“Arcadia.” She repeated the name. “The city does have a pastoral flair,” she laughed. But I didn’t join in. I was trying to figure out how she knew the driver was Bobby Alt.
9
CLAIRE SETTLED INTO HER corner of the Bentley. I sat silently in my corner.
“Drive to the Kenilworths’, Boulton.” She leaned toward me. “Miss Hill, I admit that the one quality I lack is a sense of humor.”
“You lack a quality?”
“But even you must acknowledge that what I said back there was rather witty. It had irony, double entendre, and a certain je ne sais quoi. Of course, the joke does depend on one’s standing in front of a large chicken and being in a city named Arcadia all at the same time. But then, great wit comes from seizing the moment and—”
“Nobody said anything.”
“I didn’t expect words, just a slight chuckle.”
“I’m not talking about your joke. I’m talking about Patricia and Victoria. They didn’t say anything. The driver didn’t say anything. How did you know he was Bobby Alt?”
“It’s not what they didn’t say. It’s what they didn’t do. Patricia and Victoria didn’t do this.” She turned a handle, and a window rolled up between Boulton and us.
“He can’t hear what we are saying, or at least our voices are muffled. In their new limousine, all they have to do is push a button. I have to crank,” she sniffed.
“Since I only drive a Honda, I’m not up on the nuances of limo etiquette.”
“Snobbery in any form dulls the senses, Miss Hill. You should try to watch it.”
“Snob! I’m not a snob. You’re the snob! Some poor middle-class jerk makes a comment about the wealthy and he’s called a snob or he’s labeled jealous instead of astute. That’s how people are kept in their place in this country.” The cheerleader in my high school was leaping toward the heavens, sneering down at me. I stopped.
Claire’s dark eyes shined mischievously.
“Oh, hell, go on.”
“Patricia is desperate for the suicide note which Ellis wrote on the back of a photograph. She doesn’t know Ellis’s last words. She thinks you do. She and her daughter have no idea what we are going to say. Our discussion could be very revealing, and yet neither one thinks it important to have the conversation in private. Why?”
“Because there’s no reason for privacy if the chauffeur is the one who broke into my apartment.”
“Exactly.”
“But the limo could be rented. He could just be any hired driver.”
“Before I got into the car I looked at the back fender. Limousine companies stencil numbers on the fenders of their cars to show they are commercially operated. There was no stenciled number. The car is privately owned—I assume by Victoria or her mother, or both. Therefore, the driver must be in their service.”
“He’s taller, bigger, blonder than his description.”
“In this day and age, when the human body is considered architecture—not simply flesh and blood—a man or woman can change their façade rather easily. All those muscles only make him appear taller. He is still five foot seven. Being a tall woman has made me an excellent judge of height. When I was a young girl I could calculate to within an eighth of an inch just how much taller I was than each of my classmates. I am five and three-quarter inches taller than you, which would make you five foot six and a quarter.”
I stared at her in amazement. I was five foot six and a quarter.
“When he helped me from the car, I slipped my card in his hand and told him he’d left a fingerprint in your apartment. If he didn’t want to be arrested for breaking and entering, he should meet me at the cottage in about an hour and a half. His tan bleached before my very eyes.” She all but smacked her refined lips.
“Why didn’t you confront Bobby Alt in the car? Demand an explanation from Victoria and her mother?” I asked.
“Because we don’t know the subject of the photograph or the content of the suicide note. They think you do. I’m hoping, away from their presence, Bobby will describe for us exactly what he was looking for in your apartment.”
“You mean, tell us who is in the photograph? Then that means Patricia and Victoria would have to know who was in the photo.”
“Yes. How else would Bobby know what he was looking for? God knows we’re all photograph-silly in this country. If he didn’t have an idea of the subject matter, he might come back to them with a picture of you and your ex-husband. And you might’ve written on the back of the photo ‘till death do us part.’ You see?”
“You’re right. You don’t have a sense of humor.”
“But what those two women do not know is the content of the suicide note. And they obviously would go to any length to discover it.”
“And you think that information will eventually lead us to who took the codicil?”
“In our first step is also our last step, Miss Hill.”
I leaned back and looked out the window. Okay, I was impressed. She wasn’t just an eccentric. She was good. I saw a drycleaning shop, a gas station, an old man in a snappy straw hat sitting on a bus bench, a realty company, a woman guiding her three little ones in front of her like a mother swan guiding her cygnets down a river. I saw a block of ordinary life pass by me. I imagined a gangly young Claire desperately calculating her schoolmates’ heights. A tall young girl could never be ordinary.
“Can’t you just call me Maggie?” I asked her, still looking out the window.
“I’m uncomfortable with the familiar,” she sighed.
There were a lot of Cadillacs, Lincolns, and Chryslers parked in front of the Kenilworth house. There was also Waingrove’s silver Mercedes.
Boulton stopped the Bentley opposite the house.
“When you worked for the Kenilworths, where did you park your car?” Claire asked.
I pointed to a big, shaggy oak. “Usually under that tree, for shade.”
“Anybody leaving the house would see your car?”
“Yes. Why?”
She didn’t answer. “I’m interested in finding out how that retarded young man…what’s his name?”
“Jerry.”
“…Jerry got into the garden unattended.”
She tapped her stick on the back of the front seat. “Boulton, while we are paying the grieving family our last respects, drive around to the back of the house. See if you can find some sort of access. Check out the neighboring houses. Maybe you can find out where Jerry lives.”
“Yes, madam,” Boulton said, looking in the rearview mirror. He was talking to her, but his brown eyes were on me.
As we made our way up the slope of lawn to the house, Boulton turned the Bentley down a side street toward the back of the Kenilworth house. I knocked on the big mahogany door. It was Waingrove who opened it. “The family is not expecting you,” he said imperiously.
“The last time I saw you you were taking over Kenilworth’s office. Now you’re taking over Aiko’s duties. Is there anything you don’t do?” We stared at one another, no love lost.
“Miss Hill, please. I’m Claire Conrad,” she announced.
He looked at her as if an imaginary person had suddenly come alive.
“Brian Waingrove.” He shook her hand, then quickly brushed his palm down the side of his trousers as if he were sweeping off lint. But I had the feeling he was really brushing off the lingering sensation of the female touch—a touch he didn’t like. “The Kenilworths’ lawyer is here. He wants to talk to you,” he said.
“I want to talk to him,” Claire said.
We followed him into the library. The room was filled with somber people frantically eating and drinking, trying to prove they were still alive. The French doors stood open. Guests spilled out onto the veranda. Waingrove moved through the group of people, nodding his head and smiling like a politician. He led us onto the veranda. Judith and Sutton leaned against the balustrade, listening intently to a large, barrel-chested man talk. Behind them the bushy green seal clapped. The fish
jumped. The cat curled in sleep. Pegasus flew.
Judith tugged at Sutton’s coat sleeve. He peered in our direction and smiled. “Maggie, so glad you could come,” he said warmly. “Ellis would have wanted it.”
“Thank you.”
“This is Claire Conrad,” Waingrove said quickly.
Judith stiffened. Sutton continued smiling. “How nice to meet you,” he said. “I’m Sutton Kenilworth, and this is my sister, Judith.”
“How do you do?” Claire asked. Her gaze moved from the brother and sister to the garden.
“I think this is in very bad taste,” Judith hissed at me.
The barrel-chested man cleared his throat.
“And this is David Proctor,” Sutton said. “Our lawyer.” Proctor wore a tan suede vest dotted with food stains under a rumpled tweed jacket.
Gray-blue eyes scrutinized Claire. “I have made inquiries on behalf of the Kenilworth family. Found out you’re a private investigator. Well respected.”
“If not well liked,” she said, still surveying the garden. “This is very whimsical topiary. Almost child-like.”
“I preferred the old rose garden,” Sutton said sadly. “The topiary was Ellis’s idea.”
“From what Miss Hill has told me, your brother doesn’t sound like a man of whimsy.”
“Why don’t you just tell her what the reality is,” Waingrove snapped at Proctor.
“Reality?” The lawyer’s eyes turned cagey. “I’ll tell Miss Conrad what our reality is. She may have a different one.” He threw his head back and laughed. Fleshy chin shook. Nearby guests turned and stared.
“David, please,” Judith said. Waingrove sniffed.
Proctor stopped laughing. “Sorry, Judith. Why don’t we all take a little stroll in the garden?” Like a fatherly shepherd, he herded us toward the steps. “I sometimes think if my roots weren’t so firmly planted in old Pasadena, Judith, you’d fire me.”
“Mother makes those decisions,” she said.
“Fire me for somebody a little slicker.” He slapped an arm around Waingrove. “Like this fellow.”
“I’m not a lawyer.” Waingrove sidestepped the bear-like embrace and adjusted his jacket and tie.
“Thank God, thank God. Too many lawyers around.”
We started down the steps, but Claire continued down the veranda.
“This way, Miss Conrad,” Proctor yelled after her.
Claire didn’t respond. She stopped in front of the large arched window, then opened the door and went into Ellis’s office. We waited at the bottom of the steps.
“What is she doing?” Sutton asked.
“She’s an ill-mannered woman,” Judith whined.
“She’s looking out the window,” Proctor said.
The sun bore down on us. My beige dress was beginning to cling to my body as if it had a life of its own. Waingrove moved next to me. He spoke in a low voice. “What is she up to?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe she’s trying to get lucky, like Valcovich.” I smiled.
He edged closer. His breath smelled drugstore sweet. “Give it up, Maggie, before people stop being polite.” He moved quickly away and stood by Judith. Sweat trickled down my back. It felt cold.
Claire came out of the office and strode down the steps. “You were saying?” she asked Proctor.
“I wasn’t, but I will. I checked with Roger Valcovich, and he said as far as he knew there never was a codicil,” Proctor said.
“Yes, yes, I know,” she sighed. “He came to the house on behalf of Miss Hill.”
“Exactly.”
“Excuse me.” Claire walked at a fast pace down a graveled path between phalanxes of bushy green animals. We trailed after her.
Claire stopped and looked back up the path toward the office window. Shadowed by a seal and a giraffe, she began poking her stick at a section of the hedge that ran along the back of the garden.
“This is the only part of the hedge I could see from the window,” she explained. “Right between the giraffe and the monkey.”
“It’s a seal,” Sutton corrected.
“With ears?”
“Fins.”
“Is there a gap or an opening along here?” She poked at the hedge.
“Yes, there is a gap somewhere.” Sutton’s face was blotchy in the bright sun. “But I don’t see what that has to do—”
“Why don’t we get back to the subject at hand,” Waingrove said. A single line of perspiration ran from his temple down into his shirt collar. Judith dabbed at it with her handkerchief. He jerked away from her.
“Here is the access.” Claire disappeared through the hedge, then reappeared. “So this is how Jerry gets into the garden,” she said.
Sutton stared at Claire.
“I don’t see what Jerry has to do with any of the outrageous accusations made by Maggie,” Judith said.
“I think, Proctor, we should get back to the reality of the situation,” Waingrove persisted.
Claire turned on him. “But Jerry is a reality. The day of the suicide Miss Hill left her purse on the veranda. Now, this unfortunate young man might have wandered in through the opening. Or maybe he never left the garden. Without understanding the importance of his actions, he might have looked in Miss Hill’s purse and taken the codicil. Have you asked his parents?” She stared at Judith and Sutton.
“That seems very farfetched,” Sutton said.
“Especially since the piece of paper you’re talking about does not exist,” Waingrove said.
“And if I can prove it does?” Claire asked the lawyer.
Proctor wagged his head sadly. “A man who sits down and gives a four-million-dollar collection to a woman he doesn’t know and then goes upstairs and kills himself, couldn’t be in his right mind. I hope that makes our position clear.”
“I would guess Ellis was in an angry state of mind. Some angry men kill their families first and then kill themselves.” Claire looked at Sutton and Judith. “You’re very lucky he only took a coin collection away from you. I hope that makes my position clear.”
Sutton stepped back from her. Judith’s face turned a sickly white.
“Get off my property!” yelled a voice from the other side of the hedge. There were scuffling sounds. The hedge shook violently. A man, hammer clutched in his hand, flew backwards through the opening into the garden. He sprawled onto the ground. Judith let out a small scream. Boulton plunged through the hedge. Jerry scampered after him, followed by a woman with mad ice-blue eyes and straggly brown hair. An old man, toothless and drooling, appeared last. He wore one shoe and carried the other.
The man with the hammer scrambled to his feet, sandy red hair glistening in the sun, eyes blinking with uncertainty and fear. He faced Boulton. They circled one another. The man bounced the hammer in his hand, feeling the weight of it. Boulton’s eyes were deadly impersonal—the eyes of a trained killer. Some of the guests, still balancing sandwiches and drinks, had moved down from the veranda and stared in fascinated horror at the two men and their surrealistic entourage.
“Drop the hammer, you little sod!” Boulton said. His English accent was as out of place as everything else.
For a moment the man looked like he was going to. Then he shook his head. And I knew an age-old ritual had begun between Boulton and this man—and both were going to see it through to its bloody conclusion. The man lunged. The clawed end of the hammer glinted in the sunlight as he swung. Boulton raised his left forearm, blocking the blow of the hammer. He smashed his right fist into the man’s face. Legs crumpled. The man went down and didn’t move. The woman with the mad blue eyes began to laugh and clap like an insane fan at a wrestling match. The old man pounded his shoe on his head. Jerry swayed. The guests moved uneasily, like nervous cattle bumping into one another.
“Get them out of here! Make them go away!” It was Eleanor Kenilworth’s voice.
We all turned and looked toward the house. Upstairs in the glassed-in rotunda a window had been thrown open. Eleano
r leaned out, face contorted with rage, screaming, “Make them leave! Make them leave!” Rage turned to deep, violent sobbing. Aiko and Maria rushed to her and gently pulled her away. Aiko shut the window.
“Do something,” Judith pleaded to her brother, then turned to Waingrove. “Please.”
“You and Proctor take the guests back into the house,” Waingrove commanded her.
Proctor took Judith’s hand. “Come, come—the show is over, ladies and gentlemen.” He guided the milling, questioning group toward the veranda.
Sutton approached Boulton, who was pulling the man to his feet. “Release Mr. Erwin. I demand to know who you are,” he asked awkwardly. Authority didn’t come easily to him.
“He’s my butler and chauffeur,” Claire said simply. She was leaning on her walking stick in the best Ascot tradition.
“This is inexcusable,” Waingrove said.
A Chicano woman moved cautiously through the gap in the hedge. Her dark eyes shone with fear. She put an arm around Jerry and took the hand of the mad-eyed woman. She looked at Erwin. A big, ugly lump was forming under his left eye.
“Take the poor souls home,” he mumbled to her.
She guided them back through the hedge.
“The younger one’s Jerry,” I said to Claire. My mouth was dry and I sounded out of breath.
Erwin started talking. “This man was snooping around my house. I’m fixing the fence so the poor souls can’t get out and he won’t leave me alone. Keeps asking questions.” He never raised his head high enough to look anybody in the eye.
“We’re very sorry about this, Mr. Erwin,” Sutton said. He turned and looked at me as if I had betrayed him. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you and your friends to leave.”
“I think we should take advantage of this situation and get a few things straightened out,” Waingrove said officiously. “Mr. Erwin, I’m Brian Waingrove, a friend of the Kenilworth family. There have been some accusations made about Jerry.”
Erwin quickly looked up, then back at the grass. “Jerry’s never done anything wrong. Doesn’t know how.”
Waingrove looked at me with the same officiousness. “What time did you leave your purse in the garden?”
Mother Shadow Page 10
