The Lucky One

by Caroline Overington

  ‘That was my guess, too,’ said Mack.

  ‘Did you know him?’ said Tony.

  ‘Me? No. He was before my time, I think. A guy at the station was saying he had dementia.’

  ‘I think that’s right. I knew him a bit. You used to see him around town, back in the day. He’d walk in the parade, wearing that suit, swinging a cane, and if he stopped to say hello to you, you’d get cigar smoke in your face.’

  Mack said nothing for a moment, then said: ‘How long do you think he’s been in the ground?’

  ‘Months, but not years,’ said Tony, trimming fabric from the lapel.

  ‘And can you say what killed him?’ said Mack.

  ‘Give me a break, Mack. I just got started,’ said Tony, his tone mock-exasperation. ‘Let’s figure out whether it’s him and then look for cause of death, hey?’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘No, in all seriousness, give me an hour,’ said Tony, his back still bent. ‘Then meet me outside and we’ll discuss it.’

  * * *

  They reconvened in the morgue’s central courtyard, a pleasant place compared to the steel cutting rooms indoors, with ornamental orange trees in polished copper pots and an ashtray set in white pebbles by the door.

  ‘Okay. What can you tell me?’ asked Mack.

  Tony pulled back on a cigarette. ‘If you want one hundred per cent rolled-gold confirmation, then I’m going to need to do DNA and that’s going to take time. But from dental records Officer Helber – emailed over, it’s Owen Alden-Stowe III. Plus you’ve got the suit. And the corpse isn’t that of a young man. Yellow teeth. Gold fillings. Worn bones.’

  ‘And how long has he been dead?’

  Tony raised an eyebrow. ‘Taking the protective qualities of our region’s clay into account, my best guess is three months. Maybe four. But not much more than that. Certainly not years.’

  ‘Right,’ said Mack. ‘What else?’

  Tony tapped the ash from the end of his cigarette. ‘You know somebody set him on fire before they put him in there?’

  ‘I figured.’

  ‘That’s going to make the cause of death hard to establish. Also, whoever dug him up did some damage with the bobcat. And he’s decomposed. So there’s a lot we can’t see, and we won’t ever know. But there are no gunshot wounds, no knife-nicks to the ribs, nothing like that. I’m not being much help, am I?’

  ‘You’re doing your best,’ said Mack.

  ‘Have you spoken to the family?’

  ‘I’ve got my daughter – Officer Helber – tracking them down. We wanted to make sure it was him before we went around there asking questions.’

  ‘Well, it’s him,’ said Tony. ‘So I guess you can start asking some questions.’

  * * *

  The dissection and tentative identification of Owen’s body took some hours to complete. Mack drove from the morgue to his office, where he pressed a button on the phone on his desk to raise Alexa.

  ‘Officer Helber?’ he said.

  Alexa, sitting in her cubicle, responded: ‘Yep, it’s me, Dad. I mean, Sergeant.’

  ‘Can you come in and give me an update?’

  ‘Sure thing.’

  Alexa entered Mack’s messy office with her notebook already open.

  ‘Okay, so until recently, that estate was owned by the Alden-Stowe Family Trust,’ she said.

  ‘That’s what the lady from Pinkhound told us. But what exactly is the Alden-Stowe Family Trust?’

  ‘It’s a family, basically. The old man – Owen – was the patriarch, and he set it up to preserve the property for his children and grandchildren.’

  ‘And who are they?’ said Mack.

  ‘He had two children: a son Jack Alden-Stowe, who is deceased, and a daughter, Fiona, who is now Fiona McBride. She’s married to a Tim McBride, who until recently was a car dealer. They have two children, Fletcher and Austin McBride. The son’s wife, Jesalyn, lives in Silver Lake, near Hollywood. And they had a daughter, Eden.’

  ‘And the Pinkhound lady mentioned a housekeeper?’

  ‘Right. They had one for a long time. Penelope Sidwell, she’s aged in her sixties and she lives down here in Paso.’

  ‘Anything else?’ said Mack.

  ‘They were in debt. The property had a big mortgage on it before they sold it to the Pinkhound Company. There was some trouble finding a buyer. Then Pinkhound came on board and some people in town got upset. Do you remember a public meeting about the planned sale, sometime last September?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay. I don’t either. But apparently last year, there was a small public meeting here in town, with some residents, including one of their old neighbours, objecting to the sale. Pinkhound isn’t everyone’s favourite corporate citizen. They got caught out massacring some trees on an estate near Pismo two years ago. The city made them commit to some conditions, before they could take over the Alden-Stowe Estate. I asked the mayor to email those conditions to me and she was straight onto it.’

  ‘Good work,’ said Mack, as Alexa passed him the printed page. Mack put on his reading glasses to look over the conditions of sale:

  The Pinkhound Company will not remove any of the mature oak trees, for which the town of Paso is famous.

  The Pinkhound Company will refrain from draining ground water to build and feed new reservoirs, an especially important condition in this time of Californian drought.

  The Pinkhound Company will preserve as much as possible of the historic Alden Castle.

  The Pinkhound Company will not desecrate the Alden-Stowe family cemetery.

  ‘They don’t seem to be taking these conditions all that seriously,’ said Mack.

  ‘Definitely not.’

  ‘Not as community-minded as they’d have us believe, then. And who are they, exactly? Pinkhound, I mean.’

  Alexa had done her homework there, too.

  ‘They’re a couple of Beverly Hills billionaires,’ she said. ‘Greedy beyond belief. They’ve been in timber in Oregon, in cattle in Arizona, in fur in New York, and now they’re into agriculture. Pomegranates, peaches, pistachios. They’ve been buying up ranches all over California and razing whatever stands in their way.’

  ‘That’s why they bought Alden Castle? To pull it down and plant peaches?’

  ‘I guess so,’ said Alexa.

  ‘Okay. And they took possession in January?’

  ‘It’s a bit complicated. They signed the contract in September and took over in January, yes.’

  ‘And what do we know about Owen?’

  ‘A patriotic American,’ said Alexa. ‘Fought in Korea. Inherited the estate from his father, who inherited it from his father. Widowed about seven years ago, after which he had a stroke. His son, Jack, took power of attorney, and then, when the son died, the daughter, Fiona, took control.’

  ‘How handy,’ said Mack. ‘So, where’s the family at now?’

  ‘I’ve been calling the daughter,’ said Alexa. ‘She’s not picking up. I’ve also been trying the daughter-in-law, Jesalyn, but again no luck. But the housekeeper, Penelope, lives here in Paso. We could go and see her, I suppose.’

  ‘First thing tomorrow,’ said Mack. ‘Let’s make them sweat.’

  * * *

  ‘There’s a couple of people here to see you, Mack.’

  Mack looked up. He had gathered the notes he made after Alexa’s briefing into a folder and tucked it under his arm, and was preparing to leave the station for the evening when the officer on duty at the front counter stopped him.

  ‘Excuse me?’ he said.

  The officer tilted her head in the direction of a couple sitting close together in the station foyer – so close that it seemed to Mack they must have moved the upholstered chairs so they could stay physically connected. The woman – the wife, Mack guessed – was thin and anxious-looking, with lank hair and dark vertical smudges running from her eye sockets down her cheeks. The man was red-faced and barrel-chested, and wore blue jeans with white
sneakers and a plain cotton shirt with the tails out.

  They stood up.

  Mack strode out to greet them but before they had shaken hands the man had said: ‘Is it him?’

  ‘Excuse me?’ said Mack, confused. ‘Is it who?’

  ‘Is it Fraser?’

  Mack suddenly understood. The news about a body being found on the Alden-Stowe Estate must have broken and this couple had to be the Kellys.

  Greg and Sheridan Kelly.

  The story pre-dated Mack’s arrival in Paso, but he knew the details from his colleagues. The Kellys had been childhood sweethearts who left town to go to college before returning to start a business – art and craft supplies – and a family. They lived in town for several years, and had just splashed out on a new house on the Chimney Rock Road when the eldest of their three boys, thirteen-year-old Fraser Kelly, went missing.

  Local police – then and now – were perplexed. Was Fraser a runaway? It seemed unlikely. He’d gone missing with a small toy helicopter. Had he chased it into woodland? Had he fallen, trying to retrieve it from somewhere? A search of the area surrounding the family’s new home turned up Fraser’s shoes – they were Geox – on a flat rock near the Salinas River, back when it was still running.

  Had he slipped from the rock?

  The Kellys’ distress was obvious and affecting. One hundred volunteers came out to search the river, its banks and the surrounding properties, including the Alden-Stowe Estate. Police sent frogmen into the river and into the dam on the neighbouring Burnbank property, one over from the castle.

  Nothing.

  It made no sense, because as everyone knows, a body won’t sink. It will float. So why did Fraser’s body never appear?

  Time had passed, bringing forth no answers. Mack understood that the Kellys themselves had for a time been suspects, despite there never being any evidence to suggest their guilt. Now, six years on, the discovery of a body on the Alden-Stowe Estate had brought them to the station.

  ‘It’s not Fraser,’ said Mack. He spoke gently and quickly. He didn’t want to give them any false hope. ‘It’s absolutely not him,’ he repeated, more firmly. ‘Please, come and sit in my office.’

  Greg Kelly’s body visibly slumped where he was standing, his shoulders falling towards his dangling hands. Sheridan Kelly started to cry. Mack opened one arm wide, and guided them down the hall to his office, sitting them on the visitors’ side of the desk near the old phone that barely rang anymore because of email; and two gold pens, standing upright in brass holders.

  ‘It’s not Fraser,’ he repeated. ‘This body that we have found is that of a man. Not a boy.’

  ‘You’re sure?’ asked Mr Kelly.

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘I guess we knew that,’ said Mrs Kelly, ‘but when we heard about a body, we thought …’

  ‘I know,’ said Mack.

  ‘Because there was always something about that place …’

  ‘Alden Castle?’

  ‘Yes. Kids around here, they’ve always been fascinated by it. Fraser had always wanted to get an invitation. We thought maybe …’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Mack. ‘It isn’t him. It really isn’t.’

  ‘We couldn’t stop hoping,’ said Mr Kelly, as his wife wept. ‘We’re always hoping one day we will find him.’

  * * *

  Penelope Sidwell was sitting at the breakfast table in the atrium adjacent to her new kitchen, reading the morning papers on her iPad when she cried out.

  ‘Rex, come quick!’ she said. ‘You’re not going to believe this!’

  Rex was in the kitchen, making breakfast for the two of them: boiled eggs with toast soldiers, orange juice and coffee.

  ‘Believe what?’ he said.

  ‘No, come here,’ said Penelope. ‘Come now.’

  Her tone was sufficiently urgent for Rex, an older man in grey slacks, to shuffle from the kitchen and enter the atrium, still with Penelope’s apron on, still holding a wet spoon.

  ‘What is it?’ he said.

  ‘They’ve found a body,’ said Penelope.

  ‘Who have?’ asked Rex, confused.

  ‘The new owners,’ said Penelope, eyes darting back and forth across the iPad’s screen. ‘It says right here: the Pinkhound Company has found a body on the Alden-Stowe Estate.’

  ‘You’re joking,’ said Rex. ‘Whose body? Where?’

  ‘In the cemetery,’ said Penelope. ‘Look, it says right here.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Rex, relaxing a little. ‘They found a body in the cemetery? But I mean, that’s not surprising, Pen. I’d expect them to find a few bodies in the cemetery.’

  ‘No, Rex, you don’t understand,’ Penelope cried, with both hands gripping the screen. ‘They’re not supposed to be digging in the cemetery! That was one of the conditions of the sale. No digging in the cemetery … Oh, you don’t think the police are going to want to speak to me, do you?’

  Rex opened his mouth to answer, but before he could utter a word they saw, through the windows, one of Paso’s dinky black-and-white patrol cars pulling into the drive.

  ‘Oh, no!’ Penelope cried, rising so quickly that a little vase on the table rattled. ‘What am I going to say?’

  Perplexed, Rex said he’d get the door, but Penelope cried hysterically: ‘No! I’ll talk to them,’ and then, as she flung the door open: ‘I knew you’d come! And I want you to know, I have nothing to hide!’

  Mack looked across at Alexa. They hadn’t even pressed the doorbell.

  ‘Are you … Mrs Penelope Sidwell?’ Alexa asked, looking at her notes.

  ‘I am,’ said Penelope, nodding feverishly, ‘and I’ve done absolutely nothing wrong.’

  ‘Maybe we could come in?’ Alexa suggested.

  ‘But why?’ cried Penelope.

  It was Rex who finally took control, inviting Mack and Alexa to please come in and sit down, and would anyone like coffee because the pot was still hot?

  ‘We know why you’re here. It’s because of the body,’ he said. ‘Penelope was just reading about it.’

  ‘But I had nothing to do with it,’ insisted Penelope. She had her hands clutched around the neck of her blouse, and she was holding the fabric tight against skin that was rapidly growing blotchy.

  ‘Now, look, if we could just slow down,’ said Alexa, using a palm-out hand gesture to try to settle the conversation. ‘One step at a time, Mrs Sidwell. We only came to talk.’

  ‘Yes, but why to me?’ asked Penelope. ‘I haven’t done anything. This is Jesalyn’s doing. You’ve got to talk to her.’

  ‘If everyone could sit down,’ said Rex. He directed Mack towards an armchair and Alexa towards the sofa, picked up a full ashtray from the coffee table, then said: ‘Come on now, Pen, you sit beside this lady officer and I’ll get the coffee.’

  With ashtrays emptied and order restored, they began to talk. Mack asked the questions while Alexa took notes, and Rex, looking stunned, smoked one cigarette after another. Penelope sat nervously, and spilt out everything she knew about Owen and how he came to be in the ground.

  * * *

  ‘Let me guess. You’re calling about the body.’

  On the back of their interview with Penelope, Mack and Alexa had resolved to speak immediately with two more parties: Owen’s daughter Fiona, and his daughter-in-law Jesalyn. They reached Jesalyn first. Now she was on the speaker phone in Mack’s office.

  ‘We are,’ confirmed Alexa.

  ‘I heard about it on the news,’ said Jesalyn, airily. ‘So what is the plan, are you coming here or should I come to you?’

  ‘I guess either way is fine,’ said Alexa, eyebrows raised in surprise.

  ‘I’ll leave in the morning,’ said Jesalyn, ‘and I’ll see you shortly after eleven.’

  Click.

  Mack looked down at the speaker. ‘What do you make of that?’ he said.

  ‘She’s a cool customer,’ said Alexa.

  They spent the rest of the day getting their paperwork in o
rder, ordering DNA samples on Owen’s corpse, just to make sure, and familiarising themselves with the sale of the estate to Pinkhound. Then, bang on 11am the following day, Jesalyn arrived. She was lean and blonde with ice-blue eyes, narrow over a nose that had been tweaked to point upwards. Her breasts were full and firm and quite clearly fake, pushed together beneath a lacy top, worn with a pencil skirt and a pair of high woven wedge heels.

  ‘Let’s go get this over with, shall we?’ she said briskly.

  Alexa led the way and Mack followed Jesalyn’s swinging hips down the corridor to the interview room, where she waved away her right to an attorney and the offer of coffee from Alexa.

  Mack turned the cover of his notebook to reveal a fresh page. ‘I’m a bit old-school, so I’ll be taking notes, but we’ll also be recording this conversation,’ he said.

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Jesalyn. She had her legs crossed at the bare knee, and one foot, in the wedge heel, was swinging.

  ‘For the record then, your name is Jesalyn Warren Alden-Stowe?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And, until very recently, you were a part-owner of the property on the Chimney Rock Road known as the Alden-Stowe Estate?’

  ‘That’s not entirely correct,’ said Jesalyn. ‘The property was owned by a Trust, and I became a beneficiary of that Trust when I married Jack Alden-Stowe. But these days, I’m a widow.’

  Mack looked up. He’d met some widowed women before, of course, but few seemed as content with the title as Jesalyn.

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you. It’s a few years ago now.’

  Mack reached up to scratch the end of his rough moustache with the tip of his pencil. Then he put the pencil down. He needed to get to the bottom of what had happened to Owen. He needed to establish rapport.

  ‘How did you meet your husband?’ he said.

  ‘Jack? At a party at Alden Castle,’ said Jesalyn. She was still swinging her foot, enjoying the attention. ‘I was twenty-seven, living in Hollywood, trying to catch a break. But I had a roommate, Jane, who was raised here, in Paso. And one morning she handed me a flyer for a Gatsby party at Alden Castle and asked me if I wanted to go, and I was like, where even is it?’