by Tyler Colins
A Linda Royale “dang” tiptoed past my lips when I saw the face. A fancy cigarette hung from the lips of the man staring back with a joyful, toothy smile; he appeared genuinely cheery as he held a crystal snifter with hairy digits. Two platinum rings with sizeable diamonds caught light from somewhere beyond the camera. That's where similarities between young Porter Dance-Club King in the photo and old Porter On Ice ceased. This silk-draped fellow, Ralph Bloom-Walters, was at least two decades younger and forty pounds thinner. Evidently food had loved Porter as much as he had it; they'd developed a steadfast, embracing bond over the years.
Why would Thomas be in the possession of a photo of the dead cook? Had Prunella given it to him? That made no sense, but what made a tad more sense was that Thomas had known about her involvement with Porter back in San Francisco – whatever that relationship had entailed – and had held onto the photo for some obscure reason.
Was there something in the photo I wasn't seeing? I studied it for several seconds. There was no one in the background. The man looked cheerful; he wasn't committing any visible crime. It didn't appear to be anything more than what it was: an old, innocuous photo.
Obviously I didn't have the logic and rationale of a fiction or television detective – I was scrabbling my awkward way through. I tucked the photo into my jean pocket, put everything back in place, and turned off the light. Hopefully Jensen's room would reveal something more apparent and useful.
As I stepped in, my phone rang. “Fonne,” I said instinctively, the way I usually answered at work.
“It's Ger. How is it up in the winter hinterland?” he chuckled.
“Awesomely wintery,” I replied dryly. “What's up?”
“I just wanted to let you know I'm sending a bit of info your way in the next few minutes re that dead ghost guy. I'll stay on it for a bit, but I don't know how much luck I'll have finding more info.”
“Great stuff. You're the best, Ger.”
“Don't I know it?” He laughed and hung up.
I turned on a lovely tortoiseshell urn lamp, one of two on opposite sides of a plush bronze-colored armchair. The barrister's room was decorated and arranged much like Thomas', except that the predominant wood was cherry instead of maple and the color scheme more feminine: rose and turquoise instead of avocado and russet. In the corner nearest the door, not far from a cherry armoire with geometric etching on the doors, stood a cherry-framed cheval mirror of no aesthetic value. The contents of the armoire and cabinet drawers revealed expensive taste in designer footwear and clothes, a penchant for heavy gold jewelry, and an interest in business magazines.
This is Gonna Hurt: Music, Photography and Life Through the Distorted Lens of Nikki Sixx lay on one of two-drawer nightstands. Okay, now that went beyond bizarre. Jensen and Nicki? I couldn't see it, but maybe it had been a gift from a client. Or perhaps he wasn't as stuffy and conservative as he appeared. After all, he had displayed that little streak of humor in the closet, which went to prove you couldn't always judge a book by its cover. Uh, yeah.
The small bathroom, bearing a seashell theme, held nothing out of the norm. A travel-size tube of Tylenol had rolled into a corner. A royal-blue toothbrush, dental floss, and fresh tube of Marvis Aquatic Mint toothpaste rested neatly on the corner of a large oval sink. On a narrow glass shelf, a bottle of Blue de Chanel kept company with a fancy shaving brush, double-edged safety razor, Zirh Shave Foam, and Bull Dog moisturizer for sensitive skin. A handsome silver-plated hairbrush and comb, and a bottle of Korres Coriander Spray were neatly arranged one level above. Most of the British products were unfamiliar and likely not cheap.
Back in the bedroom, I spun slowly, eyeing corners, nooks and crannies. Nothing shouted, “hey, over here, clue for ya!”, so I spun again, stopping at the four-poster bed. I got down on my knees, pulled aside a crepe-like ruffled skirt, and peered down the width and length. In a far corner rested a lovely leather briefcase that had to cost £1500 if it cost a pence. With awkward maneuvering and arm-stretching, I managed to retrieve it. Turning on the second lamp, I emptied contents from multiple pockets and one by one reviewed the documents.
There was a copy of Aunt Mat's will, leases and contracts related to overseas properties and businesses, ledger photocopies, emails, and a few legal articles with yellow highlighting. Seeing little of interest, I was about to stop when several pages fluttered to the floor. A familiar company name caught my eye: Ages & Artisans. This was Reginald Moone's Asian antiquity business. I flipped through pages and found another name Aunt Mat had mentioned recently, Lace & Velvet, which was a porcelain antiques shop in Kent, and a joint Reginald-Percival venture. Art pieces and antiquities were listed on a few pages, while others itemized financial transactions.
One page, tucked between the lot, had amounts and names: Thomas Saturne, Prunella Sayers, Percival Sayers, Gruber Pathos and Santana Anna Dinero. I suspected the recorded dollar amounts were relocated ones – as in relocated to accounts in Turks and Caicos and Switzerland.
Did this mean Jensen had suspected something was amiss? Or had Aunt Mat requested he check into things? She hadn't mentioned that, but maybe she'd forgotten to, or hadn't deemd it worth sharing. If either were the case, how long had he been investigating? Had Prunella stumbled upon these documents? Or had Jensen let something inadvertently slip? If the answer was yes to one or both of these last two questions, then we had a motive for Jensen's murder. But it was all still conjecture; nothing tangible.
For a second, I contemplated taking the ledger pages, but decided against it. It would be best to leave the briefcase where it was. There was no point in alerting – or alarming – anyone.
20
Big but [Not So] Bad-Ass
Upon entering the guestroom I checked for Ger's promised info and was pleased to find it in the Inbox. As he'd said, there wasn't much.
A grainy photograph near rural railroad tracks showed a dozen men with shovels and picks. It had been part of an article on expanding railways, but Ger had provided only the photo that held a couple of unremarkable sentences beneath. One name stood out, though: Fred Maxwell. It was hard to see his face, not only because of the poor quality of the photo, but the shaggy hair and beard. In the “Clinton News” section of a Connecticut paper dated May 1896, a blurb advised that Contractor Marcus F.P. Jerrold of Middleton and his men, Fred Maxwell and Peter Kelsomm, had begun working on a barn for Joseph Crumholz in the rear of his Clinton Beach cottage.
Ger restated a promise to keep looking and signed off with “xoxoxox”. Yuck. Well, what the two items did reveal was that Fred had indeed moved around doing odd jobs and subsequently – good for him – stayed out of trouble.
The cell phone started ringing. So much for a quick lay-down and freshen-up. The display said it was private investigator Johnny Gorcey. He was quick to respond; I liked that. Hopefully there was something of note to impart.
“Gorcey here. This Ms. Fonne?” He didn't wait for a response. “How's your aunt?”
“Fine, good, healthy,” I stumbled, surprised. I wasn't sure what I'd been expecting, but it wasn't a deep, booming, gravelly voice that sounded as if it belonged to a big bad-ass TV tough guy. I could envision Gorcey standing six feet tall, as huge as a restaurant refrigerator, no neck, the body half muscle and half flab. He'd smoke cigarillos, drink black coffee by the potful, and eat rare steaks with sides of greasy, gravy-soaked fries. Clothes would be frumpy and baggy, not unlike the deceased Manhattan lawyer's.
“Tell her Johnny sends regards.”
Who was going to argue with the brusque command? Not I. “Ummm, how can I help?”
He laughed, sounding like a staple gun operating out of control. “You were the one who called for help, Ms. Fonne.”
“Right. Where shall we start?” I dropped into a chair in front of the vanity and eyed the weary face staring back. A quick sudsy shower might help. So might a triple espresso.
“Linda Royale. You probably already know this. There are no living parents. Si
ster Loretta Linn has lived in six states in the last eight years. She works for a few months, usually in an admin capacity, and moves on. Obviously she's not one to lay roots. Brother Lido Lawrence is a travel-documentary cameraman – or was. He's been out of work since he broke a foot and arm filming chipmunks in Canada two years ago. He got into some sort of depression. He has a son Theo he sees every three weeks. He also has a San Diego apartment and recently gave up one in L.A. due to financial woes. There are no red flags for either sibling, except for small-time theft when Lido was seventeen.
“Ms. Royale got married in her teens to a jazz musician named Chiffre Royale, who played sax on a few albums of notable artists. He died in a fleabag motel outside Chicago of a heroin overdose.” Paper rustled and his cough sounded like a bear growl. He offered a few quick facts related to her current employment and life. The not-so-interesting highlights: Linda had never been arrested, had received two parking tickets in 2012, and won a large-screen television that same year.
I turned back to the mirror and found Ms. Weary wasn't looking any perkier.
“Ms. Royale was a client of Thomas Saturne's, by the way. A pal of mine, Basil, was tailing him a while back. I checked with him – because something about her was gnawing at me – and he said he recalled a young woman by that name. Basil's got a remarkable memory and can remember names, streets, cars, diners, you name it, without referring to notes. She met with Saturne a couple of times.”
I perked up suddenly. This was interesting. But where would it lead? “Why was he tailing Thomas? And why was she seeing him?”
“About three years ago, Thomas Saturne was suspected of stealing funds from a non-profit organization he represented. Nothing was ever proven – not in terms of him – though it appeared, Roblee Schnee, a guy at that org was the actual culprit. A few thousand dollars were found in a locked drawer in his desk and at his condo in a cereal box at the back of a closet. He committed suicide the day the desk discovery was made, so the case was closed and Basil's services terminated.”
“He committed suicide … how?”
“The guy jumped from his thirteenth-floor balcony.”
“How neat.”
“And convenient?” he asked dryly, taking a gulp of something.
“Very.” Thomas would have been with Prunella then. Had they framed Roblee Schnee and opted for fresh starts?
“What about Linda? She wasn't implicated or involved in this in some way?”
“No, nothing like that. She met Saturne about family stuff related to the Smiths – who she's related to.”
I all but goggled. “She's related to the Smiths who once owned my aunt's house?”
“Yes ma'am – one and the same family. In fact, Loretta Linn is the LL Smith who maintains a family blog.” More paper crackled. “It's entirely possible this Chiffre guy got her started on the Smiths. She'd visited a lawyer by the name of Katt Salmon not long after they were married, seeing if she had legal claims to family cash.” I could hear the frown. “The guy probably wanted drug money and thought this would be an easy way of getting it. There was a lot of correspondence between the Royales and the Smiths, but nothing happened. Salmon had no luck, either. Then the druggie-hubby died and she put it on the back burner – until she turned thirty-one last year. That's how she got to be a client of Saturne.”
“I'm guessing nothing came of it.”
“As Saturne's bitten the dust, you'd have to ask the lady herself for details. But no, it doesn't look like anything came of it.”
“So she tried to get money again,” I mused aloud, perturbed. I could see Linda as many things, but not the greedy sort.
“I believe she wanted a set amount – nothing extravagant – for some family members, including her brother, because of his slump.” Gorcey moved on to May-Lee Sonit and again offered known facts. What I hadn't been familiar with was the antique dealer's two sisters and daughter. Forty-eight-year-old Marigold was a dentist in El Paso and forty-four-year-old Blanche a high-end salesperson in Miami. Daughter Karina owned a small event-planning business and lived with her eight-year-old son Guy-Marc in Seattle.
May-Lee had been married very young to Percival, but divorced within a few weeks. No new news there. Her daughter was the product of a short-term relationship with a pilot when she was twenty-four. Sammy, her last boyfriend, also an antique dealer, passed two years ago of pancreatic cancer.
“Do you want me to find out more regarding Ms. Royale and Ms. Sonit?”
“Hold off for now,” I answered slowly, considering it. If he couldn't find any red flags, there likely weren't any. But never say never, right? “How about the Sayers?”
Gorcey recited old news: the marriage, the writing, the employment history.
“So there are no closet skeletons, and I'm not talking about Aunt Mat's little surprises.” I was discouraged and sounded it.
“Granted, there are no big closet skeletons, but I wasn't finished,” he responded soothingly. “In 2010 Percival Sayers spent six months in a European spa, which is another word for rehab.”
“For what? Drinking? Drugging?”
“He had a breakdown.”
“What type? Mental? Emotional?”
“Both. Apparently Sayers lost it at a book signing for a friend. He ran amok, broke balloons while singing happy birthday to himself, and then munched a few flower arrangements.”
“What triggered it?”
“I don't know”. He drew a deep ragged breath. “They're both a bit strange, those two. Prunella Sayers spent her teen years in six different boarding schools.”
“Why so many?”
“Boredom? Teenage troubles? I didn't think to find out, but I could dig around.” He cleared his throat. “Moving on … Hubert Flagstone, age sixty-seven, has been working for your aunt for decades. His folks and grand-folks were from Brighton England. His family moved here when he was six. These people lived pretty much everyday lives. His sister Miriam passed in 2010, killed by a herd of yaks when she was trekking across Nepal.”
“You're serious?”
“Would I lie about a yak stampede?”
“Would you?”
He chuckled. “Beatrice Hellmutter Dorfenfeld's mother was from Switzerland and the father from Austria. She moved here in the early sixties and hasn't done anything but maid work. She worked for a couple of impressive and rich people until she took up with your aunt. In fact, she came into nice money when a theater couple she first worked for was killed in a car crash off a canyon road. She'd been with them three years. She got – let's see – right, sixty thousand dollars.”
“Not bad.”
“Especially in the late 50s. That wasn't chump change.”
“Why'd she not retire?”
“You'd have to –”
“Ask her,” we finished together.
He chuckled again. “She also got fifty thousand in 1969, when a spinster she was working for died in a fall. The mansion was built high on a hill and one day the old lady tripped and rolled down a few hundred yards. Her head smashed into a boulder at the bottom.”
Ouch. “Beatrice is quite lucky. I wish I could say the same for those she worked for,” I said. “Do you think they died of natural causes?”
“Do you think this woman's capable of rigging a car or throwing an old lady to her death?”
“In the last little while, I've come to believe anything is possible. But if Beatrice was responsible, why keep working as a maid? She could have taken the money and bought a house, or gone back to school.”
“When you're a maid, you don't have to pay rent, food is usually taken care of, and you get perks if you're with the right folks. Maybe she likes sitting on money. Maybe she's plain greedy. Or maybe she just likes working.”
“… Anything else?”
“There's one more thing you may find interesting.”
I chuckled when he paused. “Okay, what else would I find interesting about Beatrice Hellmutter Dorfen-whatever?”
“She had a cousin who moved to the U.S. a couple of years after she did. Cousin Erich worked as a butler, mechanic, and groundskeeper. In 1985, he was arrested for triple murders in San Antonio. Self-defense the guy claimed … fours years after the police found the bodies.”
“You mean, a guilty conscience finally caught up with Cousin Erich?” I asked sarcastically.
“It was more like a fraidy-cat witness finally came forward. Abernathy Orville Manting was the late witness' name.”
“Late as in deceased? Or late as in taking his time to see the police?” I asked dryly.
“Both. A runaway golf cart smashed into the guy four days after he visited the boys in blue. He flew into a river cruise taking a river tour. He was already kind of dented after being hit, never mind what he was like when he came to rest on the helm.”
“Good luck continueth – not.”
Johnny laughed. “It's only a temporary road-block.”
Hopefully. “Could I impose upon you to do more detecting?”
“You got the moolah, I got the time.”
I chuckled. “Will you find out about two people who probably have some sort of business affiliation with the Moones and the Sayers? The names are Gruber Pathos and Santana Anna Dinero, and that's all I know about them.”
“I'm not called 'Sherlock' for nothing.”
* * *
Mid afternoon saw three disenchanted faces in the drawing room: mine, Rey's, and Linda's. Aunt Mat had spent most of the morning chatting with Lewis. Gwynne, surlier than usual, probably because he wasn't pleased about being stuck at the Moone mansion, re-checked the house “to be certain all was okay” and ordered everyone to “stay clear of marked and cordoned-off areas, or find yourselves in blistering hot water”.
Adwin had decided to bake quiches and breads for dinner. After assembling notes chronologically, I'd returned to the Internet and scanned some of Percival's on-line landscaping and gardening articles (can you spell y-a-w-n?). I'd also discovered that the Sayers' father was a pharmaceuticals exec, Mother #1 (Percival's) a professor of medieval English literature who'd later moved to England to open a pub, and Mother #2 (Prunella's) a runway model.
