by Janet Dawson
“Where’s Minna?” I asked.
“Minna gets tired of being cooped up here with the old man.” Errol grinned, setting his book on the table. “So every now and then she escapes for dinner and a movie with a friend. Being able to go off on one’s own is the secret to marital longevity. I can fix us some dinner here or we can walk downtown.”
“Either sounds good to me.” I settled into the other chair and sipped my wine.
“If it’s any consolation,” Errol said, “Minna never got along with her mother either.” I shot him a look over the rim of my glass. “Minna was from a rich old San Francisco family with a mansion in Pacific Heights. She went to the best schools and summered up at Lake Tahoe in a big stone pile they called a cottage. Then she went off to Bryn Mawr to major in English literature. Not that she was going to do anything with her degree. I think the plan was for her to snag some presentable scion of an equally wealthy family.”
Errol punctuated this recitation with a wicked laugh. “She certainly was supposed to do far better than marry a rather rakish private investigator from Oakland. I think that’s what grated on them the most, that I was from Oakland.”
“Rakish, huh?’ I grinned at him. “I’ll bet you wore a trench coat and a fedora and had a bottle of scotch in your desk drawer.”
“I always favored bourbon.” His mouth curved upward. “I was somewhat of a ladies’ man in those days.”
Now I laughed. “I’ll bet you were,” I looked at him fondly. Sometimes I thought if Errol were twenty years younger... well, so much for idle speculation. Besides, the man adored his wife.
“When I met Minna,” he was saying, “all that changed. Her father and I became friends over time. I never could win over my mother-in-law, though. She barely tolerated me, until the day she died. Anyway, mothers and daughters are an odd combination. Our own daughter—” He stopped and narrowed his eyes. “You don’t want to hear this now. I’m maundering, not focusing on the business at hand.”
“You tell me what your friend found out about Peter Logan,” I said. “Then I’ll tell you about my conversation with Charles Harper.”
Errol nodded. “Logan’s first marriage was very brief, to what they used to call a starlet, back in the fifties when Peter was a new arrival in Hollywood. He married again in the early sixties, to a costume designer who’d also been married before. This woman had a daughter by her first marriage. She and Peter were still married when he wrote the script for a movie starring Sylvie Romillard. They met on the set and romance blossomed.”
“So Logan had an affair with Sylvie while he was still married to his second wife,” I said. “Seems to me that’s a common enough occurrence, in Hollywood or elsewhere.”
“It was a fairly ugly divorce,” Errol said, sipping his wine. “Marked by some unsavory allegations about Peter’s behavior with his teenage stepdaughter. The second wife told the court he’d molested the girl, which Peter denied. At the time the girl was fourteen. At first she said he did it, then she recanted.”
“So the charge was never proven. But still, it was made.” I shook my head and set my glass down on the table. All of a sudden the wine didn’t taste very good. “Is Peter Logan a child molester who got away with it, or the victim of his second wife’s revenge?”
“No one knows, but there are many opinions, according to my friend.” Errol leaned forward. “Those allegations hung over Peter’s head like the sword of Damocles. If he’d been a bit more important than a middle-aged, middle-ranked screenwriter, perhaps it wouldn’t have mattered. As it was, the incident was enough to make a few people turn their backs on Peter and Sylvie. According to my friend, the Logans didn’t so much get burned out on Hollywood as Hollywood burned out on them. That’s why Sylvie retired from acting. Her career wasn’t going anywhere before she became involved with Peter. And afterward the parts simply evaporated. As for Peter, my friend says he hasn’t had a screenplay produced in years.”
“How do they get by financially in a place like Carmel?”
“Real estate, of course.” Errol saluted Carmel and its high-priced environs with his glass. “Land is the big cash cow around here and over the years Peter acquired several properties. Rentals, commercial, and I think he may have been involved in some hotel construction with your cousin George the developer. Plus he writes a series of action-adventure thrillers. So Peter and Sylvie Logan are not hurting for money.”
I frowned. Allegations of Peter Logan’s sexual misconduct with his stepdaughter years ago was a potent piece of information, but where did it fit in the puzzle? Was it even part of this puzzle at all? If this story, decades old, was true, how did it fit with the man who had so obviously been grieving at his daughter’s funeral? Had Peter Logan done something to his own daughter?
The picture that thought conjured up was grotesque. I’d wanted some leverage to get the Logans to let me look at Ariel’s things from the apartment in San Luis Obispo and now I had it. Thing was, using this as leverage made me feel soiled. It’s a good thing Minna wasn’t here. She wouldn’t like any of this. In addition to being worried about Errol for getting embroiled in this investigation, because of his health, she knew the Logans. She wouldn’t like hearing about the skeletons in Peter Logan’s closet.
“Of course it’s unpleasant,” Errol said, as though he’d read my mind. His expression was as serious as my thoughts.
“An investigator encounters sleaze and venality all the time, Jeri. You knew that when you came to work for me and you’ve certainly confronted your share of corruption since then. You’re the one who says that anyone who turns over rocks for a living should be prepared for what crawls out.”
Stinkpot got up and stretched, then his attention was caught by something moving at the back of the garden. He lowered his head and began stalking it, moving insidiously toward his prey.
“It still holds true,” I said slowly, wondering what effect my share of corruption had on my soul. “I also think it’s important to be bothered by the sleaze and venality when I encounter it. I’ve met too many investigators who’ve let their shells harden so that nothing—good or bad—can get through the protective armor.”
“I hope I’m not one of them,” Errol said.
I reached for his hand, still strong even if the flesh was loose and crepey and discolored by spots. “Not you, Errol. Never you.”
We sat in silence. Stinkpot pounced on whatever he’d been stalking. As I watched the big cat I hoped that whatever it was would get away. I felt relieved when I saw a bird escape in flight.
“All we have here is the implication. We don’t know whether there’s any truth to these rumors about Peter Logan. I’m not out to prove or disprove them. I just want to examine Ariel’s things.” I sighed. “The man buried his daughter on Monday.”
“What if he had something to do with her death?” Errol reminded me. “After all, he was seen at the Rocky Point Restaurant the same day she was killed and he’s evidently lying about when he returned from Paris. He came back early. Why?”
What possible explanation could there be for Peter’s early return? My mind began playing “what if” games. What if there was a connection between Peter and Karl Beckman? There could be, a tenuous one. Beckman Boat Works was in financial difficulty and the boatyard occupied some prime real estate on Monterey’s Cannery Row. What if Karl Beckman was planning to sell out to some developer? While I was asking myself questions, what if Peter Logan killed his own daughter?
When I thought developer I thought of my pompous cousin George, who’d built a couple of hotels on the Row. He would know if something was in the works. In fact, if my speculation were true, he was probably in it up to his avaricious fingertips. Which meant it would take a crowbar to pry any information out of him.
“What did you find out in King City?” Errol sensed that I needed time to mull over the Logan information, so he changed the subject. “What does Charlie Harper think about his sister’s death?’
“He thinks hi
s brother-in-law had something to do with it.” I gave Errol the details of my conversation with Harper. “Karl had an affair with Lacy, which is really no surprise. His face closes up every time her name is mentioned. Janine found out and changed her will. Then she and Gunter died in the car wreck.”
“I wonder about Lacy,” Errol said, “and her ice-maiden exterior. I’ve heard rumors about her sexual escapades, ever since she married Gunter. And Gunter never made any secret about his exploits, before or after the ceremony. They had what used to be called an open marriage, so much so that I’m surprised they bothered making it legal. Fidelity wasn’t an issue. But it would be with Karl and Janine.”
“I think it’s time I took a closer look at Lacy.” I finished the wine in my glass. “She’s intimately involved with the business of Beckman Boat Works. Ryan Trent told me her family name was Standish, and she’s from San Francisco. Ring any bells?”
Errol shook his head. “Not with me. But Minna probably knows. Her sister’s still living in the Pacific Heights manse. Are you hungry? I am, and 1 don’t feel like cooking.”
“Errol, I love you, but I’ve sampled your cooking. Meal preparation is Minna’s forte, not yours. Where shall we go?”
He grinned as he got out of his chair. “There’s this pleasant little bistro at Fifth and Monte Verde.”
We walked downtown. The restaurant was tucked into an out-of-the-way courtyard Errol led the way up a path and held open the door. As we stepped into the foyer we came face-to-face with the people we’d been discussing half an hour earlier.
Peter and Sylvie Logan sat on a short bench opposite the door, their bodies close together, their hands entwined. Glennis Braemer stood at her brother’s left shoulder, next to a large potted orchid. Three pairs of eyes swiveled toward us. Sylvie’s eyes were brown and red-rimmed and she looked as haggard as she had at the funeral earlier in the week. She quickly turned her gaze away and I saw her hand tighten on Peter’s.
Her husband glared at Errol as though he’d been betrayed by a friend. No doubt he felt that he had, although Minna Seville knew the Logans better than Errol did. Peter had asked Errol to use his investigative skills to get evidence that would prove Bobby had killed Ariel Logan, and Errol had declined. Then Errol had compounded his affront by showing up in the enemy camp at the funeral, and by asking the Logans if I could examine Ariel’s things. The Logans knew I was Bobby’s cousin and a private investigator who once worked for Errol. Their eyes were full of hostility.
Glennis Braemer started to say something, then thought better of it. She swept both Errol and me with a withering glare. But Peter Logan stood, his face contorted with fury, his anger directed not at me, but at Errol.
“I know what you’ve been doing. A friend of mine called from L.A. He said some private eye’s been digging around, asking questions about me. You instigated that, didn’t you? Prying around in things that are none of your business. Admit it, damn it.”
Errol looked at the other man, head tilted to one side, his expression bland. Then he nodded.
“Good God, Errol.” Peter’s voice was laced with bitterness. “I thought we were friends. Why are you doing this?”
“I was an investigator for more than forty years,” Errol said, sounding thoughtful. “I suppose I always will be. Yes, Peter, I did a background check on you. I know about the divorce, and the charges made against you at the time.”
Peter Logan drew back from him, as though from a blow. Glennis Braemer narrowed her eyes and opened her mouth. But Sylvie spoke first.
“I will never think of you and Minna in the same way.” Sylvie Logan’s voice was low and sad. She still had a French accent, even after all her years in the United States. Her words held a tinge of regret at the irretrievable loss of friends. “Why have you done this?”
I stepped forward. “Because I need to examine Ariel’s things from college.”
“That’s out of the question.” Glennis Braemer dismissed me with a curt wave.
“Those boxes you brought up from San Luis Obispo might hold a few clues to why Ariel was killed.”
“I won’t have you pawing around in my daughter’s belongings,” Peter raged. “Your cousin murdered Ariel. Sooner or later he’ll pay for it, even if the DA let him out of jail.”
“Fine,” I said. It was time to play the trump card. “Let’s talk about your return from Paris, Mr. Logan. Everyone seems to think you and Mrs. Logan came back together on Sunday.”
Peter Logan stood very still, as though rooted to the wooden floor of the restaurant foyer. I thought his face looked paler than usual. But it could have been the glow of a nearby street lamp.
“Someone saw you at the Rocky Point Restaurant Friday night, identified you from a photograph, in fact. You were there the night your daughter was killed. Do you want to tell me about that? Or should I pass this information on to Sergeant Magruder?”
Thirty-five
GLENNIS BRAEMER CALLED SUNDAY MORNING WHILE I lingered over coffee and breakfast with Errol and Minna. She didn’t waste any words. Lunch, one o’clock, the Tuck Box on Dolores. When I agreed to meet her, she hung up without any further niceties. I didn’t expect any after the ugly scene at the restaurant.
That incident left a bad taste in my mouth. Errol’s, too. He’d been subdued last night when he gave Minna a report. She wasn’t pleased with what he’d had to say.
Perhaps Mrs. Braemer’s call meant my words to Peter Logan would have the desired result. Leverage, that was the word Errol and I had used. I wanted a chance to examine Ariel’s possessions from her apartment in San Luis Obispo. Maybe I’d gained the access I needed. In doing so I’d also earned the enmity of the Logan family.
But Bobby was still in trouble, and he was part of my family. I doubted Sergeant Magruder would back off his investigation, even though the DA had declined to charge Bobby with Ariel’s murder. That just meant Magruder would redouble his efforts to come up with a stronger case against my cousin. My family, I thought, picturing that large, noisy, and exasperating conglomeration of Doyles and Ravellas, those relatives I didn’t visit often enough.
So it came down to family. I could only tolerate them in small groups or for a limited amount of time. But when I saw Donna, Nick and Tina, or Uncle Dom and Aunt Teresa, there was the instant recognition of shared blood and heritage, tied to this place.
In a contest between my family and someone else’s I knew where my loyalties lay. Besides, I wanted to find out who killed Ariel. Had she lived, she would have joined my family.
At twelve-thirty I walked downtown, savoring the early-October sunshine that splashed through the trees as houses gave way to inns, shops, and galleries. The Tuck Box is quaint and touristy, though Minna tells me the locals like to meet there over big cups of English Breakfast tea. With its oddly shaped structure and steep-pitched roof it tries hard to be a thatched-roof cottage in the Cotswolds. Inside, the windows are curtained in red-and-pink flowered fabric. The young women waiting on tables are definitely California grown, tanned and leggy in their pink T-shirts and black shorts.
I’d eaten at the tearoom before. The food wasn’t all that remarkable. But then, British cuisine, such as it is, has limits. One doesn’t go to the Tuck Box for the food but for the experience.
Glennis Braemer stood near the entrance of the Tuck Box, wearing a gray raw-silk pantsuit enlivened only by a magenta scarf in the breast pocket of the jacket. Her mouth was a thin line with just a hint of lipstick. The blue eyes were masked by a pair of oversized sunglasses.
She acknowledged my arrival with a curt nod and swept past a trio of girls who’d stopped to peer into the tearoom’s front window. I followed her through the front door into the postage-stamp-size waiting area, which was full of people in shorts with cameras slung around their necks. We had to wait about twenty minutes for a free table. During that time she said nothing to me. She appeared to be staring resolutely ahead of her, but I couldn’t tell because of the sunglasses. I amused myself by watc
hing tourists, which Carmel always has in great supply.
Finally we were seated at a small table next to the fireplace on the other side of the tiny dining room. I found myself facing a picture of flowers on the wall. Mrs. Braemer sat next to the window that looked out at the courtyard next to the tearoom, which held several tables and a little shop where customers could purchase orange marmalade, scone mix, and the inevitable T-shirts.
Looking out the window was evidently preferable to looking at me. She removed her sunglasses, stowed them in the slim gray leather bag she carried, and occupied the next few minutes gazing at the occupants of an outside table. When the server appeared at our table she ordered scones and tea without ever glancing at the menu that lay unopened before her.
“I’ll have the Welsh rarebit,” I said, handing the menu to the young woman who stood at our table. “And a pot of English Breakfast.” I waited until the server left. “You wanted to talk to me, Mrs. Braemer. Suppose you lead off.”
She turned her head from the window and fixed me with her angry blue eyes. “Why are you harassing my brother and his wife?”
“I’m not harassing anyone.”
The server returned with our tea and Glennis Braemer waited before speaking again. Instead she picked up the pot and the strainer and poured herself a full cup of dark brown tea. She raised the cup to her lips and took a mouthful. Then she set the cup in the saucer with a firm clink.
“You are a ghoul,” she said, her voice a low-pitched whip. “How dare you intrude on my family’s grief? They’ve lost their only child, for God’s sake. You are prying into things that are none of your business. First you went to San Luis Obispo to talk to Maggie, then Ryan Trent. And your former employer, Mr. Seville, had the audacity to set one of his cronies rooting around in my brother’s past. Private investigator—” She said this last with a sneer. “How can you lower yourself to do what you do? Invading privacy, peeking in keyholes.”
