Grave Error

by Stephen Greenleaf

  “Where does he live?”

  “Got a big ranch north of town. Gentleman farmer, you might say. He doesn’t go to the bank much anymore. Too bad.”

  “Do you think the boy killed the old man?”

  “Sure. Angie said he did, and there wasn’t anything complicated about it. He was definitely drunk—the old man, I mean—and his wife had been badly beaten. Someone conked him on the side of the head three or four times. Must have been the kid, since Angie wasn’t big enough to smash a skull like that. Course just because he killed old man Peel doesn’t mean he’d get murder one. Peel was as mean as a badger, and he’d been beating his wife like he did most every night. The boy wouldn’t have much trouble proving he clubbed the old man to save Mrs. Peel’s life. No trouble at all if Angie would show up and testify for him and Mrs. Peel would corroborate it. He’d walk away from it completely if he got a good lawyer. Voluntary manslaughter at the most, with a suspended sentence.”

  “Why do you think he ran off then?” I asked.

  “Panic. If you’ve never seen a dead man before, to say nothing of one you’ve killed yourself, it can do things to your mind. The kid probably went bananas, just wanted to get as far away from the body as fast as he could. The car was going over ninety when it crashed. There is one other possibility, though.”

  “What?”

  “Well, there was one funny thing about the case. Old man Peel wasn’t always a drunk. At one time he was a fairly normal man—good husband, father, all that. Then he had a bad accident—fell off a ladder and broke his back and half the other bones in his body. He never did heal quite right, they said, always in pain, which is why he started on the booze. Anyway, after he fell he filed a lawsuit against the company that made the ladder. Claimed it was defective, I guess. Story was he settled for over a hundred thousand dollars. But no one could figure out where it went. Peel stayed drunk and he and his wife stayed out by the tracks and Angelina stayed wild, so the joke was that Jed buried it in the yard one night and was too drunk to remember where he put it. Anyhow, I always figured it was possible, just possible, that the Whitson kid and Angie killed the old man to get that money. No one found any dough, of course, and I don’t have any proof at all. But still.”

  “Just a little food for thought, Sheriff?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I’d say the food was a little rancid.”

  “I’d say you’re probably right.”

  NINETEEN

  The shrubbery was so dense and overgrown I almost missed the turn. As it was, by the time I noticed the driveway I had overshot it by twenty yards and had to pull onto the shoulder and back up. A truck loaded with carrots blared at me as it roared by and left me with a nose full of fumes and dust.

  The gap in the hedge was barely large enough for the car to get through. Stiff branches scraped at my fenders, prickly mercenaries hired to keep me out. Off to one side a small stone gate house was awry from disuse.

  Once through the hedge, the driveway wound through a random grove of walnut trees for a hundred yards. The ground was littered with rotting nuts and the dead husks crackled and popped under my tires as I rolled along.

  At the end of the walnut grove the trees gave way to a wide patch of lawn that separated the drive and the garage from the main house. The place was a mansion—a huge hacienda built of limestone and redwood and adobe. The orange roof tiles glowed like coals and the ironwork around the windows was as delicate as a spider’s web. The walls were too white to look at without squinting. The magnificence was incongruous there on the outskirts of Oxtail, as out of place as a princess at a bowling alley.

  I parked behind one of last year’s Fleetwoods and followed a limestone pathway across the lawn. When I was halfway to the house the sprinkling system kicked on with a hiss and soaked the legs of my trousers before I could hop out of the way. I wished I knew who was paying me back. And for what.

  Somewhere behind the house a dog barked, high and sharp, like mindless laughter. I strolled up and down the pathway until my shoes had stopped squishing and my pants were dry. No one came around to ask me what I was doing, but I had an answer ready just in case. After four laps up and down the path I went over to the door and banged the heavy iron ring that hung in the center of it and waited for someone to open up. In less than a minute someone did.

  She was loveliness distilled, an Aztec virgin with skin the color of syrup, hair as lustrous as ermine, eyes as soft as powder. She looked down at me from the doorway with an expression that indicated she was sure I was in the wrong place but she would do what she could to set me straight. I had a strong urge to touch her, the way I have an urge to touch a Rembrandt or a Rolls or a rose whenever I see one.

  A minute later the girl still hadn’t said a word. Her eyes just widened a fraction, mutely asking me to state my business. I gave her my name and said I wanted to see Mr. Whitson. She still didn’t say anything, or do anything either. It was clear I would have to say more than that if I hoped to get through the door. So I told her I wanted to talk to Whitson about a man named Harry Spring. And about his son, Michael. And about his granddaughter, Claire.

  She just blinked and closed the door on me before I could stop her. I tried to open it and couldn’t. Then I knocked till my knuckles hurt. I was about to turn away when the door opened again and the girl motioned for me to come inside.

  The foyer I followed her into was the size of a narthex in a Gothic cathedral. Somber tapestries hung heavily down the walls and the tile floor looked like it had never felt a heel. The ceiling was high and white and striped with black beams. At the far end of the hall a wide staircase swept up to an interior balcony that rimmed the room. I wanted some grand lady to sweep down the stairs to greet me, just like in the movies, but it didn’t happen.

  The girl gestured toward a straight-backed chair over against the wall, then went through a door and left me alone. I sat down, but felt so tiny I stood up again. The house was as quiet as a crypt, so I tapped my foot on the tile and heard an echo like a stone down a well. I looked at the tapestries until the peasants began to move. I felt like I was waiting to see the Pope.

  A shoe scraped against the tile and I looked around. An old man stood there, leaning on a blackthorn walking stick and squinting in my direction. His body was stiff and tilted, a puppet with a tangled string. He was wearing a robe and slippers and nothing else that I could see. His calves and wrists were as slim and gray as gun barrels.

  “I’m John Whitson,” he said in a dry, thin voice. “Will you follow me, please?”

  By the time he got himself turned around I was beside him. For a moment I thought he was going to fall, but he knew what the walking stick was for and we both made it into the living room without collapsing.

  Whitson probably called it home, but the public library could have used it as a reading room. Twenty different styles of chairs were scattered around, built of everything from cowhide to deer antlers, along with the appropriate tables and rugs and lamps and other accoutrements. One wall was mostly glass—a series of sliding doors that opened onto a lush atrium. Another wall was entirely taken up by a fireplace that I could have walked into without stooping and stretched out both arms without touching the sides. Various swords and daggers hung from the stone above the mantel, as though Whitson had recently disarmed a band of conquistadors.

  Whitson went to the center of the room and sat on one of a pair of matched leather couches that faced each other like a couple of Hereford bulls. I sat in the other one. The leather was as soft and fragrant as fresh taffy.

  Without making a sound, the girl glided to Whitson’s side and stood motionless while he asked if I wanted something to drink. I had trouble taking my eyes off the girl, but neither of them seemed to notice.

  I told Whitson I would have whatever he was having and he told the girl to bring the wine. In another moment she returned with a pair of silver goblets brimming with a chilled rosé. I smiled at the girl and thanked her, but her e
xpression didn’t change. It didn’t bother me. Nothing she could do would bother me.

  “I rarely see people who arrive without an appointment,” Whitson began suddenly. “In fact, I rarely see people at all.”

  “I appreciate your hospitality.”

  “It was my curiosity, not my hospitality, that got you through the door, Mr. Tanner. As I’m sure you know. What do you know about my son?”

  “Very little,” I admitted. “I was hoping you could tell me something about him.”

  “I see,” Whitson said, the eagerness leaking out of his voice. “Are you a news reporter?”

  “No.”

  “A peace officer?”

  “No.”

  “Then what is your business?”

  “I’m a private investigator,” I answered. “I’m looking into the death of a man named Spring. He was killed here in Oxtail a few days ago. You probably saw it in the papers.”

  “I see no local newspapers,” he said. “The New York Times and The Wall Street Journal are flown to me by special arrangement every day. They contain everything I could conceivably wish to know. You say you are investigating someone’s death. Who is your principal?”

  “No one. Unless you count Harry Spring’s wife. I’m not getting paid, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Do you do that often? Work without pay?” Whitson seemed genuinely interested.

  “Not often,” I replied. “I knew Harry for a long time. My life’s going to be a lot less pleasant with him gone. I’d like to make sure the guy who killed him will have the same problem.”

  “I see.” Whitson tapped the floor with his stick and the girl removed the goblets. I hadn’t quite finished, but I didn’t say anything.

  “Since you appear to be seeking information rather than imparting it,” Whitson went on, “your reference to my son and to a nonexistent grandchild was obviously a ruse to get in to see me. I do not choose to be imposed upon any further. Good afternoon, Mr. Tanner. You seem competent. I’m sure you will find the man you’re looking for.” Whitson struggled to get to his feet and I held up my hand.

  “It wasn’t entirely a ruse, Mr. Whitson,” I said quickly. “It’s true that I haven’t any definite information about your son, but I’m reasonably certain I know the identity of your granddaughter.”

  “I have no granddaughter, Mr. Tanner, and I have no patience for people who toy with me. Please let yourself out.”

  “You mean you deny that Angie Peel’s child was fathered by your son?”

  “I deny nothing and I admit nothing. Why should I? I know of no such child.”

  I wiped my forehead, trying to decide how to proceed. This seemed like one of the times to follow a straight line. “When did you become a recluse, Mr. Whitson? When did you stop going into town, and taking the local papers?”

  “Right after the accident, after I was told my son was dead and that he was suspected of murder. After my wife died of grief.”

  “And no one told you Angie Peel, the girl with your son when he was killed, gave birth to a child a few weeks later? And named your son the father?”

  Whitson straightened in his chair. Some of the age seemed to drop away from him, like an extra layer of flesh. His eyes fixed on mine, as gray as cigar ash. “No one has told me anything about a child,” he said slowly. “The reason is quite simple. When I was told by the police that my son was dead and that he was suspected of dying ignobly, after taking a life, I forbade any reference to those events in my presence. When you reach a position such as mine, forbidden subjects are never broached.”

  “Well, I’m broaching them, Mr. Whitson,” I said. “The man I mentioned, Harry Spring, was looking into those subjects, and I think it got him killed. And that should interest you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because what the police thought was true twenty years ago may not have been true at all.”

  “What do you mean? Why was this man Spring prying into all this?”

  “Because he was hired by a young girl, an adoptee, to locate her natural parents. Somehow he learned that the girl was the daughter of Angelina Peel and your son, Michael Whitson.”

  The old man closed his eyes and shuddered. “If this is a ruse, Mr. Tanner, you will live to regret it.”

  “It’s no ruse. The girl is almost certainly your granddaughter.”

  Whitson shook his head. “How horribly ironic, that she should be looking for me. Had I but known of her existence I would have moved heaven and earth to find her. Where are they? The Peel girl and the child?”

  “I don’t know where Angie is. She left town right after she had the baby and hasn’t been heard from since, as far as I know. The girl was put up for adoption. She lives in San Francisco now. And she’s not a girl. She’s a woman, twenty years old.”

  “You mean you know her?” Whitson said excitedly. “You’ve actually seen her, talked with her?”

  I nodded.

  “What’s her name? Tell me, man.”

  “I can’t,” I said. “Not yet.”

  “Nonsense. If it’s a matter of money, I’ll pay you anything you ask. I can make you wealthy for the rest of your life.”

  Whitson’s voice was confident, which always makes it easier to say no. “Money has nothing to do with it,” I said. “A lot of other lives are involved now. The girl doesn’t know I’ve traced her parents, or about the murder or any of the rest of it. Her adoptive parents don’t even know about her search. I don’t want to open that can of worms until I’ve learned what happened to Harry Spring. Did Harry come here, Mr. Whitson?”

  “No,” Whitson sighed. “He called and, like you, mentioned my son. He wanted to come out and see me but I refused. After I hung up I began to think better of my decision, but it was too late. I didn’t know where to reach him. And now you say he’s dead.”

  “He’s definitely dead, and I’m sure his death is tied up with the Peel murder or your son or both.”

  “How could it be?”

  I ignored Whitson’s question and asked one of my own. “Is it possible your son is still alive, Mr. Whitson?”

  The old man jerked as though he’d been clubbed in the back of the neck. His mouth dropped open and his eyes seemed to tunnel even deeper into his skull, like frightened mice. The girl rushed to his side, but he waved her away, his hands clenched in fists. “What makes you ask me that?” he gasped.

  “Just a hunch,” I said. “If Harry Spring was killed because someone wanted to keep him away from the Peel case, your son would be a likely prospect. If he’s still alive.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because if he is alive he’s undoubtedly established a new identity for himself, a new life that might not survive his exposure as a suspected killer.”

  “Suspected killer,” Whitson repeated slowly. “That’s what the newspapers called him after the crash. That’s why I stopped reading them. My son is no killer. Not then and not now.”

  Whitson’s eyes left mine and gazed around the room, as if recording its contents for the first time. His breaths were audible, shrill whistles that sent chills down my back. My guess was emphysema, but it could just as easily have been the dry rot of old age. “Do you like this house, Mr. Tanner?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “It’s a fairy tale, but an impressive fairy tale.”

  “The house is over one hundred years old,” Whitson continued. “It was built by my great-grandfather. The ranch itself predates the Treaty of Guadalupé Hidalgo. The Mexican governor for the area, Pio Pico, granted the land to a man named Beniquez in eighteen forty-five. My great-great-grandfather bought it with money he made during the gold rush. In eighteen forty-eight he was an immigrant, a laborer on the San Francisco docks. Two years later he owned twenty thousand acres of California.

  “Of course in those days this area was considered virtually worthless. A desert, fit for nothing but raising cattle. But he had faith and a vision of what water could do to the soil, and he and his successors found a w
ay to get it here. Now we raise thirty different crops. Grapes. Lettuce. Avocados. Strawberries. My strawberry plants are patented. Did you know plants could be patented, Mr. Tanner?”

  I shook my head but didn’t say anything. The old man was going somewhere and I didn’t want to get in his way.

  “I have worked hard on the ranch,” he continued. “I have improved the strength and yield of the crop varieties, and I have improved the living conditions of the people who work the land. They earn a good living, and they now work here year round, are no longer migrants. Their children all go to school; many have gone to college. I believe it is a good life for them here.

  “Yes, I have worked hard, but it is not something I can be proud of. I inherited this ranch, Mr. Tanner. And the bank and the trucking company and the warehouses. You could say that everything I have was given to me. Even my wife, rest her soul. She was a fine woman, but she was not uninterested in my money or my position.”

  I showed I understood what he was saying and Whitson coughed, then went on, his voice crackling like warming ice.

  “Even this girl,” he said, gesturing toward her. “Even this girl, the silent princess Marisa, she too was given to me. She is a descendant of the Mexican family that once owned this ranch. Her people have worked the land for six generations, first as owners, then as tenants. Her father is my foreman. He awarded her to me. Not as a matter of seignorial right, Mr. Tanner, no, but because he did not want this lovely flower to wilt in the world outside these walls. I have been honored to supply the care and succor Marisa has needed. As you can see, the flower still blooms.”

  The girl made no sign to indicate Whitson had been talking about her. She was mute, and possibly deaf, and as beautiful as a bird.

  Whitson coughed in a deep spasm that made him strain to get a breath. He jabbed his stick to the floor, and the girl rushed to his side again, grabbing a glass of water from a table on her way by. Two little pills glimmered like pearls in her ochre palm. Whitson swallowed them with water, and closed his eyes. When they opened they were looking at me.