At that point we were interrupted by the cook who burst into a speech I knew was hostile without understanding a word. We had invaded his territory. Janey and I refilled our cups, and we slunk out to the lounge. Jay claimed the man was speaking Tagalog--he hadn't understood a word either.
Bill Huff came down at seven. When he heard the news of Llewellyn's death, he said a few conventional phrases and went off to the hall.
We heard him rummaging around for awhile, swearing. He returned with a pile of creamy stationery and a plebeian looking ballpoint. Reportorial instincts. He began roughing out a news story for the San Francisco Chronicle and an obit for his own weekly. I thought that was cold-blooded, but he was just doing what came naturally--like Jay with Janey. I reflected, cynically, that if Llewellyn's death from natural causes was a story, his murder was going to be hot stuff. When Bill found out about it.
Miguel came in with a big coffee urn on a wheeled cart and announced that Domingo was setting up a breakfast buffet. There would be food in half an hour. Not a minute too soon. I was starving.
"Señor..." He was addressing Jay.
"What is it?"
"Is it true el patr?n is muerte?"
Jay drew a breath. "I'm afraid so, Miguel. I'm sorry."
"Ay, Jesus!" His hand flew to his mouth.
Jay said something in soft Spanish. After a moment, Miguel nodded and trailed out looking like a whipped dog.
"You speak really well," Janey said. "I had two years in college, and I can barely say huevos rancheros."
"I grew up in one of the barrios."
That was not quite true. Jay had grown up at the edge of one of the barrios with bilingual classmates in the days before bilingual education became respectable. He grew up speaking street Spanish, but he also studied it for three years in high school and four in college. For the second time in two days I wondered why Jay was being so loquacious about his background. Maybe he wanted to distance himself from the privileged.
He succeeded in making Janey uncomfortable. Conversation languished. Bill was on a second draft when Lydia walked in wearing white slacks and her lilac tunic.
Bill glanced up from his scribbling. "You'd better wake Denise. Llewellyn died last night. Somebody will have to break the news to her."
Lydia's hands flew to her throat in a curiously theatrical gesture, but there was nothing fake about her pallor. She sat down slowly on the nearest chair. "That's terrible."
"Yes." Bill crossed out a line. "Poor old duffer. Heart gave out for good."
I cleared my throat. "Had he suffered an earlier heart attack? I know he was on digitalis."
"Angina, my dear," Lydia said sadly. "For his age he was remarkably healthy. Poor, poor Dai. Someone will have to tell Ann."
"Mrs. Peltz?" Jay had been standing silently by the big fireplace.
"I was thinking of her mother," Lydia murmured, "but Angharad, too, of course."
At that point the telephone rang, and Jay went off to answer it looking thoughtful.
Bill scribbled, Lydia poured herself a cup of coffee, Janey and I sipped and looked at each other. When Jay came back I could tell from the taut on-the-scent look that his suspicions had been confirmed. It was murder.
He waited until he had caught everyone's eyes then said, without preamble or explanation, "I want to talk to everybody who was here last night before you leave for home. Mrs. Huff, if you'll wake Denise, Lark can walk over and let the Peltzes know. At nine. That'll give you all time for breakfast and packing."
Janey and Lydia gaped at him. Bill frowned. "What the hell, Dodge? Aren't you taking a lot on yourself?"
"Police business. I have some questions to ask you, and I might as well do it while you're still here in one spot. Lark?"
I stood up. "What do you want me to tell them?"
"That Llewellyn is dead, and I want to question them." That was going to go down really well with Ted Peltz.
"All right. Will you come with me, Janey?"
Janey nodded, eyes wide.
Janey was very quiet. About halfway along the path she stopped and addressed a manzanita bush. "There's something fishy, isn't there--about Dai's death?"
I wondered what to say.
"Was it the Campari?"
I sighed. There are limits to discretion which, in any case, is not my middle name. "Jay thinks he was poisoned."
She looked at me. "Murdered?"
I nodded.
She closed her eyes. "And the Peltzes are prime suspects."
"They do have a motive."
"No wonder you didn't want to come over here alone."
I bristled then wilted. "I needed a bodyguard and you're it--she."
Janey covered her mouth with her hand and giggled. "Oops. God, I'm sorry. It's not funny, just crazy. The whole thing's crazy. Dai wasn't murdered. He was an old man who took digitalis for angina and had a heart attack on a hot day."
"Maybe." I was pretty sure not.
"Well, let's get going." She set herself in motion.
Nobody was up chez Peltz. I knocked at the front door, a varnished slab of timber with no window. No answer. I knocked again. And again. Finally Angharad undid the latch and the door creaked open.
"Whaa...?" She slept in a long tee-shirt that said Property of the 49ers.
I delivered Jay's message.
Angharad blinked. Her hair hung down in apricot witch locks. "You mean Uncle Dai is dead?"
"That's right."
She was wide awake now. She bit her lower lip, and her eyes narrowed. "Ted!" she yelled over her shoulder, "Ted, wake up..." and shut the door in my face.
"Nine o'clock," I yelled back at the unresponsive door. "Be there."
Janey and I looked at each other.
When we got back to the grounds of the lodge, Jay and Miguel were making a barricade of lawn chairs and rope around the patch of grass we'd been sitting on the night before.
I don't think I tasted breakfast, though I ate a lot. I'm sure it was as exquisitely prepared as our other meals at the lodge, though. Domingo, impassive, seemed determined not to admit that anything had changed.
Miguel kept sighing and watching us all with dark, reproachful eyes, as if he knew who to blame. His grief rang true, but I didn't know exactly what it meant. He was a very handsome young man. Pretty, even. But he had called Llewellyn "patr?n" and, unlike Ginger, I had seen no sign of flirtation between them. Miguel was good at his job, too--quick, thorough, mostly unobtrusive. It was possible he was exactly what he purported to be--chauffeur and houseboy.
Or he could have been Dai Llewellyn's Abishag.
Denise did not come down to breakfast. Lydia had administered a Valium for which, she assured Jay, the dancer had a prescription. Jay made no comment, but he looked wry. The evidence crew had not yet come.
Bill Huff was still pretending he was a cub reporter with a scoop. Lydia had found his notebook. She was probably too occupied dealing with Denise's theatrics to take in the personal significance of Jay's suspicions. She said she had packed her things and Bill's.
Of the houseguests only Winton D'Angelo seemed to have grasped the likelihood that he would be considered a murder suspect. He picked at his food and drank a lot of coffee and, when we began to assemble in the lounge, he paced the floor. I thought he was very much afraid. Janey just looked bewildered.
The Peltzes strode up at three minutes past nine. Apparently Angharad had been appointed spokesperson. She went directly to Jay, who was again standing in front of the stone fireplace.
"We called our attorney. We have nothing to say."
"Fine. Go have nothing to say over there." He jabbed a finger at the vacant leather couch.
Everyone watched the exchange. When the Peltzes had sunk into the couch Jay stepped up onto the raised hearth. Winton D'Angelo stopped pacing and gawked.
"If you'll all take seats, I'd like to get this over with." Rustles and shufflings. I sat on a hassock next to Janey. The elder Huffs occupied a wooden settee, and
D'Angelo sank onto the straight-backed chair Llewellyn had used the first evening.
"Thanks." Jay was frowning. "As you know, Mr. Llewellyn died last night. That is, the doctors at County Hospital took him off life-support when they got a flat EEG."
"Brain death," Bill Huff rumbled. He began writing.
Jay ignored him and went on, eyes roaming impersonally over the room, "I directed the medical examiner to perform an autopsy. That's standard procedure in any case of sudden, unexplained death. I also asked the hospital toxicologist to analyze the stomach contents, and traces of Campari in Mr. Llewellyn's wine glass."
Bill Huff's hand paused on the paper, and he stared at Jay.
"The police lab analysis will take a couple of days, but the toxicology report gave the department enough to act on. The death has been ruled a homicide."
By that time most of the guests must have anticipated the verdict, but the word homicide provoked gasps. D'Angelo groaned. He was very pale, and his eyes glistened.
"You are all too intelligent not to realize that your presence here last night makes you suspects. At this point I don't know whether the poison was administered in Llewellyn's drink or in the bottle of Campari. The food is unlikely. Everyone ate it. I secured the bottle last night, and the contents will be analyzed. The soda was used in Mr. Huff's scotch without effect, so it can be ruled out."
"What was the poison?" Bill interjected.
Jay avoided my eyes. "Aconitine and ..."
"Aconite?"
"No, aconitine." Jay drew a breath. "It's the active ingredient in aconite. The poison was a mixture of aconitine and delphinine in liquid form. A home-made decoction of the annual delphinium."
Winton D'Angelo sat up straight.
"Wait a minute!" Ted Peltz gave a sudden, huge guffaw.
"But that's just larkspur," Janey said in a puzzled voice. "What's the big deal?"
Larkspur. My turn to sit up. I went cold, then hot.
"Miss Dailey's bookstore is called Larkspur Books," Jay was saying. He sounded cool and detached. "Llewellyn made a point of inviting her, well in advance, to this gathering, though she's an outsider in what seems to have been a tight little group of old friends. The related plant, monkshood, would have produced a quicker, more potent poison, so the choice of delphinium was plainly deliberate. I'd say off-hand that the killer is either mentally unbalanced, or a sociopath with a sadistic sense of humor. I'm not sure which." He let his gaze move, leisurely, from one guest to the next, taking them all in.
Ted Peltz gave another bark of laughter. Har-har.
Jay regarded him without expression. Angharad looked as if she might faint. "I am sure," Jay said softly, "that the murderer knows a lot about plants."
Peltz jumped to his feet. "Now wait a minute..."
"I thought you had nothing to say, Peltz."
"I..."
Angharad was tugging at her husband's sleeve. He sank down beside her, no longer grinning. "It's a frame."
"For Godsake, Ted, shut up."
"Listen, bitch..."
This delightful marital exchange was interrupted by the sound of cars on the graveled drive.
Jay looked relieved. "If you please..."
The Peltzes fell silent.
"I sent for the crime scene investigators. They have warrants to search your belongings."
Uproar.
"...this house and grounds, and the cabin and grounds occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Peltz, for the poison container. I also intend to take statements from each of you."
"We'll be here all day!" D'Angelo protested.
"All of us? What about the servants?" Lydia, a little shrill.
"Yeah, what about the fag, little Miguelito? He ran the bar." Needless to say that was Ted Peltz.
"None of you," Jay looked round, unsmiling, "is in immediate danger of arrest, but you are all material witnesses, including the members of Mr. Llewellyn's household staff and Ms. Fromm."
Everyone had forgotten Denise.
"You can't question Denise," Lydia said firmly. "She's in a state of emotional collapse."
"I've sent for her son."
Dennis. Good God. I shifted on my hassock, numb.
"When he gets here, I fully intend to question her."
Lydia clucked her tongue.
Jay went on, dispassionate, "I'll want to establish who drank what and with whom, and, in particular, Mr. Llewellyn's movements in the last hour or so before he was taken ill. As friends of Mr. Llewellyn, I'm sure you'll want to assist the investigation in any way you can. It's your duty to answer my questions clearly and accurately. You are not to leave the county without notifying me." He let that sink in. He mirandized us. I thought D'Angelo was going to faint.
Chapter V
Dennis drove up in a Forest Service pickup just after Kevin Carey had finished taking my statement. I think Jay was out on the lawn, scraping up vomit, or maybe he was rooting through the garbage looking for the container the poison was brought in. The search of our effects had been thorough. So far no vial of suspicious liquid had appeared. So Jay was destined to grub. I was outside loading our junk into the Blazer.
Dennis parked the green truck with his usual deliberation and got out, shutting the door neatly. "Hi, Lark."
"Hi. You took your time."
"I finished breakfast. Ginger says to tell you she'll hold the fort."
"She won't have to. I'm going home in about fifteen minutes."
"Is it true old Llewellyn's dead?"
His air of calm annoyed me. "He was murdered, Dennis."
His jaw dropped. "Geez, no kidding?"
I stared into Dennis's eyes. They were as startled as a deer's. "Jay didn't tell you?"
"He said Llewellyn took sick last night, that you tried CPR and it didn't work." Dennis's Adam's apple bobbed. "He said my mother was pretty upset. That's all. Murder?"
I explained.
Dennis whistled. "Geez, that's awful. And there I was thinking it was a good thing he was dead."
I must have looked as if I'd swallowed a spider. Dennis never had bad thoughts about anybody.
He blushed. "Well, not really, but I'm glad he won't be coming up here every summer, reminding her of how it was before."
"Before what?"
"Before she had to stop dancing. See, she was always a part of that world, artsy glamorous stuff, and she misses it. Every time he comes...came up here she'd get all sad and mournful, thinking about what she was missing living in the tules."
"Did she have to move up here, Dennis?"
"Not have to, exactly. The thing is," his wide brow wrinkled, "she hasn't got anything else or anyone else. My grandparents are dead. She used to have her dancing and me. Now it's just me."
Oh, Dennis, I thought, you poor schmuck.
"So she bought that little house on Beale Creek and moved in," he went on earnestly. "But she still gets real homesick for San Francisco."
Then why doesn't she go back? I left the question unasked. "Go in to her. They'll want to take Denise's statement, but they don't want to trigger off a bout of hysteria."
He flushed. "She's not hysterical."
I sighed. "I'm sorry, Dennis. I'm a little hysterical myself. I keep thinking I'm calm, and I keep saying dumb things."
He rubbed his forehead. He was wearing his forest service shirt and twill pants, and he looked as wholesome as a Boy Scout. "Yes, well, she's sensitive, you know, and she has strong feelings. It comes from being an artist. Sometimes people don't know how to take her."
My mother is an artist. I had time to be glad she didn't stage-manage her emotions at Denise's high pitch. "Go in to her. Lydia gave her a Valium, and she slept a little, but she's awake now. Jay's going to want to take her statement."
"Why? What can she tell him? He was there."
"He was on the scene. So was I, but neither of us saw the murderer lace Llewellyn's Campari. Maybe Denise can fill in some of the blanks."
He didn't look convinced, but he knocked on the do
or and went in when Kevin Carey opened it for him. I finished loading the car.
I reached town about eleven thirty, unloaded our belongings, and showered in the hope of waking up. When I had changed into something clerk-like I drove to the bookstore.
Ginger and Annie hung on my every word. Fortunately no customer showed up while I was telling them what had happened. Ginger was ready to rush to Dennis's side. I thought that was a bit excessive.
"Yeah, but murder," she said, big-eyed. "Whodunit?" She had lately begun to read mysteries instead of romances.
"It's not a game, Ginger. The old man died." A human being full of wit and fire was now a cold decaying sack of chemicals. I thought of Llewellyn's frail shoulders shuddering with the force of the poison, and I wanted to throw up. I did start crying.
"Oh, hey, I didn't mean...oh, gee, Lark."
I fumbled a Kleenex from my purse. "It wasn't what you said." I blew my nose. "I guess it just hit me. Last night I was breathing for him." I mopped at my eyes and groped for another tissue. "And now he's d-dead."
Ginger was patting my shoulders. The door bonged. "Annie!" There was a note of panic in her voice. She hustled me into the back room and sat me down in the new padded office chair with the adjustable back.
I could hear Annie making nervous conversation with somebody. I blew and swabbed and got myself under control, but I felt miserable. I hoped Jay didn't feel as rotten as I did. I thought of the nightmare. He probably felt worse. He probably felt responsible.
Annie left at one, just before we had a rush of customers. For about fifteen minutes, I was so innocent I thought all those strangers were in town for the holiday and just happened to want a good book to read.
We sold out our paperback mysteries and the five copies of Llewellyn's Collected Poems before six, plus assorted maps, half the science fiction, and all the Stephen Kings. Ginger and I barely had time to go to the restroom. Customers kept asking if this was the store with the murder. I kept saying there had been no murder on the premises. Some thought that was funny. Some didn't. Some were very strange folks.
Around two thirty the TV car from Channel Three showed up. The reporter had herself taped making hard-hitting comments by the door while the cameraperson panned over the sign. Larkspur Books. Step right up, name your poison. I refused to give them an interview. I also said no comment to the Chronicle stringer who drove his camper into the lot and was obviously set to lay siege.
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