Serpentine

by Jonathan Kellerman

  I said, “You didn’t want to cast a bad light on either of them.”

  “Especially Dad. He was the only parent I ever knew, never pressured me or made demands until I acted like a complete moron. Which even at the time I knew I was doing, but I wouldn’t—couldn’t relent.” Head shake. “Disruption for its own sake.”

  Milo said, “Like mother like daughter.”

  “After calling me a strumpet. The implication was clear. And it makes sense. What kind of mother leaves her biological child with a man she wasn’t even married to? For all she knew he could’ve given me up and I’d end up in foster care. So maybe she was loose. And egocentric. And whatever else—maybe I shouldn’t waste your time and mine. But I feel driven to—it’s like a hole that needs to be filled. If I don’t try, I’ll never feel resolved.”

  She breathed in and out, ran her fingers through her hair, rubbed her eyes. “So what did you want to tell me?”

  “We’ve verified your mother coming down to L.A. and living with a wealthy man.”

  “Who? Someone famous?”

  “Just rich,” said Milo. “At this stage, it’s best not to get into details.”

  “Oh, c’mon, Lieutenant. Why can’t I know? Did what I just tell you cast aspersions on my sanity?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Then what? Do you think I’ll misuse the information?”

  “It may not be relevant information.”

  “So?”

  “If you really want a thorough investigation, we can’t afford any sort of snafu.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “You confront someone, they complain to the cops, I’m pulled off the case.”

  Masterful improv.

  Ellie Barker said, “So we’re talking someone with clout.”

  Milo smiled.

  “Fine, be enigmatic—I have to tell you, your reasoning is kind of paternalistic. Hysterical woman bound to confront.”

  “Not at all, Ellie.”

  “Then what?”

  “A hole that needs to be filled can fuel all sorts of things.”

  “I am not going to—fine, I’ll back off, you barely know me, why should you trust me? But you’ll see, I can be trusted. And at some point, when you do have good information, I deserve to be informed.”

  “You will be,” said Milo. “Just bear with it.”

  “Oh, Lord—I’ve lasted this long, suppose I can endure. Are we talking someone in the movie business? Not famous like an actor, maybe behind the scenes?”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “She came to Hollywood. And in that picture I gave you, she looks pretty theatrical, don’t you think? Standing in some forest and she’s dolled up like for a party?”

  I said, “Neither of them look like outdoorsy types. Your dad’s wearing a suit.”

  “You’re right about that. I don’t think he owned a pair of sneakers.”

  I glanced at Milo.

  All these years, we’re attuned to cuing and receiving.

  He said, “That’s kind of interesting. We looked into his death and he—”

  “Went hiking and fell off a cliff,” she said. “I also thought about telling you but couldn’t see that it mattered. But yes, it is weird.”

  “That park,” he said. “Did you know him to frequent it?”

  “Never. But by then I was out of the house, for all I knew he was trying to get in shape—late-in-life exercise or something. For all I know he was interested in a new woman and that’s why. Though I doubt that. Dad just wasn’t like that. Or so I’d like to think.”

  I said, “Like what?”

  “Superficial, out for appearances. Unlike her. Maybe.”

  Flash of heat in the gray eyes. “She walks out on us and goes to live with a rich guy in Hollywood? It’s pathetic, no? A cliché.”

  Her lips moved. A single muttered word. If I hadn’t just heard it recently, I might not have deciphered.

  Strumpet.

  CHAPTER

  21

  As Ellie walked us to the door, Melvin Boudreaux appeared. Before Ellie got there he was in front of her, cracking the oak six inches and peering outside. Satisfied, he opened all the way and stationed himself in the center of the inner courtyard.

  Ellie looked startled at being cut off.

  Boudreaux said, “Part of the job, ma’am.”

  “Ma’am, again. Do they teach you guys that in police school?”

  Milo said, “We pride ourselves on being gentlemen.”

  “Ah,” said Ellie Barker. “I suppose I could get used to it.”

  * * *

  —

  As we drove away, I said, “Artful dodge.”

  “What was?”

  “You told her nothing but left her satisfied.”

  “Couldn’t have her confronting Val and screwing things up.”

  “Double bonus, she gave you new info.”

  “Stanley hated Dorothy.”

  “And Stanley could have a temper when pushed hard enough.”

  He reached Los Feliz Boulevard, waited to make the illegal left. “Turning purple. Think I pay a little more attention to Barker. What we said before: He finds her and waylays her.”

  “In a shiny new Caddy,” I said. “Maybe that was symbolic: You left me for someone richer, look what good it did you.”

  “The mansion, the car, yeah, I can see that bringing on some serious magenta.”

  Five-second traffic gap. He swung across the boulevard. “Problem is, I can’t see any avenue to Stan. For Tony—or the other Des Barres kids, for that matter—I can at least look for someone who knew the not-so-merry wives of Mulholland.”

  “Maybe there’s someone around who recalls Stan and Dorothy as a couple.”

  “Thirty-six years ago and five hundred miles away? You come up with something, let me know. Meanwhile, I’m gonna see what I can dig up about Helen and Arlette.”

  I said, “Here’s a possible arrow to Arlette. In the article about her accident, the owner of the stables is mentioned.”

  “Remember her name?”

  “Nope.”

  “Me, neither.” He handed me his notepad.

  As he headed south, I made my way through two pages of his backhand scrawl before I found it.

  Agua Fria Stables. Pasadena. Winifred Gaines.

  I searched. “No current listing for the business. Hold on…nothing online about her, personally.”

  He pulled to the curb on Western just past Franklin. “You drive and I’ll play with the databases.”

  For years, he’d been violating protocol by conducting police business in the Seville, but never had he relinquished the wheel of an official vehicle.

  I said, “You’re off the grid so it’s legit?”

  “Can’t imagine it would be,” he said. “You can move the seat.”

  * * *

  —

  Property tax rolls showed Winifred Gaines divvying to the county for a single-family residence on Los Robles Avenue in San Marino. A DMV check revealed an eighty-eight-year-old with an active driver’s license and a fifteen-year-old Mercedes 500 living at the address.

  I said, “Not far from the stables in Pasadena.”

  He scrolled through a map. “Not far from Huntington Gardens plus a nice car. Maybe another one with a butler.”

  The reverse directory kicked up Winifred Gaines’s landline.

  I said, “One advantage of dealing with mature folk.”

  “Always looking on the bright side, huh?” Five rings sounded before a strong female voice said, “Hello?”

  “Ms. Gaines?”

  “Who’s this?”

  “Lieutenant Sturgis of the Los Angeles Police Department.”

  “This better not be one of tho
se scams.”

  “It’s about Arlette Des Barres, ma’am. If you remember—”

  “I remember just fine. If you’re some kind of reporter doing one of those retrospectives, forget it.”

  “I’m not, ma’am. Feel free to check me out. Lieutenant Milo B. Sturgis—”

  “One of my nephews is a deputy police chief in Philadelphia, he’s always ma’am this, ma’am that. The only other people who ma’am that much are Filipino caregivers. Sir, this, ma’am, that. Nice people, well trained and well bred. A couple of them took care of my mother and she lasted to a hundred and four. What do you want to know about that poor woman? The fools who investigated the first time certainly weren’t interested in what I had to say.”

  “Forest rangers?”

  “You bet,” said Winifred Gaines. “Bermuda shorts and funny hats.”

  “Well, I certainly am interested.”

  “You’ve got something on him posthumously?”

  “Who?”

  “That dissolute husband of hers.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Then why bother?”

  “Is there any way we can meet to discuss it, ma’am?”

  “Forget that.”

  “Just briefly?”

  “You are persistent—you’d better not be a reporter.”

  “Feel free to call West L.A. Division and—”

  “And be put on hold? I don’t think so, sir.”

  “Ma’am—”

  “Can’t stand to hear a grown man cry, tell you what,” said Winifred Gaines. “I was planning to have a nice quiet alone dinner at four thirty. If you can make it by then, fine.”

  Hour and twenty minutes’ grace time.

  Milo said, “Four thirty it is. Where?”

  “San Marino Fish Market on Huntington Drive. You show up with a badge that didn’t come out of the Cracker Jack box, I’ll talk to you. And it’s not Ms., it’s Mrs.”

  Click.

  Milo said, “Her mother made a hundred and four. Maybe what my aunt Agnes called ‘too mean to die.’ ” He looked up the restaurant. “Looks pretty good.”

  “Want the reins back?”

  “Nah, you’re doing great with the oversteer. Drop yourself at home, plenty of time for me to make it back on time.”

  I said, “You’re kidding.”

  “About what?”

  “I miss the charm-fest and suffer informatus interruptus?”

  “That’s a thing?”

  “It should be.”

  * * *

  —

  He got back behind the wheel, pulled a three-pointer on Western, and returned to Los Feliz Boulevard. Two miles past the turnoff to Ellie Barker’s house was an on-ramp to the I-5, a bipolar highway. This afternoon, the phase was acute depression: miles of vehicles bunched up due to a capsized produce truck. Severe dent in the city’s cabbage supply.

  That finally surrendered to eight miles of overcompensating speed on the 134 E followed by a commuter clot on the 210.

  Freeways. I thought of something an econ prof had said back in college. No such thing as free.

  When we landed on the elegant streets of San Marino, an hour and ten minutes had passed.

  Milo said, “Time to spare,” but broke some speed limits anyway. Drumming the wheel, then the dash, then back to the wheel. The edginess that comes when he tries to convince himself something’s going to break.

  CHAPTER

  22

  San Marino Fish Market was a sparkling storefront on a busy intersection. The city’s genteel with an older demographic, and that shaped the driving. Steady but civilized traffic created a constant low thunder.

  Plenty of free parking was available near the entrance. Milo slid in next to a chocolate-brown Mercedes 500 with a miniature horseshoe hanging from the rearview mirror. Chocolate-colored cowgirl hat on the backseat. He rubbed his face, like washing without water. Edginess kicked up several notches.

  Inside the restaurant were four round tables covered in white butcher paper and backed by a small refrigerated case featuring treasures from the briny. On the wall was what you’d expect in an old-school seafood joint: coiled ropes and nets, wood-and-brass captain’s wheels, a deep-sea diver mask, an illustrated chart featuring sketches of finned and shelled creatures.

  Three tables were occupied by groups of white-haired people. The one closest to the door was set with three chairs, one of them filled amply by a large, poodle-coiffed woman wearing a blue denim, pearl-snap western shirt. Diet Coke and a basket of sourdough in front of her. Jaws working on the bread.

  Milo said, “Mrs. Gaines?”

  She chewed some more then swallowed, all the while studying us. “Brilliant deduction, you must be a detective. Who’s this?”

  “Alex Delaware.”

  “My son’s named Alex. He’s an actuary. I ordered for myself, it’s probably too early for you.”

  “We’re fine.” He began to sit down.

  “Uh-uh, at the counter,” said Winifred Gaines, pointing. “You pick out your victim, they cook it and bring it to you.”

  “The fish are live?”

  “No, dead. Like your victims.”

  * * *

  —

  When we got back to the table, Winifred Gaines said, “What did you order?”

  Milo said, “Shrimp-crab combo with fries, grilled halibut and fries for him.”

  “Grilled. That’s why he’s skinny and we’re not. I got the same as you. Don’t read too much into it.”

  A young, smiling waitress brought Milo’s iced coffee and my water and said, “More Diet Coke, Mrs. Gaines?”

  “Sure.” Glancing at me. “Water? Tasteless. Way too much virtue, Slim. So what do you want to know about poor Arlette and why after all these years?”

  “We’re looking into a thirty-six-year-old murder that may or may not be related to her.”

  “That’s around the same time as Arlette.”

  “One year after.”

  “Someone else was taken in by his charms?”

  “Dr. Des Barres?”

  “That’s who we’re talking about, right?”

  “You didn’t like him.”

  “I judge people by how they treat animals. When he thought no one was watching, he kicked his mounts way too hard. One day, Robert the Bruce—my biggest, strongest stallion—got fed up and gave him a good rock and roll, nearly threw him. Tony was lucky he didn’t get brained.”

  “He called himself Tony.”

  “Everyone did.”

  “He’s got a son named Tony.”

  “That one was called Junior. Handsome kid, very bright. They both were, there were two sons. The little girl was much younger. Quiet. They all deserved better than Tony.”

  “Not a great dad.”

  Winifred Gaines snorted. Hard not to hear it as equine.

  I said, “Sounds like you knew the family pretty well.”

  “Just from a business perspective. Arlette was British. She grew up with horses, learned to use the Western saddle, really got into our way of life. She got two beauties from me and boarded them with me. Sometimes she’d ride with Junior or the other one—forget his name. She wasn’t the boys’ real mother, you know. He was a widow when they met but she raised those kids as if they were hers. The baby was hers. That one didn’t ride, rarely came to the stables. When she did, she sat in the office and drew pictures.”

  “The boys and Tony rode.”

  “More the boys, once in a while him. When Arlette brought the kids, she’d ride Butter, a lovely pinto, and Junior would ride Bramble, the other one I sold her, a black beauty. The younger boy—Bill, that’s what it was—would take a rental. When it was just two of them, both their mounts got ridden. The time he almost got thrown, he showed up late an
d Junior was already on Bramble.”

  Her eyes flashed. “Not only did he kick too hard, he’d dig his heels into their flanks and grind.” Scowling, she twisted a fist to demonstrate. “He had these fancy cowboy boots with big heels he bought in Beverly Hills of all places. Rodeo Drive—did you know they named it that because in the old days you could ride horses up and down? Now it’s traffic and tourists.”

  Another snort. “World’s going this way fast.” She aimed a fist downward and let it plummet.

  Milo said, “The day Arlette died—”

  “She was riding Bramble because I thought Butter had a touch of white line disease. Turned out it was just some superficial gunk, but I needed the vet to see her. Either way, it made no sense, her being thrown. Both horses were gentle and Arlette knew how to ride.”

  I said, “Could Bramble have gotten spooked by a forest animal?”

  “Could the sky fall? Anything’s possible, there’s cah-yotes out there, high-strung deer, even a bear or a puma once in a blue. But if it was a puma, believe me, it would’ve taken advantage, they wouldn’t have found Arlette intact. And Bramble wouldn’t be standing a few yards away whimpering. Besides, they were followed.”

  Milo and I sat forward.

  Winifred Gaines’s smile was smug—an oracle entrusted with a sacred truth. “You didn’t know, huh?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Figures,” she said. “I told those clowns, they couldn’t care less.”

  “Tell us,” said Milo.

  The smile turned wicked. “Guess I will if you behave yourselves—here’s our dinner.”

  When Milo’s anxious and is presented with food, he either gorges or abstains. This time he just watched in admiration as Winifred Gaines began a frontal assault on her food.

  Four thirty was early. I had no appetite, either.

  Two chew-and-swallows, a breather, one more mouthful, then: “What’s your problem? Can’t handle fish before dark?”

  He picked up his fork and knife, excised a tiny piece of shrimp.

  “Hmph. What about you, Slim?”

  I ingested a french fry.