighbors.”
“Do you tell people who has made purchases of property?”
“If that’s important to them. It’s public record so we’re not divulging anything.”
“So that lot that is owned by Doctor Farquhar—the one with the crime scene tape around it—was something you told Mr. Bonaventure about?”
“Of course. He was particularly interested in that property. But how did you know that Doctor Farquhar owned that lot?” A note of suspicion had entered the real estate agent’s voice.
“Lucky guess,” Ben said. “Did Mr. Bonaventure buy a piece of land?”
“Not yet, but he seemed interested.” She continued to smile at him, her suspicion having disappeared as she resumed the role of salesperson.
“When was the last time you heard from him?
“Oh, he only came once, about two weeks ago.”
Ben nodded. “Thank you for your time.”
Chapter 39
It was a clear day and Santa Catalina Island was visible in the distance, across the gently rolling hills of Pacific View Cemetery. Ben Murphy watched as Bertram Knowles exited the back seat of his chauffeur-driven Lincoln and made his way across the lawn toward the tented area in front of his daughter’s newly excavated grave. Knowles was a tall, square-faced, angular man, dressed in a black suit, his white-haired head bare. He wore sunglasses. He walked with a brisk stride, despite his seventy years.
“Ben…” Knowles said, extending his hand when he reached Murphy, who was standing between the gravesite and the drive that wound its way around the elegant grounds of the Newport Beach cemetery. Today, Murphy was also dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and tie. His head was bare, with what was left of his white hair drawn back in a braid, and instead of his tennis shoes, he wore gleaming black oxfords. “Good of you to come,” Knowles said.
“Of course I’d be here, Bert. I cared very much for Regina.”
“Lucas here yet?” Knowles asked, looking around at the several dozen people, some already sitting under the canopy that had been erected in front of the grave, others standing around talking.
“I haven’t seen him, but his car is here. I saw it parked over by the cemetery office. Maybe he’s waiting for the minister since I haven’t seen him either.”
Bert Knowles removed his sunglasses and stared at Ben. “Lucas has guts being here at all, acting like the grieving husband when he’s most likely Regina’s murderer. Any new information, by the way?” Knowles’ features made him look younger than his actual age. Ben knew that he took good care of himself: exercising, eating right. He suspected that the wealthy, retired oil magnate also had cosmetic surgery on his face. His skin around his mouth and chin seemed unusually tight.
“Only circumstantial stuff so far. The police checked out his car to see if there was any evidence of a body, either a dog or a human, having been transported in it but didn’t find anything. Of course, he could have used another car. His company owns about five of them. The police are suspicious of the psychiatrist who found Regina’s body.”
Knowles scanned the crowd. “Who are all these people? I see one or two of Regina’s old friends, but I don’t recognize anyone else.”
“She lived down here for a long time, Bert. Most of her friends were from here.”
Knowles nodded. “I suppose so.” He looked Ben in the eyes. “It’s probably a blessing that Marge didn’t live to see this day, when her only child was buried.” He turned and gazed across the cemetery lawn. “Here comes Lucas, the bastard.”
Ben followed his gaze. Lucas Bonaventure was walking across the lawn with two men, both of them dressed in black suits, as he was. Ben assumed that one was the funeral director and the other the minister who would conduct the graveside service.
Lucas walked with a cane and had a pronounced limp. When Lucas noticed his father-in-law, he said something to the two men with whom he was walking and headed toward Knowles and Ben.
As Lucas approached, he stuck out his hand. Knowles didn’t respond. “Good to see you, Bert,” Lucas said, searching his father-in-law’s face as if to gauge his feeling.
“I’m not happy to be here, but Regina deserved a decent burial,” Knowles said. “I would have rather buried her next to her mother in Santa Barbara.”
“This is her home, Bert. This is where her friends are… and her family.”
“I’m her family,” Knowles said. He had put his sunglasses back on, but he still appeared to be staring at Lucas’ face.
“So am I, and this cemetery has a view that’s similar to the one from our house. I thought she would like it.”
“It’s a little late to be thinking about what she would like,” Knowles said, then he turned and walked toward the seats under the canopy.
“Why’s he so sore at me?” Lucas asked Ben, who was still standing there.
Ben shrugged. “Maybe he thinks you had something to do with Regina’s death.”
Lucas’ features became rigid. “If he does, then it’s because that’s what you’ve told him. You’re his investigator down here.”
“I just told him that the police haven’t ruled you out as a suspect. That’s my job to tell him that.”
“Your job is over now. Regina’s body has been found. You can go back to Santa Barbara.”
“I’m gonna stick around for a while. I want to see this through, see if there’s anything I can do to help the police find Regina’s killer.” Ben stared Lucas in the face.
“Really?” Lucas said, his displeasure evident in his voice. “Aren’t the police pretty sure that Doctor Farquhar had something to do with it. Regina was buried on his property and he was digging her up when the police found her.”
“Yet you’re still seeing him for therapy, even though you think he killed your wife?”
Lucas’ eyes widened, as if Ben’s words had caught him off guard. “I said the police suspected Doctor Farquhar, not that I did. He wouldn’t have any reason to kill her.”
“Precisely,” Ben said, smiling. “So that leaves the question of who did kill Regina. That’s what I intend to find out.” He turned and headed for the seats where Bertram Knowles had already seated himself, then he saw Susan Lin standing at the back of the canopied area behind the seats. He walked over to her and she greeted him with a hug. Ben escorted her to where Knowles was sitting so that he could introduce the two of them to each other.
Lucas had been watching the private detective with
interest. When he saw the young psychologist hug the old man, his face registered his surprise. He watched with a grim frown as Ben Murphy introduced Susan to Regina’s father. Then he nodded ever so slightly, as if he had just come to a decision.
Chapter 40
“I’m leaving you, George.” Madeline stood in the doorway to the kitchen, her hands on her hips. Her expression was sad.
“What are you talking about?” George turned his head, his drink poised in front of his lips. He had been reading The Denial of Death by Ernest Becker, in order to refresh himself on the anthropologist’s theory of death anxiety.
“At least that got your head out of your book,” she continued, still standing in the doorway. Her expression of sadness had been replaced with one of anger. “We haven’t got anything in common anymore George. And I can’t depend on you.”
“We have a lot in common. And what do you mean, you can’t depend on me?”
“You’re completely absorbed in that Bonaventure man. That’s all you talk about, and I can tell that that’s all you think about. And you’ve gotten yourself involved not only in treating the man but in his wife’s death, and his secretary’s death too.”
George felt a sense of queasiness “ I’m not involved in either of those women’s deaths.”
“You found both their bodies, George.” She scowled at him.
“That was not my intention; you know that. I didn’t know that Sherry Bennett would be dead when I went to meet her. And when I went to our property I had no idea that I’d find Mrs. Bonaventure’s body. In fact, I didn’t find it, the police did.” He knew that he was not being truthful to his wife. He had gone to their lot at Banning Ranch specifically because Lucas’ dream had told him that was where Regina Bonaventure was buried.
“Going to meet that secretary or going to our homesite and digging around in the dirt for a body are not part of doing psychoanalysis, and you know it, George. I don’t know what they represent, but they’re not part of treating a patient. And now the newspaper says the police regard you as a ‘person of interest.’ That isn’t who I want to be married to.”
“You’re blaming me for things that aren’t my fault.” His drink was empty. He got up and walked past her into the kitchen and poured himself another. “Come into the living room and let’s talk this out.”
“I don’t want to talk it out, George. I’ve made up my mind.”
“With no discussion? All by yourself? And you’re the one accusing me of not talking to you.”
“I’ve found someone else.” She had taken two steps into the living room and was standing stock still, staring at him as if to gauge his reaction. “I’m leaving you for someone else.”
He felt as if the floor had dropped from beneath him. He took a large gulp from his drink. “Someone else? Who? When did this happen?”
“It doesn’t matter who it is. I’m leaving you because of what we no longer have together; because of what you’ve become, especially since taking on this patient.” She wasn’t looking him in the eyes anymore.
“When did you start seeing someone else? Who is it?” He was starting to become angry.
“Don’t raise your voice to me, George. I said it doesn’t matter who it is, this is about us. But if you must know, it’s Jack Kingsley.”
“The writer? The one who belongs to the yacht club? The one who writes books you said you’d never read? That’s the person you have more in common with than me?” He couldn’t believe this was happening.
“Jack’s very intellectual. He only writes thrillers in order to make money. He’s very practical. Unlike you, George.”
“And he’s rich, White, no doubt lives in a bigger house than we do and right here in Newport Beach. He’s the epitome of all the things you said you despised.” He knew that, despite her protestations, his wife remained chronically anxious about finances. Now she appeared to have solved that problem.
“He has a lot of money, but that’s not why I’m interested in him. He loves good literature. He loves to talk about it. He likes to be around sophisticated, literate people.”
“And he thinks you’re the perfect example of that.” He hung his head. “Well he’s right, you are. That was one of the reasons that I was attracted to you; I still am. But I thought we had that in common.”
“Not for a long time. You’re always trying to please your silly society of old men who haven’t moved past their adolescent affair with Freudian theory and a bunch of awestruck young social workers who fawn after all of you in order to get admitted to your club. And now you’ve lost all perspective since you started seeing Lucas Bonaventure, who’s probably a serial killer.”
Had he lost perspective? He was almost afraid to step back and examine his own behavior. He knew that some of the things he’d done didn’t make sense, even to him. Going to his property at Banning Ranch to look for Regina Bonaventure’s body, for instance. And why was he continuing to see Lucas at all? Madeline was probably right about the man being a serial killer. Even worse, Lucas was either using George to construct a defense for himself based upon having a mental disorder, or he had tried to set George up as his wife’s killer by making up a dream that led George to search for her body. Maybe he’d done both of those things. Yet George still saw him two times a week. But the man was truly neurotic, and something about Lucas’ neurosis was intriguingly familiar to George, close to his own psychodynamics in some way. Something that wouldn’t let him abandon Lucas.
“I’m just treating a patient. Lucas Bonaventure hasn’t been accused of anything.”
“Only because you’re now the prime suspect in his wife’s and his secretary’s murders. Oh, George, you’re lost and you don’t even know it.” The concern on her face turned into something cold and hostile. “But I’m not going down with you George. I need peace. I need protection from society so I can work. I thought that was what you could give me, but I was wrong. You’re probably going to end up in jail. I don’t intend to be around when that happens.”
George knew he was defeated. “When are you planning on leaving?”
“I want to move out this weekend. Live on my own for a while. I might go somewhere with Jack, just to get away while all this about Regina Bonaventure is in the news.”
“But maybe you’re not leaving permanently?”
“I’m mixed up too, George. I need to leave now. I know that. I’ll see how it feels being away from you.”
“I love you, Madeline.”
“I love you too, George. I hope you find yourself before you’re completely ruined.”
Chapter 41
“Sure,” Susan Lin answered him over the phone. “I’d love to have lunch again. We never did have that one we talked about before. I even promise I won’t ask you about your therapy with Lucas Bonaventure, although I might share a little about him with you.
“If you’d like,” George answered. “How about someplace casual? I’m embarrassed to ask you to an Asian restaurant. It might not be up to your standards.”
“Casual is perfect! If this is purely social, I’ll need to get back to work pretty quickly anyway,” she laughed.
“Quick and close. How about the best deli this side of New York City?”
“Sounds great. I’m a sucker for a good Pastrami sandwich. Give me the address and I’ll meet you there.”
— — —
The “deli” that George had chosen was part of a wine shop next door to one of Newport Beach’s most prestigious French restaurants, which did not open until evening for dinner. The sandwich shop attached to the wine store sold not only sandwiches on their own freshly baked baguettes but wine by the glass. George ordered their sandwiches and two glasses of wine.
“I know you’re on duty, but I remember that you had a beer at the Yard House.”
“How can I argue with such a perfect memory?” Susan said, smiling across the table at him. Her expression became concerned. “You look tired.”
“Working a lot. And Bonaventure has become a strain on me, what with me being involved in finding his wife’s body.” He took a sip of his wine. “And I’m having some domestic problems, I’m afraid.”
Her concerned expression remained. “I’m sorry.”
“My wife is a novelist; a quite good one. She’s not enamored with my work. I’m afraid she thinks I should cut Lucas Bonaventure loose. She’s convinced that treating someone who might be a murderer will ruin my reputation.” Why was he telling her this? Was he using her friendliness as an excuse to vent his problems? “Sorry. I shouldn’t be telling you these things.”
“Your wife is certainly right that your relationship with Lucas Bonaventure has gotten you involved with things that wouldn’t ordinarily be part of psychotherapy.”
“I’m afraid it’s made me a suspect with your police friends, particularly Detective Reynolds.”
“You’re not really a suspect. Other than being present when their bodies were found, there’s nothing to link you to either victim.”
George felt relieved. “Good. I’ll accept your reassurance and now we can talk about something else.”
She smiled at him. “Before we do that, I’d like you to meet someone. I took the liberty of telling him where we were having lunch today so that I could introduce you. He’s been working on Regina Bonaventure’s murder as a private investigator. He’s quite astute. You might be interested in what he’s found.”