Slow Kill

by Michael McGarrity

  “I figured you’d tell me if she had been.”

  “Of course I would.” She handed Kerney a business card. “Call me if you’d like to get anything off your chest.”

  Lowrey stepped away in the direction of her police cruiser. Kerney stuffed her card in his shirt pocket. Clearly, the sergeant was just doing her job, and doing it very well. But that didn’t ease the irritation he felt at being treated like a suspect.

  He laughed at himself. No matter what Lowrey thought, he had nothing to worry about. He went to take a closer look at one of the four geldings. It seemed a bit shallow in the flank and somewhat razor-backed, which wouldn’t do at all.

  In her unit, Ellie Lowrey checked with Price by radio on the status of the autopsy and learned it was still under way. She decided to drive to Los Osos and get a firsthand report from the pathologist. She had deliberately given Chief Kerney the impression that he’d be free to go back to Santa Fe tomorrow. But that depended on what the doctor had to say.

  Ellie knew she was operating solely on her intuition. But coincidence was always questionable in a criminal investigation. Happenstance, fate, and chance were often used by subjects to camouflage the truth.

  She pondered a scenario. Kerney lived in the same town as Spalding’s wife. Both of them were apart from their spouses a good deal of the time. Kerney, who owned no horses, came to California to buy stock at the same time Clifford Spalding was at the ranch. They shared accommodations, which allowed Kerney to conveniently find Spalding dead in his bedroom in the morning.

  According to Jeffery Jardin, Spalding had never stayed at the ranch before, and had arrived surreptitiously to buy a horse as a surprise anniversary present for his wife. Did Claudia Spalding know Clifford’s whereabouts? Wives often have a way of keeping track of husbands.

  And what about Kerney? Who better to orchestrate a crime than an experienced cop? Who better to stage a death that looked natural, leave no evidence behind, and have plausible explanations at hand?

  Motive, opportunity, and means made up the three major components of any criminal investigation. So far, all she had for sure was opportunity, and a lurking suspicion that perhaps Kerney and Claudia Spalding were lovers who’d plotted and carried out a murder. But why?

  She’d watched Kerney carefully, and he hadn’t shown any nonverbal signs of lying. But cops, the good ones anyway, were masters at lying. A lot of dirtbags were in the slam because of well-formulated, totally believable lies told to them by police officers.

  Ellie tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. Was she completely off base? She hoped the autopsy would answer the question one way or the other.

  She reached the mortuary in Los Osos, and the thought struck her that calling such places funeral homes was totally incongruous. If you were there to get buried, you were about as far away from home as you were ever going to get.

  Inside, she found Price moving the body from the autopsy table to a gurney. “Where’s Doc?” Ellie asked.

  “He left,” Price answered.

  “And?”

  Price shook his head as he covered the body. “It looks like straightforward heart failure. But Doc said he’d have the lab run exhaustive blood and chem tests, just as you asked. He’s particularly interested in learning what the levels were for the hormone replacement medication.”

  “Did he say why?” Ellie asked.

  Price laughed as he pushed the gurney into an open locker and closed it up. “For two reasons: to keep you happy, and to see if the drug may have contributed to the death. Spalding’s heart blew a valve and the muscles showed signs of fairly rapid and recent deterioration.”

  “Getting the lab results could take several days.”

  Price hosed down the autopsy table, stripped off the bloody gown and gloves, and dumped them in a hamper. “Not much we can do about it,” he said.

  In his late fifties, Price had a fatherly air about him that always calmed Ellie down. Maybe she’d pushed the investigation as far as she could for the time being.

  She gave Price a resigned smile and nodded. “Do you think I’m wrong about this one?”

  Price responded with a shrug of a shoulder and a grin. “I’ve learned never to bet against you, Sarge.”

  Ellie’s smile turned mischievous.

  “What are you thinking?” Price asked.

  “Did you do a plain-view search of the cottage?” she asked.

  “No, just the bedroom.”

  “I took a quick tour around the other rooms,” Ellie said, “and didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Maybe we should go back there and look again, this time more carefully. Perhaps Chief Kerney will let us search his personal property.”

  “He could challenge you on that,” Price said.

  “I hope he does.” Ellie dialed Jardin’s number on her cell phone, and when he answered she asked for permission to search the cottage to look for any evidence that might help determine the cause of Clifford Spalding’s death.

  “Is this absolutely necessary?” Jardin replied.

  “It would be a great help to the investigation,” Ellie said.

  “Do your search, Sergeant,” Jardin said.

  “Thank you, sir.” Ellie disconnected and winked at Price. “Let’s go see what we can stir up.”

  “Don’t you mean stir Chief Kerney up?”

  “Exactly.”

  Kerney found doing business with Ken Wheeler enjoyable. The man had given him lots of space and made no attempt to influence his choices. In the ranch office, Kerney signed the paperwork for the animals he’d selected, and arranged to have Wheeler contract on his behalf to transport the horses to Santa Fe. He was one mare short, but he could probably talk Jack Burke into selling him an eight-year-old bay he had his eye on.

  “You picked the best of the lot,” Wheeler said as Kerney wrote out the check.

  “They’ll do nicely,” Kerney replied. “Have you ever been to Santa Fe?”

  Wheeler shook his head as he took the offered check. “Why do you ask?”

  “I thought maybe you could tell me about Mrs. Spalding.”

  Wheeler laughed. “I can’t help you there. As far as she’s concerned, I’m just hired help, and I’m sure not the type that would turn her head.”

  “Meaning?” Kerney asked.

  Wheeler scratched his chin. “She seems to have an eye for men. But they’re all a hell of a lot taller, younger, and better-looking than me. I’ve never heard that it went any further than that. But playing around isn’t all that unusual among the horse-racing set.”

  “She got along okay with her husband?”

  “Yeah, as far as I could tell. Why wouldn’t she? The guy was fronting some big bucks to keep her happy.”

  “Did Spalding ever say anything about his marriage?” Kerney asked.

  Wheeler wrinkled his nose. “Not directly to me. I did overhear him once bellyaching to a friend before a race that he had a hard time getting her to travel out to the coast. There was always something that would come up and keep her in Santa Fe. Why are you asking me these questions?”

  “I have the feeling the sheriff’s deputy thinks I may be personally involved with Mrs. Spalding,” Kerney said, “and that her husband’s death may not be as uncomplicated as it appears.”

  Wheeler’s genial attitude vanished as he looked Kerney up and down. “You’re saying the cops think Spalding might have been murdered?”

  “They haven’t discounted it.”

  “Well, you sure fit the type she’d be drawn to.” Wheeler shifted uneasily in his chair. “Not that I’m saying you’re involved in anything.”

  “I’m sure it will all get sorted out,” Kerney said.

  He picked up the paperwork from the desk and thanked Wheeler for making the transaction pleasurable. Outside, two sheriff’s units were parked in front of the guest cottage.

  Kerney walked across the circular driveway thinking that what Wheeler had told him lent credence to Sergeant Lowrey’s gut instincts ab
out the case. The idea of going home as a suspect in a homicide held no appeal. He decided to delay his return to Santa Fe and poke around a bit to see what more he could learn about Clifford and Claudia Spalding.

  Ellie Lowrey didn’t see any hint of surprise or uneasiness in Kerney when he entered the cabin.

  “Have you found anything interesting, Sergeant?” he asked. In the kitchen, the coroner was bagging the juice glass Kerney had rinsed out and left on the counter.

  “Not yet,” Ellie replied.

  He turned to leave. “I’ll wait on the porch until you’re finished.”

  “Mr. Kerney,” Lowrey said.

  Lowrey had deliberately avoided addressing him by rank. It was a neat psychological trick to establish dominance. Kerney countered by reducing Lowrey in rank. “Yes, Deputy?”

  Color rose on Lowrey’s cheeks. “I’d like permission to search your luggage.”

  “Go ahead,” Kerney said. “I’ll be on the porch.”

  “Don’t you want to be present?”

  “It’s not necessary.”

  She held out a clipboard. “Please sign the permission slip,” she said tersely.

  He scrawled his name, went outside, and sat on the stoop. Woodpeckers were busy in the trees and mares grazed lazily in the adjacent pasture. The afternoon sun, hazy in the sky, cast a soft, golden light that looked like melted butter. A mare rubbed her rump against the thick, curling lower branch of a live oak tree as her foal lay asleep close by, legs folded. Leaves shimmered in a whispering breeze, and a crow swished overhead, wings spread wide, croaking as it passed to drop down and perch on a creek-bed rock.

  It had been an unusual day. Some of it had been as pleasant as the warm afternoon sun now on Kerney’s face, and some of it as chilly as the early morning air, the darkened bedroom, and death. He wondered what other events might be in store for him before it ended.

  An hour passed before the coroner hurried out carrying a small cardboard box. He loaded it in the trunk of his unit and drove away. Lowrey soon followed, stopping to thank Kerney for his cooperation.

  “No problem,” Kerney said.

  “I still haven’t heard back if Spalding’s wife has been notified,” Lowrey said.

  “I take it she’s not the first Mrs. Spalding.”

  “No, ex-wife number one lives in Santa Barbara.”

  He decided to tell Lowrey his plans. “I’m staying over until this gets resolved. How long do you think it will take?”

  Lowrey blinked. “Through tomorrow night should do it.”

  Kerney stood, brushed off the seat of his jeans, fished Lowrey’s business card from his shirt pocket, and waved it at her. “Good. I’ll find a motel and let you know where I’m staying.”

  “Don’t you want to know what I found in your luggage?”

  “Nothing of any consequence, I’m sure,” Kerney replied.

  Lowrey nodded and walked away.

  Kerney went inside, found his return airline ticket and car rental agreement, and changed his travel itinerary by phone. Then he called long distance information and got a phone listing for an A. Spalding in Santa Barbara.

  A woman answered on the first ring. Kerney identified himself as a police officer and asked if she was Clifford Spalding’s former wife.

  “I am not,” the woman replied. “That would be my employer, Alice Spalding.”

  “May I speak to her?” Kerney asked.

  “What is it in reference to?”

  “Her ex-husband.”

  “Talk to Mrs. Spalding’s lawyer. I can give you her office number to call in the morning.”

  “Clifford Spalding died early today.” Silence greeted Kerney’s announcement.

  “Where are you calling from?” the woman finally asked.

  “Paso Robles,” Kerney said. “It’s important that I speak to Mrs. Spalding.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “I can’t discuss it with you until all family members have been notified,” Kerney replied. “It’s policy. May I speak to Mrs. Spalding?”

  “It’s best that you do it in person,” the woman said. “Alice has Alzheimer’s disease, and she doesn’t use the telephone much anymore. It confuses and upsets her.”

  “How advanced is her condition?” Kerney asked.

  “Deteriorating. It’s quite likely she won’t understand all of what you tell her, but I can never be sure. Sometimes she’s lucid, at other times she’s incoherent. Her mind wanders, her memory is impaired, and she goes off-topic frequently.”

  “I can be there in two or three hours.”

  “Don’t make it any later than that,” the woman said. “Alice fades in the evening.”

  Kerney asked for directions and scratched them down on his road map, starting with which Highway 101 off-ramp to take once he reached Santa Barbara.

  He left the ranch and headed south. Given Alice Spalding’s medical condition, Kerney wasn’t sure what he might gain from meeting her. But it felt good to be doing something.

  The route to Alice Spalding’s house took Kerney through a tidy Santa Barbara neighborhood of charming Spanish Mission and Romanesque houses. He passed the Presidio, a low-slung adobe building joined to a large mission church with twin bell towers that framed the coastal mountains rising behind it. Tour bus visitors busily took pictures as they strolled the grounds.

  Beyond the Presidio, the winding road climbed into hills where the houses were much larger, and more difficult to see through an increasing profusion of plants, shrubs, and trees. None of the flowering vegetation, a riot of rich blues, deep reds, vivid purples, and vibrant yellows, was familiar to Kerney. About all he recognized were the towering palm trees.

  He found the right street and house number, and turned into a driveway barred by an electronic gate. He announced himself over the intercom, and the gate swung open.

  He parked next to a high-end Japanese sedan and looked around. Pink and red flowers bordered a step-down cobblestone walkway to the house. Tall, thin evergreen trees that reached to the second-story tile roof line bracketed the entry.

  Before he could knock on the thick, antique plank door it swung open to reveal a woman with blue eyes, long dirty blond hair, and a fair complexion. She was somewhere in her mid- to late forties.

  “Officer Kerney,” the woman said, looking him up and down, taking in the jeans, boots, and western shirt. She hadn’t expected a cowboy cop to come to the door. But then, Paso Robles wasn’t as stylish as Santa Barbara.

  Kerney nodded and flashed his shield, which he’d carried to California in his overnight bag.

  The woman gave it only a quick glance as she extended her hand. “I’m Penelope Parker,” she said with the slightest hint of a Southern accent. “Come in.”

  Kerney followed Parker into a large room with a line of windows looking out to a covered loggia supported by four columns and surrounded by a semicircular wall. Beyond was a view of mountains, the city below, and finally the bay, where masts of pleasure boats bobbed like tiny toothpicks in the water.

  “Alice is napping right now,” Parker said, “and I don’t want to wake her. It shouldn’t be too long before she rings for me.”

  “I don’t mind waiting,” Kerney said.

  Parker gestured to the patio, opened the door, and led Kerney outside. “How did Mr. Spalding die?” she asked.

  “For now, it appears to be by natural causes,” Kerney said as he joined her at the patio wall. Below him an abandoned three-story stucco house sat with a patched tar-paper roof and plywood-covered windows and doors. A paved drive ran behind the building to a dead-end parking area where a few benches had been positioned to take in the view of the bay.

  “Alice won’t be happy to hear this,” Parker said. “She’ll probably reject what you have to say.”

  “Why is that?” Kerney asked, wondering why a derelict house on an overgrown lot with a parking area stood in the middle of such an expensive neighborhood.

  “Because of her condition, and
because of Mr. Spalding’s legally binding agreement to make continued good faith efforts to locate their only child, a son named George. Alice had her lawyer make that language part of the divorce settlement, and she refers to it obsessively.”

  “They have a son who’s gone missing?” Kerney asked. The grounds around the abandoned house overflowed with huge palm trees, and more lush shrubbery, vines, and flowers he didn’t recognize. But these plants were growing wild, not carefully tended like those in the gardens of the houses all around.

  “If only it were as simple as that,” Parker replied. “George was killed in the Vietnam War. However, Alice refuses to accept that reality.”

  “Because of the Alzheimer ’s?”

  “Oh, no,” Parker said. “The onset of the Alzheimer’s occurred two years ago. The hunt for George has been going on much longer, almost thirty years. Alice’s obsession about it was one of the things that drove a stake in her marriage.”

  “You knew them back then?”

  “No,” Parker said with a shake of her head. “I’ve been Alice’s personal assistant since the divorce. In fact, in a way, I’m also part of the divorce settlement. Mr. Spalding pays my salary and benefits. Before they split up, I worked for both of them for about two years.”

  “Has the son’s death in Vietnam been fully documented?” Kerney asked.

  “Completely,” Parker said. “Still, Alice persists in her belief that he’s alive. You’ll see what I mean after she’s up. There’s a room in the house devoted completely to George. But no one’s allowed in it unaccompanied. Not even me. If you ask, she’ll show it to you.”

  “Do you know the current Mrs. Spalding?” he asked.

  “I’ve never met her,” Parker replied. “Clifford bought her a Tuscan-style mansion in Montecito. But as I understand it, she rarely stays there.”

  “Do you know where it is?”

  Parker nodded. “I can give you directions before you leave.”

  “That would be great,” Kerney said. He pointed at the abandoned house. “What is that place?”