by Sue Grafton
“You can park in the rear. Then come around and use the front door to go in,” he said, and motioned me on.
“Thanks.”
I pulled around to the left and parked my car at the far end of the three-car garage. In the diminishing light, a cluster of three floods, activated by motion sensors, flashed on to signal my presence. Except for the kitchen on this end of the house and the library on the other, most of the windows along the front of the house were dark. Around the front, the exterior lighting seemed purely decorative, too pale to provide a welcome in the accumulating gloom.
The uniformed police officer opened the door for me and I passed into the foyer. The library door was ajar and a shaft of light defined one pie-shaped wedge of the wood parquet floor. Given the quiet in the house, I was guessing the technicians were gone ��� fingerprint experts, the photographer, the crime scene artist, coroner, and paramedics. Tasha appeared in the doorway. “I saw you pull in. How’re you doing?”
I said “Fine” in a tone that encouraged her to keep her distance from me. I noticed I was feeling churlish, as much with her as with circumstance. Homicide makes me angry with its sly tricks and disguises. I wanted Guy Malek back and with some convoluted emotional logic, I blamed her for what had happened. If she hadn’t been my cousin, she wouldn’t have, hired me in the first place. If I hadn’t been hired, I wouldn’t have found him, wouldn’t even have known who he was, wouldn’t have cared,, and would have felt no loss. She knew this as well as I did and the flicker of guilt that crossed her face was a mirror to mine.
For someone who’d flown back from her vacation in haste, Tasha was flawlessly turned out. She wore a black gabardine pantsuit with a jacket cropped at the waist. The slim, uncuffed trousers had a wide waistband and inverted pleats in front. The jacket had brass buttons and the sleeves were trimmed with a thin gold braid. Somehow the outfit suggested something more than fashion. She looked crisp, authoritative, and diminutive, the dainty, MP of lawyers here to keep matters straight.
I followed her into the library with its clusters of dark red cracked leather chairs. The red Oriental carpets looked drab at this hour. The tall leaded glass windows were tinted with the gray cast of twilight, as chilly as frost. Tasha paused to turn on table lamps as she crossed the room. Even the luster of the dark wood paneling failed to lend coziness to the cold stone hearth. The room was shabby and smelled as musty as I remembered it. I’d first met Bennet here just a week ago.
I left my handbag beside a club chair and circled the room restlessly. “Who’s the chief investigator? You said there was someone here.”
“Lieutenant Robb.”
“Jonah? Oh, terrific. How perfect.”
“You know him?”
“I know Jonah,” I said. When I’d met him, he was working Missing Persons, but the Santa Teresa Police Department has a mandatory rotation system and detectives get, moved around. With Lieutenant Dolan’s retirement, there was an opening for a homicide investigator. I’d had a short-lived affair with Jonah once when he was separated from his wife, a frequent occurrence in the course of their stormy relationship. They’d been sweethearts since seventh grade and were no doubt destined to be together for life, like owls, except for the intervals of virulent estrangement coming every ten months. I suppose the pattern should have been evident, but I was smitten with him. Later, not surprisingly, she crooked her little finger and he went back to her. Occasionally now, the three of us crossed paths out in public and I’d become an expert at pretending I’d never, dallied with him between my Wonder Woman sheets. This probably accounted for his willingness to have me on the scene. He knew he could trust me to keep my mouth shut.
“What’s the story?” she asked.
“Nothing. Just skip it. I feel bitchy, I guess, but I shouldn’t take it out on you.”
I heard footsteps on the stairs and looked up as Christie came in. She wore bulky running shoes and a warm-up suit in some silky material; the blue of the fabric setting off the blue in her eyes. She wore scarcely any makeup and I wondered if this was the outfit she was wearing when Guy’s body was discovered. The library, like the living room, was equipped with a wet bar: a small brass sink, a mini refrigerator, an ice bucket, and a tray of assorted liquor bottles. She moved over to the fridge and removed a chilled bottle of white wine. “Anybody want a glass of wine? What about you, Kinsey?”
I said, “Alcohol won’t help.”
“Don’t be absurd. Of course it will. So does Valium. It doesn’t change reality, but it improves your attitude. Tasha? Can I interest you in a glass of Chardonnay? This is top of the line.” She turned the bottle so she could peer at the price tag on the side. “Nice. This is $36.95.”
“I’ll have some in a bit. Not just yet,” Tasha said.
Mutely, the two of us watched while Christie cut the foil cap from a wine bottle and used a corkscrew. “If I smoked, I’d have a ciggie, but I don’t,” she said. She poured herself some wine, the bottle clinking clumsily on the rim of the Waterford crystal. “Shit!” she said, pausing to inspect the damage. A jagged crack ran down the side. She dumped the contents in the sink and tossed the glass in the trash. She picked up a second glass and poured again. “We need a fire in here. I wish Donovan were home.”
“I can do that,” I said. I moved over to the hearth and removed the fire screen. There were six or seven hefty pieces of firewood in a brass carrier. I picked up one and chunked it onto the grate.
“Make sure you don’t destroy any evidence,” she said.
I looked up at her blankly.
“Ted Bundy killed one of his victims with a hunk of wood,” she said, and then shrugged with embarrassment. “Never mind. Not funny. What a day,” she said. “I can’t figure out how to handle it. I’ve felt drunk since this morning, completely out of control.”
I stacked two more logs on the grate while she and Tasha talked. It was a relief to be involved in a task that was basic and inconsequential. The wood was beautifully seasoned oak. Most of the heat would go straight up the chimney, but it would be a comfort nonetheless. I flicked on the electric match, turned the key in the gas starter, and listened to the comforting whunk as the jets ignited. I replaced the fire screen, pausing to adjust the height of the flame. Belatedly, I tuned into their conversation.
Tasha was saying, “Did you ask to have an attorney present?”
“Of course I didn’t ask for an attorney. I didn’t do anything. This was just routine,” Christie said irritably. She remained standing behind the bar, leaning against its leather surface. “Sorry. What’s the matter with me? I’m completely frazzled.”
“Don’t worry about it. Who’s still down there?”
“Jack and Bennet, I think. They kept everybody separated like they did here. So absurd. What do they think, Donovan and I aren’t going to discuss it in detail the minute we can put our heads together?”
“They don’t want to risk your influencing one another,” I said. “Memory’s fragile. It’s easily contaminated.”
“None of us have anything much to report,” she said. “I drank too much at dinner and fell asleep by nine. Donovan was watching TV in the sitting room off our bedroom.”
“What about Guy?”
“He went up to bed about the same time I did. He was drunk as all get-out thanks to Bennet’s martinis.”
She caught sight of her fingertips and frowned to herself. She turned away from us and ran water in the sink. “They took prints for comparison.”
Tasha directed a brief comment to me. “After the body was removed and the fingerprint techs were finished, the homicide investigator had one of the Maleks’ housecleaning crew come over and walk through Guy’s room with him describing the usual position of furniture, lamps, ashtrays, that sort of thing.”
“Did they find anything?”
“I have no idea. I’m sure she was cautioned to keep her mouth shut. I know they tagged and bagged a bunch of items, but I don’t know exactly what or why they were significant. Now they
’ve brought in additional officers and started a grid search of the grounds. Apparently, they spent a lot of time down in the pool house earlier.”
Christie broke in. “I could. see them from up in my room checking perimeter gates, any point of entrance or exit.”
“They’re still out there on the property. I noticed that when I came in. But why check the exterior? It almost had to be someone in the house.”
Christie bristled. “Not necessarily. What makes you say that? We have people all over. Maybe fifteen a week, with the gardeners and the car washers, housecleaners, and the woman who takes care of the plants. We have no idea where those people come from. For all we know, they’re convicted felons or escapees from a mental institution.”
I wasn’t going to speak to her flight of fancy. If the notion gave her comfort, let her hang on to it. “It’s always possible,” I said, “but I’m assuming none of them have access to the house at night. I thought you had an alarm system.”
“Well, we do. The police were interested in the system as well, but that’s the problem,” she said. “With all the high winds we’ve had here the past couple of days, windows were blowing open and the alarm kept going off. It happened twice Monday night after we’d all gone to bed. Scared the shit out of me. We finally turned it off so it wouldn’t happen again. Last night, the system wasn’t on at all.”
“When do they think Guy was killed?” I asked.
“Around ten, I gather. Between ten and eleven. The detective didn’t actually say that, but I noticed that was the period that seemed to interest him. Bennet and Jack were both out until late.”
A woman in a housekeeper’s uniform, with an apron tied over it, peered in at the door. She was short and round, and looked like someone whose eating habits had long ago outstripped any fat-burning activities. She was probably in her mid-forties, with dark hair pulled back neatly under a red-and-white bandanna she’d wrapped around her head. I wasn’t sure if the purpose was ornamental or meant to keep falling hair from seasoning the food. “Excuse me. I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’m wondering what time you want dinner served.”
Christie made a face. “My fault, Enid. I should have talked to you. Donovan’s not back yet and I’m not really sure about Jack and Bennet. What are we having? Will it hold?”
“Baked chicken breasts. I stopped off at the market on my way in to work. I went ahead and changed the menu, so there’s plenty if you’re having extra people. I did up some oven-roasted potatoes and a casserole of sweet-and-sour cabbage. I can wait and serve if you like.” Somehow she managed to indicate without a word that waiting around to serve dinner was the last choice on her list.
“No, no, no. I don’t want you to do that. Just leave things in the oven and we can help ourselves. As soon as you’re ready, go ahead and take off. I know you were in early.”
“Yes, ma’am. Myrna called me. I came as soon as I heard.”
“Have the police talked to you? I’m assuming they have. They talked to everyone else.”
Enid picked at her apron uncomfortably. “I talked to Lieutenant Bower shortly before you did, I believe. Do you want me tomorrow at the usual time?”
“I don’t know yet. Call me in the morning and we’ll see what’s going on. I may want you here early if that’s all right with you.”
“Of course.”
As soon as she withdrew, Christie said, “Sorry for the interruption. That’s Enid Pressman. She’s the cook. I guess I could have introduced you. I didn’t mean to be rude. Tasha’s met her before.”
“That’s perfectly all right,” I said. I made a quick mental note to have a chat with Enid at some point. She’d neatly avoided relating much in the way of information.
Tasha said, “Maybe I will have that drink. Here, let me get it. You look exhausted. We need to sit.”
Christie had put the wine bottle in a cooler and now grabbed two more glasses. Tasha moved over to the bar and took the cooler from her, setting it down on a table between two chairs. Christie quizzed me with a gesture, asking if I was ready to have wine.
“I’m fine for now, but go ahead,” I said.
Christie curled up in one of the leather chairs. She tucked her legs under her and crossed her arms.
I took the chair closest to the fireplace while Tasha perched on the arm of the chair next to Christie’s. Tasha said, “What about Bennet? Where was he last night?”
“I’m not really sure. You’d have to ask him about that.”
“And Jack?”
“Over at the country club with a hundred other fellows. There’s a pro-am tournament coming up this weekend. Practice rounds start on Thursday. He went to the pairings’ party with a friend of his.”
“That should be easy enough to verify,” Tasha said.
“Would you quit talking like that? He didn’t kill Guy and neither did I”
“Christie, I’m not accusing you. I’m trying to analyze your position here. Given the situation, suspicion’s bound to fall on one of you. I don’t mean you specifically, so don’t take offense. Other people may have access to the property, but who’d have a better motive than the family? There’s a lot of money at stake.”
“But Tasha, that’s ridiculous. If one of us were going to kill him, why do it here? Why not somewhere else? Make it look like an accident or random violence.”
I raised my hand like a student. “Think of the convenience. If you kill a man in his sleep, you don’t have to worry about him putting up a fight.”
Jonah Robb appeared in the doorway, his gaze fixed on Christie. “We’ll be taking off shortly. The bedroom’s still sealed pending the coroner’s report. It’s strictly off limits until you hear from us. We’ll be here early tomorrow morning to finish things up.”
“Of course. Will there be anything else?”
“I understand your brother-in-law received some mail…”
“We gave that to the other detective, Lieutenant Bower.”
Jonah nodded. “Fine. I’ll check with her.”
“Do you have any idea what time we can expect my husband? When I left the station, he was still being interviewed.”
“I’ll have him call if he’s there when I get back to the station. With luck, he’ll be done and on his way home.”
“Thanks.”
Jonah’s gaze came to rest on mine and he tilted his head. “Can I see you out here?”
I got up and crossed the room. He held the door open and we went into the hall.
He said, “Donovan tells us you were the one who located Guy on behalf of the estate.”
“That’s right.”
“We’re going to want to talk to you in the morning, picking up background information.”
“Of course. Glad to help. I can stop by at nine on my way into work,” I said. “What’s this business about the mail?”
“I haven’t seen it yet,” he said obliquely, meaning none-of-your-beeswax. We looked at each other for perhaps half a moment longer than was absolutely essential. I’d always thought Jonah was good-looking. Black Irish, I think they call them. Blue eyes, coal-black hair. He looked worn-out and tense, his eyes surrounded by a lacework of fine lines, his skin looking coarser than I remembered. Perhaps as a side effect of my renewed sexuality, I found myself sizing up the men in my life.. With Jonah, there was a dark radiance in the air. I felt like a fruit fly, wondering if the pheromones were mine or his.
“How’s Camilla?”
“She’s pregnant.”
“Congratulations.”
“It’s not mine.”
“Ah.”
“What about. you? You involved with anyone these days?”
“Could be. It’s hard to know.”
His smile was brief. “See you in the morning.”
That you will, I thought.
Chapter 14
*
Once Jonah was gone, I found myself reluctant to return to the library. I could hear Christie and Tasha talking together companionably, their voices
light, the conversation interspersed with nervous laughter. The subject had obviously changed. The ego is ill-prepared to deal with death for long. Even at a wake or a funeral, the topic tends to drift to safer ground whenever possible. I scanned the empty foyer, trying to get my bearings. Across from the library was the living room. I’d been in there, but I’d never seen the rest of the ground floor.
I passed under the stairs to an intersecting corridor that branched off in both directions. I caught a glimpse of a powder room across the hall. I saw two doors on the right, but both were closed. Under the circumstances, I thought it unwise to snoop indiscriminately. In the unlikely event I encountered a cop, I was roaming in the guise of someone looking for the kitchen so I could offer my help.
Before, the house had felt comfortable despite the touches of shabbiness that appeared throughout. Now I was acutely aware of the imprint of Guy’s murder.
The very air seemed heavy, the gloom as languorous as a dense fog drifting through the rooms.
I took a left, moving toward the unhappy scent of cooked cabbage at the end of the hall. In a sudden glimpse of the future, I could envision the day when this house would be sold to a private boys’ school and the smell of cruciform vegetables would overpower all else. Young lads in hard shoes would clatter through the halls between classes. The room where Guy had. been bludgeoned to death would be turned into a dormitory where adolescent boys would abuse themselves surreptitiously after lights out. Always, there would be rumors about the pale apparition gliding down the corridor, hovering on the landing at the turn of the stairs. I found myself walking quickly, anxious for human company.
Beyond the dining room and butler’s pantry, the swinging door to the kitchen stood open. The room looked vast to me, but then my entire culinary kingdom would fit in the rear of a moderately priced station wagon. The floors were pale, glossy pegged oak planks stretching out in all directions. The custom cupboards were dark cherry and the counters were topped with mottled green marble. There were sufficient cookbooks, utensils, and small appliances in view to furnish one small section of a Williams-Sonoma retail outlet. The stove top looked bigger than the double bed in my loft and the refrigerator had clear doors with all the contents on view. To the right, there was the equivalent of a little sitting area; and beyond, there was a glassed-in porch that extended the entire length of the room. Here the lush scent of roast chicken and garlic overrode the odor of cooked cabbage. Why does someone else’s cooking always smell so much better than your own?