by Todd Borg
I was in Incline Village before noon.
The address was on Lakeshore Drive, which went with names like Lexus and Mercedes, not with Chevy Blazer. But unlike the ritzy lakeshore residents who paid $100,000 a running foot for their lots on the beach, Astor’s address number was on the slightly poorer side of the street.
There was a stone fence draped with snow. Part way down the fence was a solid plank, double wooden gate with heavy wrought iron hardware in a King Ludwig design. The gate was open. I pulled in.
The drive was made of warm, creamy brick and laid in a repeating half-circle pattern. It was moist and clear of snow and as the flakes landed they instantly melted. A gentle mist rose from the heated surface.
Adjacent to the front gate was a gray stucco caretaker’s residence. It had a steep roof that curved at the edges and wrapped underneath at the eaves, which were supported by robust, rough-cut beams in a timber-frame style. The windows were small and made up of dozens of small panes. A heavy brick chimney wrapped in leafless vines rose from one end of the house.
I continued down the drive.
The creamy brick road curved like a fairy tale around the caretaker’s house. It wound through thick plantings and artful arrangements of boulders toward a mansion that loomed over the yard. I pulled up and parked under a drive-through portico. On one side of my Jeep was a wall of rock down which a fountain cascaded. Steam rose from the water, but I couldn’t tell if the water came out heated or if the rocks were heated like the driveway brick. Either way, it was good to know that the rich were doing their part to keep the energy companies’ market cap up and the atmosphere filling with greenhouse gases.
I looked for a doorbell. There was a small brass diorama where a door knocker would normally be. A bear bent over a stream. I reached for the bear, trying to figure out how it worked. The bear turned back and forth, and his paw swiped at a fish in the stream. From the recesses of the house came a tabernacle choir hitting a high chord. The owners of this house and Lorraine Simon’s parents in their Seacliff mansion must have downloaded their doorbell sounds from the same website.
The door opened and a seventy-something gentleman answered the door. “Good afternoon, sir,” he said. He glanced at my bandage and then studiously concentrated on my eyes.
He didn’t wear white gloves, but he had on a dark blue suit over a light blue shirt with a dark blue bow tie. His white hair was perfectly combed and his white moustache trimmed in a Clark Gable cut. I forgave him the untrimmed nose hairs as a feature of declining vision.
“I’m Detective Owen McKenna. I’m investigating the death of Astor Domino and I have this as his address.”
“Our caretaker, yes. A terrible thing, what happened. He was a good boy.” The man made a surreptitious glance behind him. “But it would be out of place for me to talk to you without
Mrs. King’s permission. If you will wait inside, please, I’ll tell her you’re here.”
He went to the far side of the foyer, stepped through French doors and shut them behind him. The doors had little panes with distorting glass that allowed light but no clear image to pass through. I saw movement and then nothing. A few minutes later he returned.
“Mrs. King is in the pool for her morning ablution. She’d like you to visit her there. And she requested that you bring your dog. That is, if he isn’t dangerous.”
“No, he’s not,” I said, thinking that the security cameras were too well hidden. Like a marked squad car, an obvious security camera is much more effective at deterring break-ins than a hidden one.
The butler held the front door while I let Spot out of the Jeep. He trotted through the portico, sniffed the heated water cascade, inspected the creamy heated bricks and looked up at the columns that supported the portico roof. “Come on, Spot,” I said.
“Does he, um, need to perform restroom duty?” the butler said. “He’s so huge I’d worry if...” The butler stopped talking.
“No, I’m sure he’ll be fine.”
“This way then,” the butler gestured.
Spot walked up to the butler and sniffed him just below his chin. The butler froze, and his eyes showed more white than is customary.
“A little pet between the ears and he’ll love you,” I said.
The butler was still frozen.
“It doesn’t have to be much of a pet. It’s the gesture that counts.”
“I don’t mind if he loves me, but I’d prefer he didn’t lick me,” the butler said in a small tight voice.
“He only licks if he senses you want it,” I said.
“How would he know?” the butler said, tentatively raising his arm, his hand poised to touch Spot between the ears.
“I don’t know,” I said. “He can just sense whether you’d be receptive. Some kind of internal lick meter, I suppose.”
The butler was still frozen, hand in the air. “Did you say lick meter?”
“Yeah. But don’t worry. I think he’s getting a negative reading off you. I think you’ll be safe.”
It took ten seconds for the butler to slowly lower his hand. His fingers were straight out, stiff as a board. He touched Spot between the ears and then made a little petting motion before raising his hand back up in the air and holding it there suspended.
“There,” the butler said. “Will that be sufficient? He will love me but not lick me?”
“I believe so,” I said, privately remembering the will-he-love-me-but-not-lick-me line in case I gave up investigations to become a lyricist.
“Then perhaps we shall proceed to see Mrs. King,” he said. His hand was still up in the air.
“Yes, let’s proceed,” I said.
THIRTY
The trip to the poolroom was similar to the walking tour I took through the Simon mansion in San Francisco. The butler took me past and through a wide range of rooms of excessive size and insufficient purpose. My favorite room was the one with the most focus. No doubt based on a museum gallery, the room contained a large number of glass display cases, artfully illuminated and displaying a large collection of gold coins.
The pool was twenty by thirty feet and in a glass-walled room twice that size. The water was electric turquoise, and the air was moist and warm and smelled like chlorinated orchids. Potted palm trees stood fifteen feet high. It was like walking into the tropics.
Mrs. King was maybe ten years younger than her butler. She was on her back in the pool. She wore a black one-piece swimming suit with a plunging neckline. On her feet were small blue swim fins. On her hands were blue webbed gloves. She was facing me, back-paddling away toward the far side of the pool as the butler brought us into the poolroom.
“That is the biggest and most magnificently spotted hound I’ve ever seen.” She erupted in a loud raucous laugh that reverberated in the large rectangular room. “Does he swim?”
Spot walked around to the far side of the pool.
I nodded. “He’d probably jump off the board, if you wanted.”
“You’re kidding!” she said. “You must be kidding.”
I shook my head. The butler was trying to disguise his look of alarm. He took baby steps backward, toward the door. He made an effort to look out the wall of windows toward the walled garden behind the house. The garden had a curving path through the snow. Like the drive, it was made of the creamy bricks. Steam rose from the wet surface.
Mrs. King reached the far side of the pool, turned around and paddled back toward me, again on her back, her head facing away from me. “I bet your dog has never swum in a pool, has he,” she said.
“Actually, he loves pools and their clear water. He puts his head under water and looks around.”
“Oh, this I have to see.” She stopped paddling, turned and treaded water. She added, “But Jamesie, dear, I’m sure you won’t want to see this.”
“No, I’m sure I won’t,” he said. “Thank you, ma’am.” He turned and left, shutting the poolroom door behind him.
“Jamesie?” I said.
&nb
sp; “I know. It is a bit much. His real name is Wayne. But I asked him if I could call him James. You know, sort of a celebration of having a butler. And he said, ‘Whatever you wish, Mrs. King.’ Can you believe that? He went to butler school after he retired from teaching high school social studies. They taught him to talk like that. It must work, because after meeting Jamesie, two of my friends decided to get butlers. They called the school for referrals. Tell me, is the head wound de rigueur for a private detective?” she asked.
“Of course.” I gave her a small grin.
“Well, you look tough enough to be a brawler.”
“Have you had Jamesie a long time, Mrs. King?”
“Only since I semi-retired and bought this house. And, please, call me Josie. Jamesie only calls me Mrs. King because they hammered that into him at the BA.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“Sorry. Butler Academy.”
“What line of business are you in?” I asked.
She looked around at the cavernous room. “I know. Everyone wants to know, am I married and what kind of work does he do. I was married. He was a bum. Charming and good looking. Not half bad in bed, either. But a bum. Played cards and drank martinis by day and fooled around with girls half my age at night when I was traveling. So I made him a settlement offer before I took my company public. Ten years later the stock had risen, split, risen and split again. I groomed a very smart young woman to take over as CEO. When the time was right, I walked away. I still have fifty-one percent, and I’m still Chairman. Never give up control until you’re ready to give up, I always say. But sorry, you asked what my line of business is.
“If you go out and look under the hood of your car,” she continued, “and you know where to look, you’ll find a tiny plastic box with some electronics in it. It’s not the car’s so-called computer. More like an accessory. It’s complicated, but suffice to say it helps regulate some engine functions.
“I actually got the idea back when I was an engineer at Honeywell. We were working on auxiliary power units for the space shuttle. One night at home, I had one of those light-bulb moments. The thing I imagined wouldn’t have done Honeywell any good, but I always remembered it. A few years later I took an early retirement option and worked on my idea.
“First I got a patent. Then I moved to San Jose and got in touch with some investors. They saw it clearly, and we started my company. Needless to say, it worked out well for everyone.”
“This is in lots of cars?”
“Just cars made in the last ten years. Every car in the world, though. My company only gets about ten dollars per unit. But the world’s car production is somewhere north of forty million cars a year. It all adds up.” She stopped swimming at the shallow end of the pool and stood up. “I think your dog still wants a swim.”
I walked over to Spot. “Do you want to go swimming, boy?”
Spot looked up at me, his eyes taut with excitement.
I got up on the diving board. “Up here, Spot.” I pointed at my feet. He stepped up on the board. The board sagged under our combined weight. “Sit-stay,” I said. He sat on the diving board. I walked around the pool to the shallow end. I bent down and splashed my hand in the water. Josie moved to the side. “Come, Spot! Jump in.” I smacked my hand on the water’s surface.
Spot stood up, stepped off the diving board onto the terrace, and trotted around the pool toward us, wagging, pleased with himself. “Good boy,” I said. “But I mean, go in the water.” I pointed at the water.
He lowered his head and stuck his nose in it.
“Okay, let’s try it again.” I took him back to the board, had him sit and called him from the shallow end once more.
Spot stood up, walked to the end of the board and hesitated. “Come on, boy. Jump in.”
“He knows what you want,” Josie said. “He’s just not sure if he wants it.” She turned to me, pulled off her webbed gloves and absently handed them to me.
I saw a movement in my side vision. The diving board made the sound of snap and recoil. Then came a monstrous splash.
Josie screamed.
A wall of water erupted from the pool and knocked over two of the potted palm trees before it doused the windows.
Josie shrieked with joy as she turned to see Spot churning toward her.
I spoke in a loud voice. “Move to his side as he approaches or his front paws will scrape at you. His nails are nasty.”
Josie did so and then romped with Spot, hugging him, turning in circles, climbing on his back and pushing him under.
Spot came up the steps and climbed out. He shook, one of those thorough twisty shakes that starts at his ears and works its way down to his tail. Then he took a running jump and leaped in again.
I sat down in a lounge chair to watch. As Josie and Spot played, I saw the door to the rest of the house open a bit. Jamesie peeked out. I don’t think he saw me off to the side. But the light from the pool caught his face. This time, his face wasn’t worried or concerned but gripped with malevolence. Some emotions are hard to read. But hate and rage are usually clear.
THIRTY-ONE
It was like watching a physical therapy class where people frolic with dolphins. Swim With The Great Dane.
In time, Josie King tired, got out and put on a thick robe. She sat on a lounge chair next to me. Spot got out after her and found a Red Cross ring hanging on a wall hook. He lifted it off and brought it to Josie, who threw it into the water. Spot leaped in to fetch it. Water splashed out everywhere. The pool was down six inches.
I knew Spot would never tire of the pool, so after a couple of rounds of fetch, I called him out of the water.
“You are going to need a special permit from the Public Utilities Board to refill this pool after Spot is done,” I said.
“Ah,” Josie said. “That was fun. I swim for mental therapy. But that was much better. I totally forgot myself. But you didn’t come to talk about me. Astor is the problem du jour. Correct?”
“Yes.” I snapped my fingers to get Spot’s attention. “Lie down.” I pointed. He lowered himself to the tiled terrace and lay with his nose hanging over the edge of the pool. “Astor Domino was your caretaker?”
“Yes. I met him at a fundraiser for the Sierra Nevada College ski team this past fall. We were at the same dinner table. He was a strange young man, very reserved in general, but loquacious at times.
“Near the end of the evening it came out that he needed a place to stay, so I said my caretaker’s house was available. There would be some duties attached, but the rent would be relatively cheap. He explained that he was quite poor but that his prospects would likely change come spring. I don’t know what he had planned other than graduating, but it’s a shame that he didn’t live to see any dreams come true. What a tragic and unlikely death!”
“What duties did he perform?”
“The main responsibility is snowblowing. My friends all have commercial services do it, but my drive is delicate. I need someone who respects the fragile nature of the bricks as well as the border and the nearby landscaping. A snow-removal contractor would gouge up my drive.”
“Your driveway is heated.”
“True. But any heavy snowfall over five or six inches overwhelms the heating system. When we got that first three-foot snowfall I had innumerable small heated caverns under an uneven blanket of frozen snow chunks. It took hard labor to chop it up and shovel it away. Getting the bulk off with the blower right after it falls is the way to go.”
“Did Astor do a good job?”
“Yes, he was an ideal caretaker. Don’t get me wrong. Astor Domino was not particularly likable. I didn’t cry when I heard of his death. He didn’t ingratiate himself with me or anyone else. He didn’t smile. But I was sad for him. He had a certain honor. He did what he said.”
“Any friends?”
“Not that I know of. He kept to himself. Studied and watched TV. And he loved to ski. Had a pass at Diamond Peak. I have no idea what he intended to do af
ter college. Although he obviously thought he was going to make some money. Maybe ecology degrees are more lucrative than they used to be?” Josie chuckled.
“The Washoe Sheriff’s Department told me he was twenty-seven,” I said. “Any idea what he did before college?”
“Only that he worked in a library in Brooklyn where he was raised. I think his father is a road worker of some kind for the state of New York. I forget about his mother. I think the family had money problems.”
“We suspect that the avalanche that killed him might have been triggered on purpose.”
“I heard that on the news. What an extraordinary circumstance to have someone do some kind of terrorist act or whatever it was and then have an innocent person die by it.”
“We also suspect that Astor might have been the target, that it wasn’t an act of environmental terrorism, but an act of murder.”
“What?” She stared at me. “Even if someone wanted to kill with an avalanche, how would they do it? Force him to sit in his car while they sent an avalanche down on him?”
“Something like that,” I said.
“But wouldn’t it be exceptionally difficult? Would he realize it was coming? They make noise or something, don’t they? I’m sure he would get out and run out of the path. He wasn’t the kind to sit in a car and think about a possible avalanche. He was impulsive. He would act on it.”
“Did he know about avalanches?”
“I would think so. He was taking a class to become a ski patroller. They must teach patrollers about avalanches, right?”
THIRTY-TWO