Chapter 47
Goode
Goode went straight from the jail to Clover Ziegler’s house, rang her doorbell, and got no answer. Again. He was getting so close to solving the case but he couldn’t finish the job if she would never answer the damn doorbell.
He decided to run down to the Village to grab a sandwich and then come back in an hour or so, checking in with Slausson and Fletcher to catch up on where they were.
The second time he went to Clover’s house, he had better luck. He’d just pulled into the driveway when he heard the sound of tires crunching on asphalt behind him, and turned to watch an older blond woman pull up in a Lamborghini. Clover’s mother, he assumed. She got out, holding a tennis racquet, and walked with some agitation to the front door, which she slammed shut.
Goode had to admit he was a bit cynical about La Jolla matrons. He’d be at the beach, pretending to relax in the sun while he waited for a drug deal to go down and inevitably, a woman in her mid-forties would lay her towel near his, produce a tube of suntan lotion from a straw bag, and coyly glance his way.
“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” she’d say when what she really meant was, “Why don’t you come over here and spread this all over me?”
But he wasn’t interested in these women. Not their flashy cars or unnaturally preserved faces, their fish lips puffy with collagen and the skin around their eyes stretched up like a cat’s, their loneliness as loud as cheap perfume.
Clover’s mother still seemed annoyed when she opened the door and saw Goode standing there. She took one look at him and clearly dismissed him as unimportant.
“Hello, are you Mrs. Ziegler, Clover Ziegler’s mother?” he asked cautiously.
“Yes, I’m Rosemary Stratton. And you are?” When her eyebrows went up, her forehead didn’t even wrinkle.
Botox, much?
“I’m Detective Ken Goode, ma’am, San Diego PD, Homicide,” he said flashing his badge and extending his hand. That sure had a nice ring to it. She took his fingers and gave them a perfunctory loose squeeze. “Is your daughter home?”
“No, I’m afraid she’s not,” she said, glancing past him toward the driveway.
“Would you mind if I came in and asked you a few questions?”
“Well, I suppose so. My damn tennis game got cancelled, so I have a few hours to kill before dinner,” she said, barely able to move her face it was so tight.
Botox, indeed.
She led him over to a spotless ivory couch, stitched with satin thread in a floral pattern. Her tennis racket, purse, and sweater were sitting on a table next to a tall blue vase of flawless long-stemmed red roses. As she sat on the white sofa, she eyed Goode’s faded black jeans with an expression of concern, as if perhaps they weren’t clean enough to sit there. He ignored the look; they had just come out of the wash. She pointed him toward a chair next to her.
“Special occasion?” he asked, pointing at the flowers.
“Why, yes,” she said, her mood brightening. “You must be a good detective. Today is my wedding anniversary. It’s been four years. We’re going to spend the weekend at La-Vee. You know where that is, don’t you?”
Goode smiled and nodded, choosing to ignore her patronizing tone. She was referring to La Valencia, a historical landmark and the most exclusive hotel in La Jolla. “Yes, I grew up in La Jolla,” he replied. “I’m sure that will be very nice.”
Her voice took on a warmer tone now that she thought he was one of them. “Oh, really? Interesting. . . You’re the third person looking to talk to my daughter today, you know,” she said.
Goode felt his stomach lurch. “Oh?”
“Lucia, our maid, said there was a young man here this morning and a second one came by when I was home—that reporter who’s been writing about all these murders.”
Goode felt the acid rising in the back of his throat. “Really? What did he look like?”
“Young. Kind of disheveled. Newspaper ink on his face. He was very persistent.”
Damn that Klein.
It irked him that a cub reporter could manage to keep up with him, let alone get one step ahead.
“What about the other one?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’d have to ask Lucia. Her English isn’t very good, though. She described him as a nice young man who said he was a friend of Clover’s and wanted to leave her a gift in her room. When I asked what it was, she was embarrassed to say that he wasn’t actually carrying anything. I told her not to let strange people wander around the house in the future.”
Goode was antsy to move on to the business at hand. “I’ll get right to the point,” he said. “What is Clover’s relationship with Seth Kennedy?”
“He’s the son of some friends of mine,” she said. “They’re very nice, well-connected. Give fabulous parties. But frankly, I don’t like their son much. He treated my daughter with no respect. Like she was some sort of trailer trash.”
“Did you know he’s in jail for selling drugs in the bar where your daughter hangs out? And that he’s been selling drugs to her?”
“No, I didn’t.” Her mouth went tight as she tried to hide her emotions.
“How long were they dating?” he asked.
Rosemary shook her head and sniffed, then cleared her throat. “I don’t know that you could call it dating. They didn’t go out to dinner or anything like that as far as I know. I kept trying to tell Clover that she deserved better, but it didn’t do any good. Recently, he hasn’t been calling and she’s been very depressed about it. Then she lost a childhood friend. But you must know that already. She’s a very emotional girl, you know.”
He nodded, letting the conversation stall so that Rosemary would feel the need to talk. “It’s just that Clover has been through a lot. She’s not all that, well, stable.”
“How’s that?”
“I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s not relevant to your investigation,” she said.
Goode pulled the anonymous letter out of his shirt pocket and handed it to her. “Well, actually, it might be. Tell me if you recognize this handwriting.”
She pored over the note and she looked puzzled. “What is this?”
“Please, Mrs. Stratton, the handwriting?”
She placed it matter-of-factly on the table. “The reporter already read this to me, and, no, detective, I don’t recognize the handwriting. What’s this all about?”
“The author says she is Seth Kennedy’s ex-girlfriend and accuses him of murdering three people. I think your daughter wrote this note.”
She waved at the air with her hand. “Well, that’s not her handwriting. And, why, might I ask, aren’t you at the jail right now, asking Seth about it?”
“I was there this morning, as a matter of fact. The man says he didn’t kill anyone and claims he has alibis. We’re holding him on the drug charges for now, but without more evidence, we can’t charge him with murder.”
She shook her head. “I thought La Jolla was so safe. I just can’t believe this.”
“There are bad people everywhere, doing bad things to each other,” he said, standing up. “Do you mind if I have a look around Clover’s room?”
“Whatever for?”
Because I don’t have a search warrant and I want to look around.
“I thought I might find another note in there,” he said, “maybe something to confirm that Seth Kennedy really did commit these murders.”
Rosemary looked worried. “Clover isn’t in any trouble, is she?”
Goode almost felt sorry for the woman now. He needed to choose his words carefully. Suspicions were all he had at the moment, but he didn’t want any evidence he found to be ruled out later. “No, not that I know of,” he said.
The tension in her eyes eased a little and the color crept back into her cheeks as she pulled herself off the couch. “Well, since the maid just cleaned up in there, I guess it would be all right. Follow me.”
She led him up the carpeted stairwell, her hips swaying side t
o side provocatively as she walked. She obviously had no clue as to his feelings about La Jolla matrons. The door to Clover’s room was closed, but Rosemary walked right in. He wasn’t about to stop her.
“You can go ahead and look around,” she said, guiding him along with her hand on his lower back.
Once she’d flounced out of the room, Goode sighed with relief to be alone, finally, in the palatial bedroom of Clover Ziegler. Like Tania’s, Clover’s walls were covered with framed art prints, only these pictures reflected fear, dark dreams, and twisted perceptions.
He saw a mound of clothes on the bed and a pile of empty shopping bags on the floor. When he opened the mirrored double doors of the closet, he saw more of the same. Either she had a voracious appetite for clothes or she was a compulsive spender. Because price tags were still attached to many of the items, he figured it was more likely the latter. He’d never seen so many shoes. Imelda Marcos would be jealous.
He crossed the room to get some air and clear his sinuses at the open window. From above, the garden was quite striking. He wondered how many times Clover had stood there, waiting for Seth to drive up.
On the bedside table he saw a couple vials of prescription drugs, the names of which he didn’t immediately recognize. He pulled open the top drawer and found a small mirror with traces of white powder and a rolled-up dollar bill. Turning around, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the antique dressing table, with a backdrop of Munch’s The Scream. He sat on the velvet-covered stool at the vanity, picked up a hand-painted Chinese box with throne-like legs and opened the hinged lid. Inside, displayed on the purple felt liner were a collection of red fingernail tips, a lock of auburn hair, and a signet ring with the initials KTW. His body shook.
“Oh my God,” he whispered.
He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He’d merely been planning to come over and talk to Clover, hoping she might corroborate the note. Make some sense of this mess. But other than that fleeting thought, he never viewed her as a murder suspect. Closing the lid, he prayed the box would still be there when he came back with a warrant.
“Mrs. Stratton?” he called as he jogged down the carpeted stairs. She was sitting on the couch, holding her martini and munching on one of her three olives.
“Ready for some coffee, handsome?”
“No, I’m sorry, I’ve really got to run. Can you tell me where I might be able to find your daughter? It’s very important.”
“Only if you come here first,” she said, patting the couch next to her. “I went to the trouble of making a cappuccino for you.”
The woman just wouldn’t quit. “I’m really sorry, but I’ve been called out on an emergency. Please, Mrs. Stratton, do you know where she is?”
Rosemary sighed and looked out the window toward the pool. “She could be shopping over at University Towne Center. She might be at the Glider Port. Or she might be down at José’s, drinking a margarita, for all I know.”
“Okay, great, thanks. And sorry about the cappuccino, Mrs. Stratton.”
She turned back to look at him, a sadness in her eyes. “You think I’m old enough to be your mother, don’t you? That’s why you’re running out.”
Not this. Not now. “No, Mrs. Stratton—”
“Rosemary, please.”
“Listen, I’ve got a job to do. Really. It’s nothing personal. I promise.” He took her hand and gave it a squeeze. Her face brightened a little.
Goode’s heart was racing madly now. Thanking her, he felt a slight twinge of regret. It wasn’t going to be pretty the next time he saw her, after her daughter was arrested for murdering three people.
As soon as he stepped outside, he got Stone on the phone and told him what he’d found. They agreed that Slausson and Fletcher should run over to Clover’s to keep her or her mother from destroying the evidence while Stone got a telephonic warrant for the items in the bedroom.
Hoping to make sure Clover didn’t kill anybody else, Goode drove as fast as he could over Mount Soledad and down through La Jolla Shores, the most direct route to Black’s Beach. As he was looking for a spot in the dirt parking lot above the beach at the Glider Port, he saw a red Honda CRV out of the corner of his eye. He knew it was a popular vehicle, but he put his car in reverse to take a quick look for Maureen’s plaque featuring the Christian fish symbol with legs, a political statement favoring evolution over the creation theory. And there it was.
“Oh, shit,” he said, emphasizing the t.
All he could do was pray she was down at Black’s, surfing. If not, he hoped to God that he’d gotten there in time.
Chapter 48
Norman
Norman followed Clover to the Glider Port and watched her stride over to the cliffs of Black’s Beach with purpose, her purse bouncing off her hip and her long hair catching the wind behind her. As he got closer, he noticed the muscular definition in her arms.
“Clover,” he called out. She didn’t turn around so he said it a little louder. “Clover!”
She whipped her taut body around with a frantic expression as she tried to place him. She was clutching her purse as if it contained something precious.
With his notebook tucked in his back pocket, he extended his hand toward her. “Hi, I’m Norman Klein.”
When she didn’t move to take it, he was confused. He’d been so sure that she’d authored the letter. “With the Sun-Dispatch,” he prompted her. “You wrote me that letter?”
Her eyes were strange and glassy and all pupils. “Letter? What letter?” she asked, frowning.
This wasn’t the answer he was expecting. “Well, let’s forget that for now. I was wondering if we could talk for a minute. I’m writing a story about Sharona Glass and the other murder victims. I know you two were friends.”
Clover paused, then started pacing back and forth. “I’m not really in the mood to talk,” she said, her voice tense. She stopped to stare out at the ocean. “What do you want to know?”
Norman could tell he was going to have to do a real sales job.
She’s so jumpy, she must be on something. I can see her grinding her teeth together.
“You know, what kind of person Sharona was, how you’d like people to remember her. And then we can talk about Seth.”
Clover frowned. “I don’t know,” she said in a faraway voice. “I don’t feel very well.”
“I can understand that, losing your friend and all.”
“It’s more complicated than that,” Clover snapped. She walked toward the bluff, her eyes following a speedboat as it cruised along the shore and continued south. Norman could see her lips moving, as if she were talking to herself.
“Quiet,” she hissed. “Stop it.”
“What?” he said.
“Nothing.”
He stepped a little closer and tried again. “You come up here a lot?”
She nodded, glancing at him briefly. “I came up here to be alone. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
Norman felt sorry for her. He wished he didn’t have a job to do so he could just talk to her, try to make her feel better. He could tell she’d been through a lot. She seemed so lost. She intrigued him.
“How old are you, Clover?”
“Twenty-three.”
“This week must’ve been pretty tough for you, huh?”
The speedboat was a tiny white spot now.
“More than you know,” she said.
She turned to look at him again, her blue eyes blazing into his. They were so intense it startled him. “What did you say your name was?”
“Uh, Norman. Klein.”
“Well, Norman, I lost a couple of friends this week,” she said, her voice turning sharp again. “And you know what? I’m not really sure how I feel about it.”
Norman nodded to encourage her to continue. “Did you see my story in this morning’s paper?”
“No,” she said.
“Well, I wrote about the letter I was talking about, the letter that blames your boy
friend, Seth Kennedy, for killing three people in PB.”
Norman watched for Clover’s reaction, but there was none. They say the eyes are windows to the soul, but hers seemed so empty. Clover started talking fast in a kind of singsong voice, as if he hadn’t mentioned the letter.
“Sharona and I have been friends for a long time, but we’ve definitely had our ups and downs,” she said.
Norman hadn’t gotten the knack yet for writing fast while standing. He needed to rest his notebook on his knee. “How about we go back and sit on the bench?”
Clover ignored him and kept talking. “Sharona had an affair with my dad while I was away at boarding school. My mom found them having sex on our couch one afternoon. Sharona tried to be my friend again when I was in the hospital. Then I just found out she slept with Seth a week ago. And then he slept with Tania, who I was just starting to get to know. I loved him, but nobody cares about my feelings.” She turned to Norman and frowned again. “You’re writing this down?”
He tried to respond calmly, but it was hard. “Yes, I’m writing a story for the newspaper.”
Clover shook her head. “I don’t want this in the paper. It’s personal.”
Norman felt that panic again. Why did this keep happening to him? “Well, there’s no guarantee I’ll use it. I won’t know until I hear the rest of the story.”
Clover turned to leave. “I’ve got to go.”
Norman reached out and touched her arm. “No, wait. Don’t go. I want to talk to you.”
She batted his hand away. “Don’t touch me.”
Why was she so upset? “Sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.” She seemed highly agitated.
“Just leave me alone,” she said.
He had to get her to stay. He had to. “C’mon. People will be interested in this. If you know who killed those girls, you have to tell me. Please.”
She turned around and crossed her arms, her purse still clutched in one hand. “I don’t know who killed those girls. And besides, people who read the newspaper don’t care who betrayed me.”
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