"I'll try, but the police don't like private investigators invading their space." He smiled, as if trying to appear more encouraging. "Of course, I can question people, but if I find out anything, I'm supposed to tell the police. On the other hand, they're not obliged to tell me anything."
"But you will try?" She delved into her handbag and pulled out a checkbook and pen. "And Mother doesn't expect you to do it for nothing, just because we're friends." She looked up at Brad, pen poised over the check she'd started to write. "You need a retainer, don't you?"
Fortunately, novels and films have made lay people aware of the private investigator's need for money up front, and I visualized some of Brad's bills getting paid with his usual five-hundred-dollar retainer.
Debra continued. "As I told Olivia, Mother knows I'm here. She wants you on the case and will take over any further payments. Meanwhile, she wants you to start right away, so I'll give you two thousand right now, if that's all right."
Brad said, "Two thousand is fine," and my throat suddenly made a sound like I'd swallowed a frog. I clamped my hand over my mouth. Besides, having balanced his bank statement more than once, I knew his net worth and suspected the building owner probably never confused charity with rent.
Debra pushed the completed check across the desk toward him, and Brad pulled a client form from his desk drawer and had her sign it.
Having done that, she stood. "I'd better get back to Mother. I've taken a few days' leave of absence from my job to be with her. We have a million things to do, and the telephone never stops ringing."
We followed her to the door, and Brad said, "Don't worry too much about the police thinking your mother's guilty. Probably they don't. Part of their method is to scare people into admitting something. Believe me, they do it to everyone."
That seemed to comfort her a little.
As we returned to the reception room, I said, "May I see her today? Is she up to it?"
"I think she'll want to see you, but let me find a good time first. I'll give you a call later, all right?" She picked up a gorgeous suede jacket from the chair she'd been sitting in earlier. She might not live with her wealthy parents anymore, but her taste in clothes hadn't suffered.
Brad opened the door for her. She stuffed her handkerchief into her bag, gave me a brief, tight smile, and walked out.
Brad went back to his own office, and I watched from the open door. He sat at his desk, grabbed a pencil, and jotted more notes on the yellow legal pad.
His first murder case, perhaps, and a case definitely more interesting than his usual ones, had just dropped in his lap. I wanted to know how he'd solve it. Since Brad consulted his mentor only occasionally now he'd opened his agency, I still had merely the barest notion of a private investigator's methods of detection. Brad, like most men, didn't share information readily. Besides, he lived in his own apartment and, had it not been for my helping in his office, might go weeks without contacting me.
"What will you do first?" I spoke from the doorway, my words carrying easily across the small room.
"Make lists, things to do, people to talk to." He tilted his head down, eyes narrowed, and lowered his voice to a deep whisper. "Persons of interest."
"You haven't even begun. Who are you interested in?"
"Everyone who went to the banquet that night is of possible interest. Even someone who wasn't invited."
"That's a lot of people you need to question. I thought of chiding you for taking so much of Debra's money as a retainer, but with such a long list, I can see now it won't be nearly enough."
He ignored my gibe. "Hammond made almost as much money as Sam Walton. Their jewelry stores show up in half the malls in the state, and it's a high-markup business." He forestalled my next comments by hurrying on. "But I'm not gonna take advantage of them. I won't send another bill until I run out of this." He stabbed Debra's check with the eraser end of his pencil.
Remembering the negative number I'd seen on his financial statement, I shrugged, came into the room, and sat down across from him.
"Okay, Sir Galahad, who are you planning to question?"
"Carl Novotny for one. Maybe he killed Hammond and only said he found him already dead. Amanda Dillon. She brought the statues in. Maybe she whacked him over the head with one of them. The vice president, Ziegler. Something may have been going on inside the company. Like I told Debra, money is a powerful motive."
"So we have three suspects."
"'We'? What's this 'we' business? You're not an associate or even my secretary."
"You don't have a secretary, remember? You told me you planned to hire one but hadn't got around to it yet. So far, it's only me."
He shrugged.
"Anyway, I'm here now, and I intend to help. After all, Rose is my best friend."
"You can help like you always do—answering the phone, typing, filing…"
I leaned forward. "I'm capable of much more than that, and you know it. I'm a bridge teacher, and how many times have I been elected president of clubs?"
"Okay, okay, you're right. I'll find something relevant for you to do."
So much for my mother's advice about modesty being a virtue. Not if you wanted to earn respect from your own relatives.
He ignored me to pick up his yellow pad and write on it again. "Thanks for reminding me."
"Reminding you of what?"
"To add Mrs. Hammond and Debra."
"You're not serious? Debra came here to ask you to find the killer. A guilty person wouldn't do that."
"I'm glad you think I'm good enough to find the real killer, but maybe Debra isn't that confident."
"Preposterous. So is adding Rose to your list." Even if he was my brother, he obviously needed some help. "Remember, I know her. She's incapable of such a thing."
"You used to know her. I haven't heard you mention her in years. People change. Times change. Maybe her marriage to Hammond lacked the candy and flowers part. Besides, Rose isn't the one who asked me to find the murderer."
"That doesn't mean she's guilty. Debra says her mother loved her father."
"What do children really know about their parents' marriage? Even if mom and pop screamed at each other day and night, the kids, even grown ones, make themselves believe it isn't serious."
I knew he spoke the truth, but I still hated to admit it in my friend's case. "Who made you an authority on marriage and families? You have no wife or children."
"I studied a helluva lot of psychology, remember? And I was a San Francisco cop. Private investigators have to know these things, especially for murder cases. Like the NRA says, 'Guns don't kill people. People kill people.'"
I gave him a look that showed I didn't think much of that cliché.
Brad counted off on his fingers. "Besides the means and opportunity, they need a motive, and people closest to the victim usually have the best motives."
I put as much disgust into my voice as I could manage. "Oh, you're just like the police. Always pouncing on the closest person instead of doing some legwork to find the real murderer."
One of my favorite films popped into my mind, one I knew Brad had also seen because I owned a DVD and played it for him on a cold winter night when he still lived at home.
"Remember The Fugitive? Because he was handy, ipso facto, the husband was guilty. They wouldn't even try to find the one-armed man."
"You're talking fiction."
"Don't tell me you aren't aware of how many innocent people get convicted of crimes. Hardly a month goes by that someone isn't released from prison—even from death row—because someone else confessed, or DNA evidence proved he wasn't guilty. The governor of Illinois halted executions for that very reason."
Brad grinned at me again before speaking. "Boy, you're really on a roll this morning. Maybe I should let you help me. Put all that righteous indignation to good use."
In my zeal, I'd kept leaning forward, but then I relaxed and slumped back into the chair. Yet I continued to think about my argumen
t. Thank goodness for DNA testing. Even with that, not every innocent person on death row got rescued, and, since nobody bothered to establish their innocence after their execution, there might have been a lot more. The thought of dying for a crime you didn't commit made my stomach churn. It was one of the reasons I was against the death penalty.
"Well, you know I'm right," I finished.
"Okay." He stood. "You stay here and…"
"Wait a minute. You just said…"
"You have to wait for Debra to call you anyway, and then you can go up there and talk to Mrs. Hammond."
"I should hope so."
To tell the truth, I hadn't expected him to give in that easily. I thought I'd have to bombard him with an hour's worth of reasons why I should get involved. On the other hand, he undoubtedly knew I'd go to see Rose anyway, so perhaps he felt he might as well give in gracefully.
"The fact is, I have to talk to Rose myself. She's my client. After that, you can ask your own questions, maybe the same ones I asked Debra. The more information, the better."
I thought of his earlier comment to Debra. "By the way, are you sure it's okay for you to be doing this at all?"
"Since Rose said she wanted me, there's no problem." He smiled at me. "Don't worry. I'm not going to interfere in the police investigation. However, like any private citizen, I'm allowed to talk to people." He headed for the door. "Of course, they don't have to talk to me if they don't want to. Or you. Of course, I'm sure Rose will cooperate."
"Obviously she wants you involved."
He stopped at the door and turned to me again, this time as if he actually noticed me. "Under the circumstances, do you think you should be wearing black? Why not a more cheerful color?"
When I'd dressed that morning, I hadn't known I'd learn about a friend's death and, because of the gloomy winter skies, chose my black pantsuit with a black-and-gray striped sweater underneath. Ultimately appropriate, but Brad, like many men, wouldn't know.
"I'm only wearing black until they make something darker."
He grinned and changed the subject. "Express my condolences about Harry, please."
"Aye, Aye, sir." I gave him a salute. "Where are you going?"
"I'll start in on the rest of the gang." He put his finger alongside his nose like Paul Newman in The Sting—another film we both loved—winked, and went out.
I sighed. He resembled his father, but his energy and curiosity were like mine. With a confidence born of nothing but my flimsy knowledge of detection, mostly gained from my substituting in his office—to say nothing of plenty of hope and too much adrenaline—I was sure we'd solve the case.
CHAPTER THREE
After Brad left, I turned on the computer, entered his few notes, and printed them. Then I put the sheet of paper in a folder marked Hammond and placed it on his desk. I spent the next hour thinking about Rose and what we learned from Debra. I made my own list of persons of interest, which probably looked a lot like Brad's. However, I added some Brad hadn't mentioned, such as the ones Harry visited in Los Angeles. Maybe something happened on his trip down there that provoked the murder.
While I mulled this over, Debra called and said her mother wanted to see me right away and gave me directions. I grabbed my coat and searched Brad's deep desk drawer. One of his recorders was gone, and I debated slipping his spare one into my purse. Then I decided he'd taken it for his interview with Rose, so I didn't need to. Besides, he hadn't asked me to do it. I just thought it was a good idea. Like many professional detectives, he liked to have a record of interviews or impressions of a person or scene while it remained fresh and useful. His smart phone could do that too, so it seemed that avenue was covered.
I didn't bother with the freeway just to go to Hillsborough, which was the adjoining suburb on the peninsula. I drove slowly through the winding, tree-lined streets, enjoying the sight of houses owned by people who, in former years, had flown on the Concorde, sailed on the QEII and dropped names like Bill and Hillary. (Clinton. That Bill and Hillary.)
The Hammond house sat so far back that it couldn't be seen from the road. Before I got to the black wrought-iron gates surrounding the place, I passed a gaggle of news reporters lounging against their parked cars and talking. A few smoked cigarettes, but on seeing me, they dropped their butts and snapped to attention. Someone must have told the press not to get too close, so I ignored them and kept on going up the long driveway. At the top, the gate was open, and the house came into view. Three stories, colonial architecture, white with black shutters. The driveway circled in front, and, to its right, sat a low building containing three two-car garages.
Debra had suggested that, rather than park in front, I drive to the back, so I continued straight ahead alongside the house. I came to another large, paved parking area between that and the fenced-off garden, swimming pool, and cabana.
Rose had really come up in the world, although, even when we met more than twenty years before, her house in San Ricardo had been larger and fancier than mine. Now, I half expected to see a line of servants decked out like the ones on Downton Abbey.
Her higher income level never bothered me. I didn't envy people who had more material goods than I did. I just thought that if I had them, I'd have to find a place for them, clean them, or insure them. As for Rose being a serious suspect in her husband's murder, she had nothing to worry about. In this country, as some comic once said, you're guilty until proven wealthy.
I stopped the car in front of yet another garage, entered the back door of the house, which stood open, and came face to face with a short, plump Hispanic woman. After I told her my name, she waved me on through the country-style kitchen.
Beyond the kitchen, in a hexagonal breakfast room at the front corner of the house, four long windows faced the lawn. Rose sat on a cushion in a window seat but got up when I entered, and we hugged like long-lost sisters.
When she released me from a painfully tight grip, I saw a woman as thin as a pretzel stick. I wondered if she wasn't carrying that old adage, "You can never be too rich or too thin," too far.
Again, I felt guilty for having let our friendship dwindle to notes on Christmas cards. "How are you holding up?"
She waved me to one of the chairs next to the round, glass-topped table and returned to her place on the window seat before she answered me. "This is horrible, just horrible. As if losing Harry wasn't bad enough… The press… You can't imagine."
She leaned her head back against one of the windows and closed her eyes. She seemed tired, with lines around her eyes and mouth, which she held tightly closed. A woman hanging on for dear life.
"You don't have to talk about Harry's murder if you don't want to," I said. "I read the account in the newspaper, and Debra filled us in on details."
"I wish I could tell you something." She gave me a look of bewilderment. "I know absolutely nothing. Harry went into that linen storage room, and the rest of us went to the dining room, and then police appeared from everywhere."
She broke off, and while I waited, I noticed her short, ash-blonde hair seemed perfectly coiffed. For at least three months after my husband Stephen died, I looked like the "before" picture in an extreme makeover, but perhaps people as rich as the Hammonds did things differently. Maybe she had a live-in hairdresser as well as a cook, housekeeper, gardener, pool boy, and whatever. Her heavily applied makeup, however, didn't hide the circles under her eyes.
"Brad's been here already and asked a few questions, but I couldn't tell him much."
"We thought it might be easier if you and I just talked like the old-time friends we are."
She gave a weak smile and nodded.
I took a breath and plunged in, repeating some of the things Debra had told us that morning.
"Debra said you and Harry arrived at the banquet separately. Did you speak to him before he went into the linen storage room?"
"Yes, briefly, in the reception area where they served cocktails."
"Did he say anything unusual at t
hat time, anything that might be a clue, however farfetched it might seem, to his murder?"
"He said something unexpected had come up in Los Angeles, which kept him a day longer. That's all." She hesitated, as if trying to remember. "Almost immediately he said he needed a quiet place to study his material, and he left to ask someone about it."
"Did you see where he went?"
"He followed a waiter toward a hallway at the back of the room. I never saw him after that." She pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of her navy wool skirt and put it up to her eyes.
Good. She had tears to wipe away. I've always believed it's better to get your grief out instead of bottling it inside.
"Did you see anyone else go toward that hallway?"
Rose seemed to sit up straighter, and she almost spat the words. "I saw Amanda Dillon follow Harry in that direction."
An icy chill from her contemptuous tone made me shiver. "I understand she brought in the box with the awards statues."
"Not by herself. They were apparently quite heavy, and a young man followed her. He carried the box."
"Did this young man remain the entire time Amanda stayed in that room?"
"I can't be sure, but I wouldn't think so."
"Anyone go in after Amanda left?"
"No. If anyone else went there, I didn't notice."
I shrugged and changed the subject. "When Harry didn't return from Los Angeles on Friday as he planned, were you concerned?"
"No. He has so many business affairs to handle, he sometimes forgets to call me." She stood and moved toward me. Her eyes shone like blue steel. "Look, Olivia, I know it's natural to ask these questions, but that was one of the most painful parts of the police interrogation. They asked over and over about our personal relationship. I could feel the hostility. I knew they thought I killed him, but even if I'd wanted to, I couldn't have. I stayed in the dining room talking to friends the entire time."
I remembered something Debra had said. "You didn't go to the ladies' room, for instance?" I hoped she'd say no. A little voice in my head repeated, "Say no, Rose," but she said, "Yes."
Dead Men's Tales (Olivia Grant Mysteries Book 2) Page 2