Four Classic Alex Delaware Thrillers 4-Book Bundle

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Sure. Cream and sugar?”

  “Black.”

  “Would you like a menu?”

  “Thanks.”

  She handed me a plasticized rectangle. The selection surprised me. I’d expected burgers and fries, but a dozen entrees were listed, some of them complex, with a nod toward nouvelle, each tagged with letters indicating the proper wine: C for Chardonnay, JR for Johannesburg Riesling. On the back of the menu was a full wine list—good-quality French and California vintages as well as a locally produced apple wine described as “light and fruity, similar in nose and flavor to Sauvignon blanc.”

  She brought the coffee. “Something to eat?”

  “How about an apple picker’s lunch?”

  “Sure.” She turned her back on me, opened a refrigerator and various drawers and cabinets, tinkered for a while, put cutlery and a linen napkin on the counter, and served up a platter of perfectly sliced apples and thick wedges of cheese, garnished with mint.

  “Here you go,” she said, adding a whole-wheat roll and butter molded into flowers. “The goat cheese is really good, made by a family of Basques out near Loma Linda. Organically fed animals.”

  She waited.

  Olivia’s eggs still sat in my stomach. I took a small bite. “Terrific.”

  “Thanks. I’m studying food presentation in college, want to run my own place some day. I get to use working here as part of my independent studies.”

  I pointed at the textbook. “Summer school?”

  She grimaced. “Finals. Tests aren’t my specialty. More coffee?”

  “Sure.” I sipped. “Kind of quiet today.”

  “Every day. During picking season, September through January, we get a handful of tourists on weekends. But it’s not like it used to be. People know about cherry picking in Beaumont but we haven’t gotten much publicity. It didn’t used to be that way—the village was built in 1867; people used to go home with bushel baskets of Spartans and Jonathans. But city people came and bought up some of the land. Didn’t take care of it.”

  “I saw dead orchards on the way up.”

  “Isn’t it sad? Apples need care—just like children. All those doctors and lawyers from L.A. and San Diego bought the orchards for taxes, then just let them die. We’ve been trying—my family and me—to get the place going again. The Orange County Register might run a piece on us—that would sure help. Meanwhile we’re getting the jam and honey going, starting to do real good with mail order. Plus, I cook for the rangers and aggie commissioners passing through, get my independent study taken care of. You with the state?”

  “No,” I said. “What’s with the Ilama?”

  “Cedric? He’s ours—my family’s. That’s our house behind his pen—our village house. Mom and my brothers are in there, right now, planning out the zoo. We’re going to have a full-fledged petting zoo by next summer. Keep the little kids busy so the parents can shop. Cedric’s a doll. Dad got him in trade—he’s a doctor, has a chiropractic practice down in Yucaipa. That’s where we live most of the time. There was this circus coming through—gypsies or something like that, in these painted wagons, with accordions and tape machines. They set up in one of the fields, passed the hat. One of the men sprained his back doing acrobatics. Dad fixed him up but the guy couldn’t pay, so Dad took Cedric in trade. He loves animals. Then we got the idea for the petting zoo. My sister’s studying animal husbandry at Cal Poly. She’s going to run it.”

  “Sounds great. Does your family own the whole village?”

  She laughed. “I wish. No, just the house and Cedric’s pen and these back shops. The front shops are owned by other people but they’re not around much. Granny—from the gift shop—died last summer and her family hasn’t decided what they want to do. No one believes the Terrys are going to turn Willow Glen around, but we’re sure going to try.”

  “The population sign said four thirty-two. Where’s everyone else?”

  “I think that number’s high, but there are other families—a few growers; the rest work down in Yucaipa. Everyone’s on the other side of the village. You have to drive through.”

  “Past the trees?”

  Another laugh. “Yeah. It’s hard to see, isn’t it? Set up kind of to trap people.” She looked at my plate. I gobbled in response, pushed it away half-finished. She was undeterred. “How about some deep-dish? I baked some just twenty minutes ago.”

  She looked so eager that I said, “Sure.”

  She set a big square of pastry before me, along with a spoon, and said, “It’s so thick, this is better than a fork.” Then she refilled my coffee cup and waited again.

  I put a spoonful of pie in my mouth. If I’d been hungry, it would have been great: thin, sugary crust, crisp chunks of apple in light syrup, tinged with cinnamon and sherry, still warm. “This is terrific, Wendy. You have a bright future as a chef.”

  She beamed. “Well, thank you much, mister. If you want another piece, I’ll give it to you on the house. Got so much, my hog brothers are only going to scarf it down without thanking me, anyway.”

  I patted my stomach. “Let’s see how I do with this.”

  When I’d struggled through several more mouthfuls, she said, “If you’re not the state, what brings you up here about?”

  “Looking for someone.”

  “Who?”

  “Shirlee and Jasper Ransom.”

  “What would you want with them?”

  “They’re related to a friend of mine.”

  “Related how?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe parents.”

  “Can’t be a very close friend.”

  I put down my spoon. “It’s complicated, Wendy. Do you know where I can find them?”

  She hesitated. When her eyes met mine they were hard with suspicion.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “Nothing. I just like folks to be truthful.”

  “What makes you think I haven’t been?”

  “Coming up here talking about Shirlee and Jasper maybe being someone’s parents, driving all the way up here just to send regards.”

  “It’s true.”

  “If you had any idea who—” She stopped herself, said, “I’m not going to be uncharitable. Let’s just say I never knew them to have any relatives—not in the five years I’ve lived here. No visitors either.”

  She looked at her watch and tapped her fingers on the countertop. “You finished, mister? ’Cause I have to close up, do more studying.”

  I pushed my plate away. “Where’s Rural Route Four?”

  She shrugged, moved down the counter and picked up her book.

  I stood up. “Check, please.”

  “Five dollars even.”

  I gave her a five. She took it by the corner, avoiding my touch.

  “What is it, Wendy? Why’re you upset?”

  “I know what you are.”

  “What am I?”

  “Bank man. Looking to foreclose on the rest of the village, just like you did with Hugh and Granny. Trying to sweet-talk all the other deed holders, buy up everything cheap so you can turn it into some condo project or something.”

  “You’re a terrific cook, Wendy, but not too hot as a detective. I have nothing to do with any banks. I’m a psychologist from L.A.. My name is Alex Delaware.” I pulled ID out of my wallet: driver’s license, psychology license, med school faculty card. “Here, see for yourself.”

  She pretended to be bored, but studied the papers. “Okay. So what? Even if you’re who you say you are, what’s your business here?”

  “An old friend of mine, another psychologist named Sharon Ransom, died recently. She left no next of kin. There’s some indication she’s related to Shirlee and Jasper Ransom. I found their address, thought they might want to talk.”

  “How’d this Sharon die?”

  “Suicide.”

  That drained the color from her face. “How old was she?”

  “Thirty-four.”

  She looked away, bus
ied herself with cutlery.

  “Sharon Ransom,” I said. “Heard of her?”

  “Never. Never heard of Jasper and Shirlee having kids, period. You’re mistaken, mister.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Thanks for lunch.”

  She called after me: “All of Willow Glen is Rural Route Four. Go past the schoolhouse about a mile. There’s an old abandoned press. Turn right and keep going. But you’re wasting your time.”

  I exited the village, endured fifty yards of potholes before the dirt smoothed and the RURAL ROUTE 4 sign appeared. I drove past more orchards and several homesteads graced by sprawling wood houses and fenced with low split rails, then a flag on a pole marking a two-story stone schoolhouse shaped like a milk carton and set in the middle of an oak-shaded, leaf-carpeted playground. The playground bled into forest, the forest into mountain. Name-tagged mailboxes lined the road: RILEY’S U-PICK AND PUMPKINS (CLOSED.) LEIDECKER. BROWARD. SUTCLIFFE …

  I drove past the abandoned apple press before realizing it, backed up, and pulled to the side of the road. From that distance it looked like scrap: corrugated steel sides ulcered with rust and caving inward, mere fringes of tarpaper roof remaining, exposing age-blackened rafters, neck-high weeds scrambling for the light. Surrounding the building was sunken land littered with spare parts, dead-wood, and weeds that had reached the sun, been baked to summer straw.

  Turn right and keep going. I saw no road, no entry, remembered Wendy’s distrust and wondered if she’d led me wrong.

  I kept the engine running and got out. Four o’clock, but sun was still pouring it on and within moments I was sweating. The road was silent. My nose picked up a skunk scent. I shaded my eyes with my hand, looked around, and finally saw a bald spot in the weeds—the barest outline of a pathway running alongside the press. A shiny depression in the straw where rubber tires had finally vanquished the tangle.

  I thought of walking, didn’t know how far in I had to go. Returning to the car, I backed up until I found a dip in the shoulder and nosed down into the sunken field.

  The Seville didn’t take well to rural travel; it skidded and slid on the slick straw. Finally I got some traction and was able to negotiate my way onto the path. I nudged the car forward, past the press, into an ocean of weeds. The depression turned into a dirt path and I picked up speed, crossed a broad field. At the far end was a copse of weeping willows. Between the lacy leaves of the trees, hints of metal—more corrugated buildings.

  Shirlee and Jasper Ransom didn’t seem like hospitable sorts.

  Wendy had thought it unlikely they’d ever been parents, had stopped herself before explaining why.

  Not wanting to be “uncharitable.”

  Or had she been afraid?

  Perhaps Sharon had escaped them—escaped this place—for good reason, constructing fantasies of a pure and perfect childhood in order to block out a reality too terrible to confront.

  I wondered what I was getting myself into. Let a Jasper/Shirlee fantasy of my own float by: mammoth rural mutants, toothless and walleyed in filthy overalls, surrounded by a pack of slavering, fanged mutts, and greeting my arrival with buckshot.

  I stopped, listened for dogs. Silence. Telling myself to keep the old imagination in check, I gave the Seville gas.

  When I reached the willows, there was no place for the car to enter. I turned off the ignition, stepped out, walked under the drooping boughs and through the copse. Heard the trickle of water. A voice humming tunelessly. Then came to the habitat of Jasper and Shirlee Ransom.

  Two shacks on a small plot of dirt. A pair of tiny, primitive buildings sided with irregularly cut wood and roofed with tin. In place of windows, sheets of wax paper. Between the shacks was a wooden outhouse, complete with a crescent hole in the door. A rope clothesline was strung between the outhouse and one of the shacks. Faded garments were pinned to the hemp. Beyond the outhouse was a water tank on metal braces; next to it, a small electric generator.

  Half the property was planted with apple trees—a dozen or so infant seedlings, staked and tagged. A woman stood watering them with a garden hose connected to the water tank. Water dribbled out from between her fingers, making it appear as if she were leaking, feeding the trees with her own body fluid. The water spattered on the ground, settled in muddy swirls, turned to dirt soup.

  She hadn’t heard me. Sixties, squat and very short—four foot eight or nine—gray hair cut in a pageboy, and flat; doughy features. She squinted, mouth open, accentuating an underslung jaw. A thatch of whiskers sprouted from her chin. She wore a one-piece smock of blue print material that resembled bed sheeting. The bottom hem was uneven. Her legs were pale and thick, pudding-soft and unshaven. She grasped the hose with both hands as if it were a live snake and concentrated on the water dribble.

  I said, “Hello.”

  She turned, squinted several times, raising the hose in the process. The water squirted against the trunk of one of the saplings.

  A smile. Guileless.

  She waved her hand, tentatively, like a child meeting a stranger.

  “Hello,” I repeated.

  “Hullo.” Her enunciation was poor.

  I came closer. “Mrs. Ransom?”

  That perplexed her.

  “Shirlee?”

  Several rapid nods. “Tha’s me. Shirlee.” In her excitement, she dropped the hose and it began to twirl and spit. She tried to grab it, couldn’t, caught a jet of water full in the face, cried out, and threw up her hands. I retrieved the muddy rubber coil, bent it and washed it off, and gave it back to her.

  “Thanku.” She rubbed her face on the shoulder of her smock, trying to dry it. I took out a clean handkerchief and dabbed at her face.

  “Thanku. Sir.”

  “Shirlee, my name is Alex. I’m a friend of Sharon’s.”

  I steeled myself for an outpouring of grief, got another smile. Brighter. “Pretty Sharon.”

  My heart ached. I forced the words out, nearly choked on the present tense. “Yes, she is pretty.”

  “My Sharon … letter … want to see it?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  She looked down at the hose, appeared lost in thought. “Wait.” Slowly, deliberately, she backed away from the saplings and made her way to the water tank. It took a long time for her to turn off the spigot, even longer to coil the tubing neatly on the ground. When she was through, she looked at me with pride.

  “Great,” I said. “Nice trees.”

  “Pretty. Apple. Mizz Leiderk gave them me and Jasper. Baby tree.”

  “Did you plant them, yourselves?”

  Giggle. “No. Gabe-eel.”

  “Gabriel?”

  Nod. “We take real good care.”

  “I’m sure you do, Shirlee.”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I see that letter from Sharon?”

  “Yes.”

  I followed her flatfooted shuffle into one of the shacks. The walls were unpainted drywall streaked with waterstains; the floor, plywood; the ceiling, bare beams. A particle-board partition had been used to bisect the space. One half was a utility area—small refrigerator, electric hot plate, ancient washer with rollers. Boxes of soap powder and insecticide sat next to the fridge.

  On the other side was a low-ceilinged room, floored with a sheet of orange indoor-outdoor carpeting. A white-painted cast-iron bed draped with an army-surplus blanket nearly filled the space. The blanket was tucked tight, with military corners. Against one wall was an electric heater. The sun streamed in, golden and gentle, through wax-paper windows. A broom was propped in one corner. It had seen good use: The place was spotless.

  The only other furniture was a small raw pine dresser. A box of crayons sat on top, along with several pencils worn down to nubs and pads of pulp paper neatly stacked and weighed down with a rock. The top sheet was a drawing. Apples. Primitive. Childish.

  “Did you draw this, Shirlee?”

  “Jasp. He a good drawer.”

  “Yes, he is. Where is he now?”
/>
  She left the cabin, pointed toward the outhouse. “Making.”

  “I see.”

  “Draw real good.”

  I nodded agreement. “The letter, Shirlee?”

  “Oh.” She smiled wider, cuffed the side of her head with one fist. “I forget.”

  We returned to the bedroom. She opened one of the dresser drawers. Inside were precisely ordered piles of garments—more of the same bleached-out stuff I’d seen on the clothesline. She slid one hand under the clothes, retrieved an envelope, and handed it to me.

  Smudged with fingerprints, handled to tissue-fineness. The postmark, Long Island, New York, 1971. The address written in large block letters:

  MR. AND MRS. JASPER RANSOM

  RURAL ROUTE 4

  WILLOW GLEN, CALIFORNIA

  Inside was a single sheet of white stationery. The letterhead said:

  FORSYTHE TEACHERS COLLEGE FOR WOMEN

  WOODBURN MANOR

  LONG ISLAND, N.Y. 11946

  The same block lettering had been used for the text:

  DEAR MOM AND DAD:

  I’M HERE AT SCHOOL. THE PLANE RIDE WAS GOOD. EVERYONE IS BEING NICE TO ME. I LIKE IT, BUT I MISS YOU VERY MUCH.

  PLEASE REMEMBER TO FIX THE WINDOWS BEFORE THE RAINS COME. THEY MAY COME EARLY, SO PLEASE BE CAREFUL. REMEMBER HOW WET YOU GOT LAST YEAR. IF YOU NEED HELP MRS. LEIDECKER WILL HELP. SHE SAID SHE WILL CHECK TO SEE IF YOU ARE O.K.

  DAD, THANKS FOR THE BEAUTIFUL DRAWINGS. I LOOKED AT THEM WHEN I WAS ON THE PLANE. OTHER PEOPLE SAW THEM AND SAID THEY WERE BEAUTIFUL. GOOD ENOUGH TO EAT. KEEP DRAWING AND SEND ME MORE. MRS. LEIDECKER WILL HELP YOU SEND THEM TO ME.

  I DO MISS YOU. IT WAS HARD TO LEAVE. BUT I DO WANT TO BE A TEACHER AND I KNOW YOU WANT THAT TOO. THIS IS A GOOD SCHOOL. WHEN I AM A TEACHER I WILL COME BACK AND TEACH IN WILLOW GLEN. I PROMISE TO WRITE. TAKE CARE OF YOURSELVES.

  LOVE,

  SHARON

  (YOUR ONLY LITTLE GIRL)

  I slipped the letter back into the envelope. Shirlee Ransom was looking at me, smiling. It took several seconds before I could speak.

  “It’s a nice letter, Shirlee. A beautiful letter.”