Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 03

by Milk;Honey

  He noticed Annette was hanging on to his words. Good.

  “How do you kill alligators if you don’t shoot them?” Annette asked.

  “It’s a whole procedure,” Decker said. “First you bait them with a modified stick…it’s a kind of a gaff. Once you have them biting, you tie them up, bind them completely. Then you insert this special type of gun in their mouths that shoots upward. It scrambles their brains without ruining the hides.”

  Annette stuck out her tongue to show displeasure.

  “Sounds pretty bad,” Decker said. “But if you don’t keep the population under control, the buggers migrate and wind up in your swimming pool.”

  Decker smiled, Annette smiled back, looked like she was having a good time. He said, “I grew up in a family of independent folk, not unlike yourselves. We had lots of guns: rifles, shotguns, handguns. You carry a gun, Annette?”

  “No, sir,” she answered.

  “How about your husband? Or Darlene or Byron?”

  “Jeff has a rifle. Darlene and I know how to shoot, but we don’t like guns, really.”

  “Byron carry anything smaller than a shotgun?”

  “Byron don’t like pistols,” Annette said. “Says they’re for killing people and not game. I’ve only seen him with his shotgun.”

  But something sounded off to Decker. He wrote himself a note to that effect and decided to change the conversation. Annette had become rigid, and he didn’t want to lose her.

  “Let’s talk a little more about Linda,” Decker said. “I’ve been asking around, found out that Linda had a reputation. What do you know about that?”

  Annette didn’t seem anxious to talk. She sipped her coffee, added two packs of sugar, and finally said, “Well, I heard things. But I didn’t know for sure, so I didn’t say anything. No sense spreading dirt.”

  Decker asked her what kind of things she heard. Annette straightened up in her seat and explained that Linda and Carla were known as wild girls and some people talk.

  “Like the people at Hell’s Heaven?”

  “Especially the people at the Heaven.”

  “Anyone in specific?”

  “Carly had lots of boyfriends,” Annette said. She added disapprovingly, “Too many to count. And Linda? I can’t rightly say that I knew for sure if she was steppin’ out, except with Byron, of course. But I knew there were problems with the marriage, so the rumors kinda made some sense.”

  “What kind of problems?”

  “All sorts of problems.”

  “Like?”

  Annette ticked them off. “Money problems, in-law problems, baby-making problems.”

  “Linda tell you all this?”

  Annette nodded. “We used to talk, but not too often. After Byron, I…Darlene used to watch all of us, made me feel like a traitor if I talked to Linda. So I guess I just stopped. Family first…”

  She seem burdened by that obligation.

  Decker said, “Let’s talk about the problems one by one. What kind of money problems?”

  Annette told him that Linda had always wanted fancier things than what Sagebrush could give her. She wanted to sell the land for quick cash. Honey farming’s a hard living unless you love it, and the land was probably worth more than the bees on it. But no way Pappy D would sell the land. He felt Linda was turning Luke against him.

  She took another sip of coffee and said, “And it was sort of true. Everyone knew that Linda was trying to get Luke to sell out, move the cash into another business. Luke did a lot for Linda, things he might not of done for another girl, but he remained stubborn on the selling issue. Like Jeff and Byron, guess honey farming was in Luke’s blood, too.”

  “Linda ever tell you how much she thought the land was worth?”

  “No,” Annette said. “I don’t get involved in money affairs. Keeps me out of the family squabbles.” She stopped talking for a moment. “Money and family squabbles do seem related. Guess I answered both problems one and two with that.”

  “Then let’s move on to problem three,” Decker said. “I’m assuming Linda had trouble getting pregnant.”

  Annette nodded.

  “Was it just Linda who had the problem?”

  “I think it was both.” Annette turned scarlet, her voice dropped to a whisper. She leaned in close. “I think I recall Linda tellin’ me that Luke wasn’t really good in that department.”

  Decker whispered back, “He was a bad lover?”

  “Oh no!” Annette protested. She sat up. “I didn’t mean that at all. I mean, I don’t know if he was a good lover or a bad lover. She never complained about that. I just meant that I don’t think he was real fertile.”

  “But somehow she got pregnant and had Katie.”

  “Lord works in funny ways. Look at how long it took Rachel to have a baby.”

  Two years ago, Decker would have asked, Rachel who? But now he was well aware that she was referring to the biblical matriarch. He said, “Know if Linda or Luke was being treated for the problem?”

  “She never said.”

  “Do you happen to know Linda’s doctor?”

  “Well, I know who delivered Katie.”

  “What’s his name?” Decker asked.

  “Doctor Stanford Meecham.” She paused so he could write it down. “He practices in Sun Valley, and he’s in the book.”

  “Great.”

  The waitress came with the hamburger and fries. She was about to refill Decker’s cup a sixth time, but he placed his hand over the rim and shook his head.

  The waitress said, deadpan, “I was wondering how much you could take.”

  Decker laughed. He waited until Annette had finished half her meal. Then he asked about Carla.

  “What’s there to say?” Annette answered.

  “Know of anyone who’d want to hurt her? A jealous boyfriend?”

  “Like I said, she had so many boyfriends, I lost track.”

  “Did her mother lose track?”

  Annette looked confused.

  Decker said, “Did her mother seem angry about Carla and Linda? Way I heard it, Granny D is a good Christian woman who doesn’t cotton to sinners.”

  “That’s true enough,” Annette said. “Granny D didn’t like Linda, everyone knew that. But you gotta understand Granny D. She was real close to Luke, and I don’t think she would have liked his wife no matter who she was. Granny D is just that type of woman. Her family and no one else. She don’t like B.B. either, you know.”

  “What did Granny D think about Carla’s wild behavior?” Decker said.

  “I’m sure she blamed it all on Linda,” said Annette.

  “And Pappy D?”

  “I think Pappy was more upset about Linda talking to the Manfred boys.”

  Decker took a drink of ice water, then asked Annette about Byron, if he had any grudge against Luke.

  “None I can recall,” Annette said. “Lord, Byron felt guilty as sin for what he did.”

  “So Byron wasn’t out to get Luke for Linda’s sake?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  No new information was turning up. Decker made small talk until Annette finished the last of her pie. Putting his notebook away, he called the waitress over to settle the bill.

  “You’ve been a great help, Annette—”

  “You can call me Nettie. Everyone else does.”

  “Sure,” Decker said. “And thank you for coming down and talking to me.”

  “Well, thank you for lunch,” she said. “Only, I’m sorry you didn’t eat anything.”

  Decker smiled. “I’m fine.”

  “Your wife a good cook?” Annette asked.

  “Very good.”

  “Have a picture of her?”

  Decker answered no, but he hesitated a fraction too long.

  Annette said, “Yes, you do. I can tell you do. You just don’t want anyone to know you carry it, ’cause you don’t want to seem like the mushy type. Jeff’s the same way.”

  “All right, I have o
ne, then,” Decker said.

  “Well, let me see it.”

  “If you’re really interested.”

  “’Course I am. Why else would I ask to see it?”

  Groaning inwardly, he took out his wallet, knowing damn well what was going to happen. Reluctantly, he showed her a picture of Rina, and Annette’s eyes immediately clouded. She studied the snapshot for a long time.

  “She’s very beautiful,” she said quietly.

  “Thank you.”

  “She looks young.”

  “She is young.” Decker pocketed his wallet. “Not as young as she looks in the picture, but she’s still in her twenties.”

  Annette wiped her mouth. “I think it’s time to be going. What about you?”

  “I think that’s a great idea,” Decker answered. He stood and thought, Good old Rina—always the showstopper.

  20

  The house sat on the eight hundred block of Whittier Drive in Beverly Hills, a two-story Spanish villa set back on a quarter-acre of front lawn. Usually, the courtyard gate was locked, but that was no problem for Abel Atwater. He had the key. He stared at the edifice, at the verandas dripping with bougainvilleas, the arched sashes, the stained-glass windows that broke the sunlight into thousands of colored droplets. The house could double for an old Mexican mission.

  He gripped his toolbox, took a handkerchief out of his front overalls pocket, and wiped his face. The house would be cool inside, even without air-conditioning. Just the way those Spanish homes were designed—full of textured plaster that resisted the heat, and lots of windows for cross circulation.

  This particular house also stayed cool because it was shaded by a dozen blue-leaf eucalyptus and Chinese elms. Full-sized trees, the best part of the property: to him, more impressive than the two acres in the rear with its designer rock pool and ivy-covered tennis court. The back grounds, though magnificent, were manicured, cut down and shaped by man instead of nature. But those dozen trees in the front…untrimmed, untamed.

  Resigned to the task, Abel unlocked the gate and rang the bell that entoned deep, resonant chimes. A maid he’d never seen answered the door. This one was around forty, plump, with a broad nose and gold-rimmed front teeth. Lillian didn’t like them young and pretty—for obvious reasons. Lil usually kept in her employ three housekeepers at a time, changing them as often as she did her lipstick color, finding tiny faults with each one. But at least she was nice to them while they worked for her.

  “¿La señora está en su casa?” Abel asked.

  “Si. ¿Quién es?” she answered.

  “Plumber,” Abel said, in English.

  The big dark eyes scrutinized Abel. He was used to that. He remained impassive, waiting like hired help, as if time weren’t money.

  “Un momento,” she said.

  The door closed in his face. It was a beautiful door. Paneled and carved, the lacquer sanded as sleek as fur. He’d done a fine job refinishing it. A half-minute later, Lillian reopened his handiwork.

  “I didn’t call any—”

  Lillian stopped, a look of panic in her eyes.

  Abel said, “You had a plumbing problem, ma’am?”

  Her eyes darted from Abel to the maid. In rapid Spanish, she sent the maid away, then stepped outside and closed the door.

  At fifty-eight, Lillian Sandler was fighting a losing battle with age. Abel had never seen her without makeup, and he felt embarrassed for her, catching her off-guard like this. Every single wrinkle and sag stood out like bas-relief, shouting that she was overdue for another lift. Her blue eyes were red and watery, her nose was puffy. Abel wondered whether she’d been hitting the sauce again. She was dressed in white sweats, looking a bit chunkier than he remembered, her hair wrapped in a terry-cloth towel.

  “I made that call five months ago,” she said. Her voice was soft and furious. “I finally went and called a real plumber.”

  “So you have no need of my services….”

  “Cut the shit!” Lillian pulled a cigarette and a gold lighter out of her sweats. “You look like shit.”

  Abel could have said the same thing about her, but he didn’t.

  Lillian lit her cigarette and blew out a cloud of smoke. “So you come waltzing in here five months later and expect me to greet you with open arms. I left messages on your machine for a solid week. Couldn’t you have picked up the goddam phone just once and returned my call?”

  “I’m sorry about that.”

  “Sorry.” Lillian smoked and tapped her foot. “I’ve heard that word enough times in my life.”

  “You want to stay out here and rant?” Abel asked. “It’s fine if you do, Lil. I don’t mind standing around while you let off some steam.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “You’ve got nine bathrooms in the house,” Abel said. “Surely, one of the faucets has a drip I could fix.”

  Lillian’s eyes began to water. “Why didn’t you answer my calls?”

  “I was in bad blue funk, Lillian,” Abel said. “But I’m comin’ out of it. I’m sorry that things aren’t going well for you.”

  “Oh Jesus.” She brushed tears away from her eyes. “I’m getting too goddam old for this.”

  “Up to you—”

  “Stop it, Abel…. Just…stop it.”

  Abel put down his toolbox, waited for further instructions. Lillian smoked her cigarette down to the butt, then threw open the door.

  She said, “There’s a leak in the blue guest room’s bathroom…in the tub. See what you can do about it.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She stalked into the house, but left the door open for him. The same maid came back to show him to the bathroom. As if he needed help. He knew the house better than she did. But he dutifully followed her up the twisting oak-polished staircase, through mazelike rough-plastered hallways, floored with strain-grain strips of high-gloss mahogany and covered with genuine Navaho rugs. Lillian was remodeling again, the east side of the house this time. Endless money, endless time.

  “Aquí,” the maid said, bringing him into the blue guest room. “En el baño.”

  Abel nodded and closed the bedroom door. This chamber was one of the smallest bedrooms in the mansion, only 14'-by-14', and without a fireplace. It was done completely in blue and reminded Abel of an igloo. He walked into the bathroom and turned on the tub faucet. Small leak in the cold water tap. He opened his box, exposed the piping, refit the seat stopper, and, a minute later, the faucet was dripless. He stood and stripped naked, regarding himself in the mirror.

  Lillian was right. He did look like shit. His shoulders drooped, and his ribs were stretching through his skin. Two years of grueling work—the pump-up exercises, the vitamins, the health food—blown to bits. Past six months he must have lost half of all his muscle mass. The depression had really hit hard this time. He’d stopped eating, exercising, working. Hadn’t done anything but sleep—and sleepwalk. Waking up in all sorts of strange places, wondering how he got there.

  Once they threw him in the drunk tank despite his protests that he wasn’t drunk. But they didn’t know what else to do with him, so there he remained while drunks puked on him.

  Bad, he told himself. You gotta come out of it.

  And he was getting better. His sex drive had even come back. Then this shit with the whore had to happen. Almost plunged him into another pit until Doc rescued him. Now Doc had his own ideas about him. That Abel was planning to do something to his girl.

  Abel shook his head with disgust. Oh man, what a girl! As if he could possibly hope to attain something so exquisite. Once he had…Yes, once he had.

  Doc’s girl. She reminded him of his girl. The way she spoke—a soft, soft voice. Then, him forgetting to refasten his leg when she called out to him, falling on his butt. Her going on about phantom-limb pain.

  He wanted to scream, Want to make me feel better? Suck my dick! But of course he couldn’t say that to her. She was no whore. All he could do was hold back, tell himself that she didn’t
know what she was doing to him, tell himself this was Doc’s girl, so curb it.

  Just curb it.

  Then Doc walked in, red-faced, pissed as hell for no reason. But that time, Abel was pissed back. And at least that was better than being scum-sucking depressed.

  He unclasped his leg, then peeled off the sock around the stump. Reaching in his toolbox, he found a carton of talc and powdered what had once been his left leg. The end of the stump was callused, a glob of white scar tissue that had once been pink with blood and flesh.

  Gotta stop thinking about that. Gotta stop stop stop.

  He hopped over to the bed, slithered under crisp sheets, and waited. Lillian arrived ten minutes later—done up as best she could on such short notice. She was wearing a long white silk robe, and as usual, didn’t take it off until she was under the covers. Her body felt softer than usually, but it was home to Abel. He smiled at her; Lillian smiled back, afraid, a kid waiting for approval. And Abel knew it was his function to give it to her. He pinched her thighs.

  “You’ve been a good girl,” he said. “Been doin’ Janie the Cong’s workout every day?”

  “You can tell?” she asked excitedly.

  “What do you think?” Abel said. He stroked her, caressed her. Like kneading a balloon partially filled with water, soft, rolling waves of fat. She closed her eyes and moaned under his touch. Began to massage his stump. That was how he knew she was ready.

  He closed his eyes and did what he had to do.

  Afterward, she slept, but Abel remained awake, thinking about how it had all started. A long time ago, he’d come to Lillian’s house just to do plumbing. But he’d caught her crying, and Abel, ever the sucker for a woman in tears, had given her his shoulder. Somehow they’d ended up in bed. Maybe she’d felt comfortable with Abel because he hadn’t been threatening, missing a leg and all. Whatever the reason had been, Abel had still been shocked when she’d tried to tip him with a hundred-dollar bill. It had been a pity fuck, and both of them knew it, but he hadn’t expected to get paid for it.

  He’d stalked off, offended.

  She’d called him back that same day, let the phone ring, and ring and ring. Same thing had happened the next day, and the next. He had regarded her as a supreme pain in the ass. But a persistent pain. Maybe that had been why he’d agreed to see her again. Maybe a certain part of him admired her tenacity. Soon they had an arrangement, but the rules from the start had always been clear. Yes, she was paying him, but Abel was calling the shots. And she’d treated him with respect because of it.