by Sue Grafton
“I understand you used to be married to Laurence Fife,” I ventured.
“Yes, that’s right. Is this about him? He’s been dead for years.”
“I know. His case is being opened up again.”
“Oh, that’s interesting. By whom?”
“Nikki. Who else?” I said. “The Homicide Department knows I’m looking into it and I have their cooperation, if that helps you any. Could you answer some questions for me?”
“All right,” she said. Her tone was cautious but there was also a note of interest, as though she considered it a curious inquiry but not necessarily bad.
“You don’t sound that surprised,” I said.
“Actually I am. I thought that was finished business.”
“Well, I’m just starting to look into it and I may come up with a blank. We don’t have to talk here if it’s inconvenient. I don’t like to interrupt your work.
“This is fine with me, as long as you don’t mind watching me clip a few dogs. I really can’t afford a time-out right now. We’re loaded today. Hold on,” she said. “Kathy, could you hand me that flea spray? I think we missed a few here.
The dark-haired groomer left the poodle long enough to reach up for the flea spray, which was passed over to Gwen.
“That’s Kathy, as you might have gathered,” Gwen said. “The one up to her elbows in soapsuds is Jan.”
Gwen began to spray Wuffles, turning her face away to avoid the fumes. “Sorry. Go ahead.”
“How long were you married to Fife?”
“Thirteen years. We met in college, his third year, my first. I’d known him about six months I guess.”
“Good years? Bad years?”
“Well I’m mellowing some on that,” she said. “I used to think it was all a big waste but now I don’t know. Did you know Laurence yourself?””
“I met him a couple of times,” I said, “just superficially.”
Gwen’s look was wry. “He could be very charming if he wanted to, but at heart he was a real son of a bitch.”
Kathy glanced over at Gwen and smiled. Gwen laughed. “These two have heard my version about a hundred times,” she said by way of explanation. “Neither has ever been married so I tend to play devil’s advocate. Anyway, in those days I was the dutiful wife, and I mean I played the part with a dedication few could match. I cooked elegant meals. I made lists. I cleaned the house. I raised the kids. I’m not saying I’m anything unique for that, except that I took it awfully to heart. I wore my hair up in this French roll, not a pin out of place, and I had these outfits to put on and take off, kind of like a Barbie doll.” She stopped and laughed at the image of herself, pretending to pull a string from her neck. “Hello, I’m Gwen. I’m a good wife,” she burbled in a kind of nasal parrot tone. Her manner was rather affectionate as though she, instead of Laurence, had died but was remembered fondly by dear friends. Part of the time she was looking at me, and part of the time she combed and clipped the dog on the table in front of her, but in any event her manner was friendly, hardly the bitter, withdrawn account I’d expected.
“When it was over, I was pretty angry ��� not so much at him as at myself ��� for buying into the whole gig. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I liked it at the time and it suited me fine, but there was also a form of sensory deprivation going on so that when the marriage blew up, I was totally unequipped to deal with the real world. He managed the money. He pulled the strings. He made the major decisions, especially where the kids were concerned. I bathed and dressed and fed them and he shaped their lives. I didn’t realize it at the time because I was just running around anxious to please him, which was no easy task, but now that I look back on it, it was really fucked.”
She glanced up at me to see if I’d react to the language, but I just smiled back.
“So now I sound like all the other women who came out of marriages in that era. You know, we’re all faintly grumpy about it because we think we’ve been had.”
“You said you’d mellowed some,” I said. “How did that come about?”
“Six thousand dollars’ worth of therapy,” she said flatly.
I smiled. “What made the marriage blow?”
Her cheeks tinted slightly at that but her gaze remained just as frank. “I’d rather save that for later if you’re really interested.”
“Sure, fine,” I said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt anyway.”
“Well. It wasn’t all his fault,” she said. “But it wasn’t all mine either and he hosed me with that divorce. I’m telling you, I got beat up.”
“How?”
“How many ways are there? I was scared and I was also naive. I wanted Laurence out of my life and I didn’t care much what it cost. Except the kids. I fought him tooth and nail over them, but what can I tell you? I lost. I’ve never quite recovered from that.”
I wanted to ask her about the grounds for the custody battle but I had the feeling it was touchy stuff. Better to let that slide for the moment and come back to it later if I could. “The kids must have come back to you after he died, though. Especially with his second wife going to prison.”
Gwen pushed at a strand of gray hair with a capable looking hand. “They were almost college age by then. In fact, Gregory had left that fall and Diane left the year after. But they were very messed-up kids. Laurence was a strict disciplinarian. Not that I have any quarrel with that ��� I think kids need structure but he was a very controlling person, really out of touch with anything emotional, rather aggressive in his manner of dealing with anyone, the kids in particular. So the two of them, after five years of that regime, were both withdrawn and shut-down. Defensive, uncommunicative. From what I could tell, his relation to them was based on attack, being held accountable, much like what he had done with me. Of course, I’d been seeing them alternate weekends and that sort of thing, and I had the usual summer visitation. I just didn’t have any idea how far it had gone. And his death was a kick in the head to them on top of that. I’m sure they both had a lot of feelings that were never resolved. Diane went straight into therapy. And Gregory’s seen someone since, though not regularly.” She paused a moment. “I feel like I’ve giving you case histories here.”
“Oh no, I appreciate your candor,” I said. “Are the kids here in town too?”
“Greg’s living south of Palm Springs. Salton Sea. He has a boat down there.”
“What sort of work does he do?”
“Well, he doesn’t have to do anything. Laurence did provide for them financially. I don’t know if you’ve checked on the insurance yet, but his estate was divided equally between the three kids ��� Greg, Diane, and Nikki’s son, Colin.”
“What about Diane? Where is she?”
“She’s in Claremont, going to school. Working on another degree. She’s interested in teaching deaf children and she seems to do very well. It worried me some at first because I suspect, in her mind, it was all tied up ��� my divorce, Nikki, Colin, and her responsibility ��� even though it had nothing to do with her.”
“Wait a minute. I don’t understand what you mean,” I said.
Gwen glanced up at me with surprise. “I thought you’d already talked to Nikki.”
“Well, I talked to her once, ” I said.
“Didn’t she tell you Colin was deaf? He was deaf from birth. I don’t really remember what caused it, but there was nothing they could do about it apparently. Diane was very upset. She was thirteen, I think, when the baby was born and maybe she resented the intrusion. I don’t mean to be so analytical at every turn but some of this came out with her psychiatrist and it seems pertinent. I think now she can articulate most of it herself ��� in fact she does ��� so I don’t think I’m violating any confidence.”
She selected a couple of strands of ribbon from about twenty spools hung on pegboard on the wall above the grooming table. She laid a blue and an orange on Wuffles’s head. “What do you think, Wuf? Blue or orange?”
&n
bsp; Wuffles raised her (I assumed) eyes and panted happily, and Gwen chose the orange, which I must admit made a certain jaunty sense against Wuffles’s silver-gray mop of hair. The dog was docile, full of trust, loving every move even though half of Gwen’s attention was turned to me.
“Gregory was into drugs for a while,” Gwen said conversationally. “That’s what his generation seemed to do while mine was playing house. But he’s a good kid and I think he’s okay now. Or as okay as he’ll ever be. He’s happy, which is a lot more than most of us can say ��� I mean, I’m happy but I know a lot of people who aren’t.”
“Won’t he get tired of boating?”
“I hope so,” Gwen said lightly. “He can afford to do anything he wants, so if the leisure begins to pall, he’ll find something useful to do. He’s very smart and he’s a very capable kid, in spite of the fact that he’s idle right now. Sometimes I envy him that.”
“Do you think it would distress the kids if I talked to them?”
Gwen was startled at that, the first time she’d seemed disconcerted by anything. “About their father?”
“I may have to at some point,” I said. “I wouldn’t like to do it without your knowledge, but it might really help.”
“I suppose it would be all right,” she said, but her tone was full of misgivings.
“We can talk about it later. It may not be necessary at all.”
“Oh. Well. I don’t see how it could hurt. I must say, I don’t really understand why you’re into this business again.”
“To see if justice was done, I guess,” I said. “It sounds melodramatic, but that’s what it amounts to.”
“Justice to whom. Laurence or Nikki?”
“Maybe you should tell me what you think. I’m assuming there was no love lost between you and them, but do you think he got his ‘just deserts’?”
“Sure, why not? I don’t know about her. I figure she had a fair trial and if that’s the way it came out, well she must have done it. But there were times I’d have done it myself if I had thought of some way.”
“So if she killed him, you wouldn’t blame her?”
“Me and half a dozen others. Laurence alienated a lot of people,” she said carelessly. “We could have formed a club and sent out a monthly newsletter. I still run into people who sidle up to me and say ‘Thank god he’s dead.’ Literally. Out of the comer of their mouths.” Gwen laughed again. “I’m sorry if that sounds irreverent but he was not a nice man.
“But who in particular?”
She put her hand on her hip and gave me a jaded look. “If you got an hour, I’ll give you a list,” she said.
I laughed then. Her humor seemed irrepressible or maybe she was only feeling ill at ease. Talking to a private eye is often unnerving to people,
Gwen put Wuffles in an empty cage and then went into the other room and led out a big English sheepdog. She lifted its front feet first, placing them on the table, and then she heaved its hind legs up while the dog whined uneasily.
“Oh come on, Duke,” she snapped. “This one is such a sissy.”
“Do you think we could talk again soon?” I asked.
“Sure, I’d like that. I close up here at six. If you’re free then, we can have a drink. By the end of the day, I’m ready for one.”
“Me too. I’ll see you then,” I said.
I hopped down off my stool and let myself out. When the door closed, she was already chatting with the dog. I wondered what else she knew and how much of it she was willing to share. I also hoped to hell I could look that good in another ten years.
Chapter 6
*
I stopped off at a pay phone and gave Nikki a call. She picked up on the third ring.
“Nikki? This is Kinsey. I have a request. Is there any way I can get into the house where you and Laurence lived?”
“Sure. I still own it. I’m just leaving to drive up to Monterey to bring Colin back but it’s en route. I can meet you there if you like.”
She gave me the address and said she’d be there in fifteen minutes or so. I hung up and headed for my car. I wasn’t sure what I was after but I wanted to walk through the place, to get a feel for what it was like, living as they lived. The house was in Montebello, a section of town where there are rumored to be more millionaires per square mile than in any other part of the country. Most of the houses are not even visible from the road. Occasionally you can catch a glimpse of a tiled roof hidden away in tangles of olive trees and live oak. Many parcels of land are bordered by winding walls of hand-hewn stone overgrown with wild roses and nasturtiums. Towering eucalyptus trees line the roads, with intermittent palms looking like Spanish exclamation points.
The Fifes’ house was on the comer of two lanes, shielded from view by ten-foot hedges that parted at one point to admit a narrow brick driveway. The house was substantial: two stories of putty-colored stucco with white trim. The facade was plain and there was a portico to one side. The surrounding land was equally plain except for patches of California poppies in shades of peach and rich yellow, gold, and pink. Beyond the house, I could see a double garage with what I guessed was a caretaker’s quarters above. The lawns were well tended and the house, while it had an unoccupied look, didn’t seem neglected. I parked my car on the portion of the drive that circled back on itself to permit easy exit. In spite of the red-tiled roof, the house looked more French than Spanish: windows without cornices, the front door flush with the drive.
I got out of my car and walked around to the right, my footsteps making no sound on the pale rosy bricks. In the rear, I could see the outline of a swimming pool and for the first time, I felt something chill and out of place. The pool had been filled to the brim with dirt and trash. An aluminum lawn chair was half-sunk in the sod, weeds growing through the rungs. The diving board extended now over an irregular surface of grass clippings and dead leaves, as though the water had thickened and congealed. A set of steps with handholds disappeared into the depths and the surrounding concrete apron was riddled with dark splotches.
I found myself approaching with uneasiness and I was startled out of my concentration by the sound of malicious hissing. Waddling toward me with remarkable speed were two huge white geese, their heads thrust forward, mouths open like snakes with their tongues protruding, emitting a terrifying sound. I gave a low involuntary cry and began to backtrack toward my car, afraid to take my eyes off them. They covered the ground between us at a pace that forced me into a run. I barely reached my car before they caught up with me. I wrenched the door open and slammed it again with a panic I hadn’t felt in years. I locked both doors, half expecting the viperous birds to batter at my windows until they gave way. For a moment they balanced, half lifted, wings flapping, black eyes bright with ill-will, their hissing faces even with mine. And then they lost interest and waddled off, honking and hissing, pecking savagely at the grass. Until that moment, it had never even occurred to me to include crazed geese among my fears, but they had suddenly shot straight to the top of the list along with worms and water bugs.
Nikki’s car pulled in behind mine. She got out with perfect composure and approached as I rolled my window down. The two geese appeared again around the comer of the house, making their flat-footed beeline for the flesh of her calves. She gave them an idle glance and then laughed. Both raised up again, short wings flopping ineffectually, their manner suddenly benign. Nikki had a bread bag in her hand and she tossed them some crumbs.
“What the hell are those things?” I eased out of the car cautiously but neither paid the slightest attention to me.
“That’s Hansel and Gretel,” she said amicably “They’re Embden geese.”
“The geese part I could tell. What happened? Did somebody train them to kill?”
“It keeps little kids off the property,” she said. “Come on in. ” She inserted a key in the lock and the front door swung open. Nikki stooped to pick up some junk mail that had been pushed through the slot. “The mailman gives th
em saltines,” she said as an afterthought. “They’ll eat anything.”
“Who else had keys to this place?” I asked. I noticed an alarm-system panel, which was apparently turned off.
She shrugged. “Laurence and me. Greg and Diane. I can’t think of anyone else.”
“Gardener? Maid?”
“Both have keys now but I don’t think they did at the time. We did have a housekeeper. Mrs. Voss. She probably had one.”
“Did you have a security system then?”
“We do now but that’s only been in the last four years. I should have sold the place years ago but I didn’t want to make decisions like that when I was in prison.
“It must be worth a lot.”
“Oh sure. Real-estate values have tripled and we paid seven hundred and fifty thousand at the time. He picked it out. Put it in my name for business reasons, but it never did appeal to me much.”
“Who did the decorating?” I asked.
Nikki smiled sheepishly. “I did. I don’t think Laurence knew any better, but I took a subtle revenge. He insisted that we buy the place so I left all the color out.”
The rooms were large, ceilings high, and plenty of light came in. The floors were dark-stained tongue and groove. The layout was very conventional: living room to the right, dining room to the left, with the kitchen behind. There was a sitting room beyond the living room and a long glassed-in porch along that side, running the length of the house. There was a curious air to the house, which I assumed was because no one had lived there for years, like a department-store display of especially elegant appointments. The furniture was still in place and there was no sign of dust. There were no plants and no magazines, no evidence of ongoing activity. Even the silence had a hollow tone, barren and lifeless.
The whole interior was done in neutral tones: grays and oyster whites, hazel and cinnamon. The couches and chairs were soft upholstered pieces with rounded arms and thick cushions, a sort of art deco look without any attempt at flash. There was a nice blend of modern and antique and it was clear that Nikki knew what she was doing even when she didn’t care.
