Roughstock (A Gail McCarthy Mystery)

Home > Other > Roughstock (A Gail McCarthy Mystery) > Page 14
Roughstock (A Gail McCarthy Mystery) Page 14

by Laura Crum


  "Was she drunk?"

  "Blind. She was weaving down her front path and kind of came to rest on the door. I stood there for a minute, on the street, watching her, thinking she might need help, but she eventually got the key in the lock and staggered inside."

  "Did she see you?"

  "It's possible, but there's no way she would remember. She was way too drunk, not to mention that though I know her by sight, I doubt she would know me. She's the lady of the manor, we're just some of the peasants who live in the village." Deb said this without resentment, simply stating the facts of life.

  I stared out the window toward a large three-story house on which Deb's eyes had been fixed while she told this story. "Is that her house?" I asked, pointing.

  A last shaft of sunlight lit up the facade and front yard as Deb nodded an affirmative. "Yep."

  The house was an extensively remodeled Victorian-so extensively, in fact, that there was very little Victorian character left to it. Someone had chosen to shingle it all over and preserve the shingles with a shiny golden-brown varnish. This, combined with an equally shiny forest-green trim, gave the house a vaguely nautical feeling that seemed to sit oddly with its steep old-fashioned roof and prominent bay window. The tiny front yard, immaculately landscaped, had that boring assortment of evergreen shrubs surrounding a handkerchief lawn that was the sure sign of some "professional" firm. It wasn't a homey-looking house. There was, however, a dark green Mercedes in the driveway.

  I set my empty wineglass down and smiled at Deb. "I think I'm going to pay her a visit. Do you mind if I tell her you saw her that night?"

  "No, that's fine. I'd be happy to tell my story to the cops."

  "Thanks for the wine."

  Deb murmured a good-bye; Bret barely nodded in my direction as I went quietly out the door, excited commentary from the TV trailing in my wake.

  Laney Hollister's house seemed to tower above me as I walked up the front path. Three stories high, and wedged between its neighbors as city houses are, the steep pitch of its roof and the growing dusk made it seem even taller than it was. I banged the brass knocker on the shiny green front door and felt like a small, insignificant ant.

  The woman who opened the door matched Bret's description. Roughly forty, she was still very pretty. And "pretty" was the word that came to mind. Her small, neat features had no drama or force, but they were appealing; equally so the trim figure, tanned skin, and long, wavy blond hair. It was the accoutrements, so to speak, that made my mouth drop open stupidly. In a second, I knew exactly what Bret meant by trouble.

  Laney Hollister, for all her prettiness, looked ridiculous. She wore black jeans of an impossible tightness, clear plastic high-heeled sandals with rhinestones, a matching belt, and a black form-fitting knit top that bared her midriff and was deeply scooped to show her considerable cleavage. This top featured, unbelievably, a gold zipper with a large rhinestone-studded pull ring. To embellish this outfit she wore hot pink lipstick, chalky matte-tone foundation and blush, and eye shadow and mascara that looked like they'd been laid on with a trowel. Her scent was so heavy I had the impulse to take three fast steps backward.

  I stared at her in disbelief for a moment that verged on rudeness before I recovered my wits. "Ms. Hollister, I'm Dr. McCarthy. I was a friend of your ex-husband, Jack."

  "Yes?" Her voice was high and chirpy, like a seventeen-year-old's. In fact, I realized, her whole getup and demeanor was that of a teenager; the wide-eyed look she gave me now had an innocent friendliness at strange variance with her cheap hooker appearance.

  "Uh, this may sound kind of funny," I fumbled, "but a friend of mine happened to see you on the night Jack was murdered, and wondered if that might be of use to you."

  Laney Hollister flapped her heavily mascaraed eyelashes up and down and then giggled. There was no other word for it. "Oh, you mean for an alibi?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, I was out with some friends that night so I already have one." She regarded me curiously. "I'm going out in a little while, but you could come in for a minute and tell me about it."

  Since this was just what I'd been hoping for, I stepped promptly in the door, gazing around with frank interest that turned immediately to disappointment. The house, like the yard, had plainly been done by professionals. It wasn't unattractive, but it lacked any sort of individuality. Oriental rug copies lay on a polished oak floor with fake antiques in every corner. The many small china knickknacks and cute arrangements of dried flowers were right in scale with the rest of the junk.

  I sat down on a plump cream-colored couch that faced the bay window, and smiled in my friendliest, most professional way at my hostess.

  Laney Hollister looked uncomfortable. Fidgeting with a gold bracelet, she said, "You know, Dr., uh, McCarthy, I don't really think I need an alibi or anything. Nobody thinks I killed Jack."

  I nodded encouragingly but didn't say anything, thinking of Jeri Ward's technique.

  Laney sat in an armchair and crossed one leg over the other. "I'd be crazy to kill Jack. I mean, why would I?"

  "For his money," I suggested. This was way out of line; I wondered how Laney would respond.

  "Oh, you mean that silly will. Well, I wouldn't kill him for his money. That's ridiculous."

  "You did know about his will, then?" I couldn't believe I was getting away with questioning her like this.

  "Oh, I knew," she gave a brief pout. "We all knew."

  "His other exes, you mean. Do you think one of them killed him?" Jesus, Gail, I thought in disgust. Why don't you just suggest Tara murdered the man. Laney giggled again, apparently not bothered by the crude question. "I'd believe it. Especially Karen."

  That wasn't what I'd had in mind. "Why Karen?" I asked.

  "Karen's still very bitter, you know. She thinks I took Jack away from her, and then when Jack and I got divorced, she thought I got too much money. I think she really wants more money." Laney smiled sweetly.

  "I thought Karen divorced Jack."

  "Oh, she did. But it was because Jack and I were running around together and everybody knew it. Jack didn't try to hide it. He was in love with me." She said it proudly. I pictured her ten years or more ago, when the girlish manner wouldn't have contrasted so oddly with her age, and her looks would have been even more spectacular. I could understand a man being infatuated with her. A stupid man, anyway.

  "What about Tara?" I asked, just to see how she'd react. "Oh her." Laney sniffed. "I wouldn't know about her. I'm sure she needs money, too."

  No love lost there, obviously. It was hard to picture the two women in the same room, they were such opposites. Other than being blond, good-looking, and dumb, I added.

  Laney fidgeted a little in her chair and I realized my time was probably running out. Quickly I ran through Deb's story, leaving out, naturally, the dead-drunk aspect. Laney seemed neither concerned nor very interested, though she did decide to write down Deb's name and phone number. While she fetched paper and pen, I went rapidly through potential questions and settled on the most important one.

  "Do you know where Karen lives?" I asked, wondering if this would be stretching even Laney's limits.

  Apparently not. "Down on Beach Hill. In a condo. When she and Jack first separated, before I got married to him, I used to go drive by her place. It's weird, I know," she giggled, "but it's like I was so curious about her. I mean she hated me. It was strange. I'd drive by and look in her windows sometimes. I used to call her and hang up when she answered." Laney giggled again, clearly not bothered at revealing these somewhat embarrassing facts.

  "Where on Beach Hill?" I asked, adding lamely, "I used to know Karen, years ago."

  "On Cliff Street," she said. "Her condo's right on the corner of Cliff and Third. You can't miss it."

  "Thanks," I said, handing her Deb's name and phone number, neatly printed on a sheet of notepaper that had a teddy bear in one corner and "Have a nice day" across the top.

  "Sorry I have to rush you out." Lane
y led the way into her hall. "I'm going out to dinner and he should be here soon. I need to do my makeup."

  I followed her, wondering exactly what she planned to add to the already impressive array of cosmetics on her face. Just how thick could you apply the stuff, anyway?

  I was grinning to myself as she ushered me out, but the grin vanished instantly as I started down her walk. Someone was coming up it. Laney's dinner date? I looked again, not believing my eyes. The person coming up Laney's front walk was Travis Gunhart.

  EIGHTEEN

  It was almost dark, but Laney's porch light lit up Trav's aghast face reasonably clearly. We stared at each other with mutual expressions of horror; Laney looked nonplused.

  "You're early," she said blankly, and I registered that she hadn't meant for me to see Travis.

  He was wearing clean jeans, a pressed long-sleeved shirt, shiny cowboy boots, and a belt with a well-polished trophy buckle. His light brown hair was combed neatly and he definitely looked as "dressed for dinner" as I had ever seen him. He seemed half angry, half frightened, as the shock died out of his face. I had the brief impression that he thought of simply turning and running, realized it would be both ridiculous and useless, and chose to do the next best thing.

  "Hi, Gail," he said curtly, and walked right by me. Brushing roughly past Laney, he stepped into her house.

  Laney gave me an agitated look and followed him, shutting her shiny green front door behind her. I stood on her porch in a state of shock, staring at the green paint and brass knocker and drawing some very unwelcome conclusions.

  Travis, my God. Travis was dating Laney. Or so it would seem, anyway. Perhaps-the thought was even worse-he'd just teamed up with Laney to get a share of her inheritance.

  But Bronc had given Travis an alibi. I thought about that for a second. Would Bronc lie to protect Travis? Surely not if he thought Trav had murdered Jack?

  But perhaps he thought Travis couldn't have done it and was simply protecting him by saying he'd been on the ranch when in fact he hadn't. And Bronc presumably didn't know Travis was seeing Laney.

  I stared at the towering house, its colors dimmed to a uniform drabness by the progress of evening. Someone had drawn the curtains across the bay window. I shivered. It was getting cold and I was hungry. Not to mention I had no idea what to say if Travis came out.

  Abruptly I started back toward my truck. I'd have dinner and think this through. Not that thinking would help. But I still had one more chore left to do. And, fortunately, I knew an excellent restaurant near Beach Hill.

  Riva Fish House is right out on the Santa Cruz Wharf, overlooking Lighthouse Point and the Boardwalk. An almost full moon laid a silver-edged swath of ripples across the dark water of the bay as I drove down the old pier. Few people about, the carnival shapes of the Boardwalk still and ghostly in the off season, waves plashing against the pilings. A sharp little breeze lifted my hair off my face when I got out of the truck, and I took a deep breath of the cold, briny, winter-ocean smell.

  Walking across the cracked tarmac, I pushed open Riva's swinging door and went inside. It's a pleasant place-windows looking out on the bay, recessed lighting, curving stainless-steel trim complementing a polished mahogany bar. Most important, it has that indefinable something a bar needs to have-a restfulness even when crowded with chattering tourists. Tonight the throngs were absent, and I ordered a glass of zin from an attentive bartender and stared absently at my reflection in the mirror as I sipped it.

  Shit. I still couldn't believe what I'd just seen. Travis was involved, in some sense, with one of Jack's exes. It almost seemed like incest. Worse, it gave Travis a hell of a good reason for murdering Jack.

  Damn. Somehow cuss words were all that seemed to come to mind. I took another sip of zin and wondered what to do next.

  Well, obviously have dinner. And then visit Karen Harding, I supposed. Though talking to Karen suddenly seemed a whole lot less important. But I'd come this far, I told myself; I wasn't quitting until I'd met the last player in this cast of characters.

  Taking another swallow of wine, I looked my reflection straight in the eye. The Gail in the bar mirror looked tired and disheveled-a typical end-of-the-day look. Rough strands of hair that had escaped my ponytail hung about my face. I didn't look like a successful, competent veterinarian; in fact, I looked a bare level of decency above a street person. And I certainly did not look, or feel, ready for another stressful encounter.

  But a good dinner will fix a lot of things. I got a table with a perfect view of the moonlit bay and Lighthouse Point-the little toy of a lighthouse seeming a childish frivolity-pretty but useless on such a brilliant night. I ordered scallops Provencal, some sourdough bread, and another glass of zin, and started to feel better.

  By the time I was done eating I felt fine. I'd even organized my approach to Karen Harding, who couldn't possibly be as soft a touch as Laney had been. Taking a few minutes in the bathroom, I combed my hair, washed my face, and practiced my professional smile. Not bad.

  As I drove toward Beach Hill I put an arm around Blue and rubbed his chest as he leaned into me. "I know, I know," I told him, "you want to go home. This is the last stop, I promise."

  Blue flattened his ears mildly when I parked the truck-the Cliff House condos were obvious, as Laney had said-and I rubbed his wedge-shaped head a minute as I stared out the window. The group of condos soared into the air, tall and sleek and modern, with many terraces and balconies on the upper stories that looked as though they would have good views of the bay. In the moonlight, the place appeared to be painted gray and white, but that could have been an illusion.

  I got out of the truck and locked it, then walked to the bank of mailboxes. "Harding" was printed plainly next to number three. This woman, unlike Jack's other exes, had chosen to use her maiden name. And, by Laney's account anyway, she was still bitter about the divorce. I wondered if that had any significance. Surely you didn't murder someone twenty years after a divorce out of residual bitterness? But for money, I thought, maybe.

  Condo number three was right on the corner, just as Laney had told me. I knocked firmly on the door and waited. In a minute I heard the sound of the peephole sliding open. I tried to look bland. A moment later the door opened a few inches, still on the chain. A woman peered out the crack. "Yes?"

  She was heavy, and had short curly gray hair. She wore purple polyester pants and a lavender sweatshirt with a kitten on the front, but nothing could have been less cuddly than her expression. Harsh lines scored her face from nose to mouth and ran across her forehead; looking at the cigarette in her hand, I knew part of the reason. The eyes that looked out at me told the rest of the story; they were suspicious and wary, on the edge of hostility.

  I smiled at her. "I'm Dr. Gail McCarthy. I was a friend of your ex-husband, Jack."

  She listened without any response, facial or verbal, and I wondered if she heard what I was saying. I went doggedly on. "I was up at the veterinary convention and I had a conversation with him the day before he was murdered, in which he mentioned you and some money he was planning to give you. I haven't told the police about this, and I thought I'd talk to you first. "

  "I have nothing to hide from the police," she said flatly, but she didn't shut the door.

  "Can I come in?" I asked.

  She thought about this. "Do you have any identification?" she said at last.

  "My driver's license and a business card," I told her. "Would you like to see them?"

  "Yes."

  I fished the small wallet out of the back pocket of my jeans, showing her my license and handing her a card. She stared at this for several long moments before she took the chain off the hook and opened the door. “I guess you can come in."

  Following her into her living room, I looked around with my usual curiosity, but this room was as characterless as Laney's house had been, though a little less cute. The furniture was routine department-store stuff, the carpet, drapes, and walls in shades of gray and white. T
he only personal touch was the dozens of framed photographs-on the mantel, on the end tables, a few on the walls. One large, ornately framed example over the fake fireplace showed an unfamiliar landscape of rolling hills lit with low light, two horsemen in the foreground, both wearing cowboy hats and Western gear.

  "That's a nice photo," I said.

  "My father and brother. On our family ranch in Merced."

  "Oh."

  Bronc had said Karen came from a ranch family, I remembered. It seemed sad that she'd ended up in this sterile condo.

  Karen sat down on her couch, facing a still noisy TV set; I took a seat in a gray velour recliner and thought I knew why she'd decided to let me in. A tumbler of amber liquid with ice cubes in it sat on the coffee table in front of the couch; next to it was a very full ashtray. Not a foot away, perched on a stack of Ladies' Home Journals, was a picked-over frozen dinner. Karen's eyes, as she looked at me, showed a flicker of avid interest underlying the wariness, which I suspected was more habitual than personally directed against me. I'd clearly interrupted a boring evening. Perhaps-grim thought-all her evenings were like this. No wonder she was bitter.

  I cleared my throat, trying to think of a graceful way to lead into my phony story, and my eye was caught by a framed eight-by-ten photograph on the table next to me. It showed a young woman standing in front of a ranch house-the Hollister Ranch house, I realized with a jolt. The woman had long blond hair tied back in a ponytail and a youthful, shiny-eyed prettiness. The white dress was sashed at the waist and accentuated her prominent curves.

  "Is that you?" I asked, trying to hide my surprise.

  She laughed, a rough smoker's laugh, a sound without any humor or warmth. "I didn't always look like this, you know."

  "I'm sorry," I said awkwardly. "I didn't mean to be rude." It's just, I added silently, that I hadn't realized Karen had been another pretty, curvy blonde. Jack, I now saw, had been very predictable.

  "About this money," I began, not having any better ideas on how to lead into it smoothly, "I didn't want to put you in an uncomfortable position by talking to the police before I talked to you."

 

‹ Prev